Disclaimer: I do not own really anything here, except the idea...
The air was blue in color. A deep, penetrating blue that hung like mist around him, seeping into the coloring of his clothing, turning them from the noble crimson he so adored to a putrid black. The same color of his soul. No sound met his ear, not a whistle or ghost of a tune from the crew or even the comforting sounds of the waves on the ocean. Leather boots scraped about the wooden deck of the Jolly Roger as Hook made his way to the Captain's Quarters. As always, the sign above the door greeted him with his own name and as he entered, and as he entered, he nearly forgot about the eerie silence outside. His angular features sharpened finely into a look of pure fury as he stared at the figure of a woman in his chair at his table in his quarters.
She was looking down intently at the open book resting in her lap, her silvery hair unnaturally bright despite the air. While Hook himself had been terribly affected by the strange coloring, she looked protected in some strange way. The darkness of her clothing hugged every inch of her body, the tight corset and white shirt barely covered the pale flesh of her breasts. The silver hourglass charm between them did not quiver at all. This woman, whomever she was, sat perfectly still. Slowly, Hook moved forward, across from her, the table stood between them. If he needed any more reason to be furious with this foreign presence, he received it at that instance. Because when he glanced down to assess what she had pried into, he recognized the penmanship as his own. His captain's log.
Setting his teeth, he drove the hook of his right hand into the table, and with his left drew his blade. The impact seemed not to startle or shock her, and instead of jump as he would have pleased, she only idly licked her fingers before flipping the page. In resentment, Hook rested the tip of sword against her chin and moved up gently. Her head followed, until at least he could see the entire shape of her face, the wicked smirk on the curves of her full lips and a pair of crow-colored eyes mocked him silently.
"Who are you, Madame?" He growled.
Her wicked smirk grew into a macabre grin, flashing perfectly shaped teeth, "You know who I am, James."
The voice was light, musical, and irritating.
"Get out," he snapped, making a rather pronounced indent in the smooth flesh of her throat.
Her eyes flashed dangerously and she rose from the chair purposefully, the log fell from her lap clumsily, and the pages scattered when they hit the floor. Her hands rested on the table, fingers spread evenly, and her gaze never wavered from his as she moved aside, allowing him to take the seat. Hook did not move, and instead followed her neck with his blade, threatening to kill her with each footstep she took. With each movement, her spiked boots ruined the history of his travels.
"Now, now, James," she laughed humorlessly, "You could put someone's eye out with that, darling."
He scowled, removing his hook from the table, causing the wood to splinter as he did so. It was not terribly off-key for him to notice that the woman's chest did not rise and fall with breath. Her head tilted to the side, and she boldly pushed the sword from her with daring fingertips. She nodded toward the empty seat.
"Please, sit," she commanded.
The piercing blue of his irises did nothing to her, and neither did the sword he plunged into her neck. In fact, it never touched her, for she vanished at the last instant, only to reappear at the opposite end of the table.
He sat in astonishment.
She stood for a contemplating moment before moving on to the many books surrounding them. Pulling books at random from the many stacks, she opened them to a certain page, and then threw them over her slender shoulder in dismissal.
"Do you know what this place is, James?" she asked, her back turned to him, another book in her hands.
Hook shook his head slowly from side to side, "No. Nor does it matter to me."
She turned to face him, glancing coyly from under curling lashes, the book held firmly in her open palm.
"Liar," she denounced him sharply, snapping the book shut, "this does matter, all of it matters."
He jumped from his seat, and went for her again, sword in hand, hook prepared. Gingerly, he blinked as his body hit the unforgiving hardness of the wall where her body had just been. Twisting his head to the side, he saw her laid out on the table, her belly to the wood. This time she held no book, and rested her pointed chin in her hands.
"In your world, you may have been a fearsome pirate king, but here…you're nothing."
He abandoned the sword and stepped toward her menacingly. She did nothing, only watched him steadily. Hook closed the gap between them and curled his fingers in the strands of her hair. She did not disappear. He yanked back violently, revealing the arch of her neck. Still, she stayed. Even as his metal hook traced that tender spot, she did nothing.
"So you are real," he mused, stroking her still, "I can touch you."
She chuckled dryly, "Oh, James, I'm sure you can do much more than that."
He drew back his right arm in preparation for the cut. But as it swung forward, she caught it in her icy grasp, and he felt his entire body freeze. Hook watched uneasily as she pulled back the sleeve, studying the contraption that was his right hand, connected to the wrist by only a savage spike. Her free hand curled around the metal hook and tugged. He teeth clenched in pain as she pulled it free, leaving him with only a shameful stump in its place. She seemed utterly enthralled, and her fingers moved over the rounded flesh curiously. Something tugged within him, a violent and long suppressed need for tenderness. He killed it instantly.
And then something remarkable happened.
From the useless stump of his right wrist came the skeleton of a hand. White bone sprouted from the skin, making Hook want to flinch, but pride disabled the ability. Then the muscle followed, wrapped the luscious red around the bone, and the blood vessels, and finally the skin. He stared in complete amazement. For the first time in many long years, he wriggled the fingers of his right hand. The strange woman smiled knowingly.
"Who are you?" he whispered, clenching and unclenching the new limb.
"Electra," she answered simply, "your pet."
Surely she was jesting. Electra was the name of fatally poisonous spider he had during youth. This, standing before him, was most certainly a woman.
He drowned his curiosity with disbelief, "You lie."
Innocently, she shrugged, not at all offended by his lack of faith.
"Who are you really?"
She rolled over to her back, grinning up at him mishevously as she led his new hand to her breast, under the cloth. Ah, it had been so long since he had felt the body of a woman. He had nearly forgotten how soft and fragile they were. Her skin felt like ice.
"Questions bore me."
"Yet you seem completely comfortable with riddles," he remarked as his fingers drew together over her taut nipple.
She gasped slightly, "Do I, James?"
He did not answer, but left his focus completely on the ministrations of his right hand.
"Then I suppose I shall have to live up to your expectations. Why don't I come up with one right now?"
He murmured something incoherent, prompting her to continue.
"What's small, and trusting, and warm all over? Whose little chest you fondled when you knew the evils of such a thing?"
He jerked back his hand, but the rest of his body would not obey. She pulled herself into a sitting position, and scooted herself to him, letting her legs dangle over the side of the table, on either side of his hips. Her nimble fingers worked themselves into his dark curls as she drew his head down to hers.
"Poor little Wendy," she breathed, her lips just touching the bit of hair on his chin.
"Enough."
"Oh, come now, James. This is topping swank! Here, I've given you back your right hand, but you have yet to give me anything!"
"Who are you?" he demanded again, cursing the iron grasp she held over him.
"I am your pet."
His jaw tightened as anger flushed his mind, "Where am I?"
"Purgatory, James, you're in Purgatory."
She leaned back, pulling him onto her with ease.
"That's impossible, in order for that to be true, I'd have to be – "
"Dead."
Hook's eyes widened.
With a feral grin, Electra tugged at his clothing.
"Don't be so, glum, darling. At least you have me."
Her mouth claimed his, and as her tongue wreaked havoc against his own, Hook felt his soul slip away, crammed carelessly in that tiny hourglass charm around Electra's neck. She was his and Neverland could not have been farther away.