He was torn. More torn than he had found himself in any recent memory, that was without a doubt. Vengeance. Safety.
But the boy was safe—Milah's son was safe. And in a way, that was all that mattered.
The kid was a natural, too. As if he was born to be on the sea. There was barely a hint of the father in him, even, but even so, Hook wasn't about to reveal everything to the boy. There was still a bit of hesitancy in doing so, for one could never quite tell where those loyalties would lie, in the end. Hook doubted—even as Bae talked with disdain over his father—that he would truly wish the man dead.
Not like he did.
No. The boy wasn't ready to know. Wasn't ready to deal with the truth—or was he? Could he handle it, knowing all of what had happened? Knowing the reasons behind the desire, the hunt, for revenge? Knowing how much his mother loved him—how much she cared, even if she wasn't there? Knowing how she died?
If he knew, what—who—would the boy choose— Mother, or Father?
Well, the choice was made for him when the drawing was found; he knew he should have gotten rid of it; put it away under lock and key, especially with Bae aboard the ship. But he needed that reminder, needed that memory of what she looked like—
It didn't matter, though. Hook knew that look. That look of realization when you've understood you've been abandoned—and it shone now in Bae's eyes. He didn't care for the explanation, for the reasons. He didn't care for the offers of family, of safety, that were being extended here and now and always would be…
"Just drop me off anywhere."
A nod and a closed off (darkening, blackening) heart, once again.
Sorry, Milah.