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There is Another Version of the Tale

"What's wrong?"

She sat on the couch, prepared to lie. There were a million things that would sound truer than the truth. "Killian has a book."

"What?"

"Exactly what I said. Hook has a book." Emma fiddled with the handle on one of Mary Margaret's perpetual cups of tea and muttered, "It's sounds even dumber when you rhyme it like that."

Mary Margaret's face rounded into a grin that broke into a short laugh.

"What?" Emma said, less amused. Incredulity was not exactly unexpected but she'd sought Mary Margaret out since she might actually listen instead of just looking at Emma like she'd mildly lost her mind.

"Well, honey," Mary Margaret said and because she was an actual fairytale princess the hilarity in her voice was barely noticeable. "Killian has a pirate ship and a hook for a hand and eyeliner. So a book seems like the least of our worries."

Emma liked that Mary Margaret said "our worries" like this conversation might be about the bigger picture and not just about how some guy Emma's been faffing around about for quite a while was being weird. "Okay, but those are normal Hook things. And all of a sudden, you know, we're at Granny's the other night and he's got this book that he's…." She'd been about to say "hunched over" but that wasn't true, was it? He'd really been more sitting back staring at it, turning a page now and then. Like he was focused but also sort of sick about it?

"Reading instead of paying attention to you?" Mary Margaret guessed in the wake of Emma's thoughtful pause.

"No," Emma said levelly, trying to cut through Mary Margaret's knowing smile even as her own objective, former bounty hunter's mind noted that there was truth there despite the denial. He hadn't been paying attention to her. And that was weird. Objectively. He was the guy who'd flirted with her so doggedly from the beginning that it had taken her too long to realize he was serious and now…. Well. Now Killian had a book.

"This is really bothering you." Mary Margaret said, leaning forward, her voice dropping in pitch, coloring the exact shade of alarm Emma was feeling. It was Mary Margaret's greatest charm, this deep well of empathy.

"Henry had a book. I…ugh,… I pay attention to books now."

Mary Margaret nodded, all mirth gone from her face. "Is it like Henry's book?"

Emma thought of the book of fairy tales, it's heavy pages and rich inks and the warm scent that spread like a lit candle whenever it was opened. "I don't know." Hook's book had been plainer, she thought, newer, perhaps. "I'm having a hard time remembering it."

Mary Margaret's brows lifted. Memory troubles were Storybrooke's endemic strain of the common cold, plentiful and vexing but not often fatal. "Emma, Hook is no—"

"Prince Charming?"

"Hah. Yes. I was going to say angel, but, yes, he's not that either but he's proved himself, as much as none of us wanted to trust him, he has proved himself. You know that."

"So I should just let it go."

"I wouldn't go that far. I'm saying the mature thing to do is talk to him, ask him about it. Maybe a book is just a book" Mary Margaret sat back with a small smile lighting her eyes. "It's what I would do I were you and he were, you know."

"Prince Charming." Emma says as dryly as she can manage. That she resents the implication goes unsaid.

"Right."

"Right," Emma stands, nodding to herself and brushing dust that isn't there from her hands. "Ask him. I tried that, believe it or not." Sort of. She'd asked him once what was wrong and he'd evaded.

"And?"

Emma shook her head. "Long story, he said."

"Oh, Emma."

"What?"

"You're going to steal it."

#

Hook, it turned out, was living on a boat. It took Emma all of ten minutes to find out which of Storybrooke's citizens had lent him the space and find the vessel in question. He'd brought her back and now, it seemed, there was an unprecedented amount of good will surrounding the pirate.

The late summer sun was blazing it's last across the harbor as she knocked on the door to the ship's cabin. The door swung open momentarily and leaning as she was into the stairwell, Hook looked up at her as if from a hole in the ground. "Swan," he said with something of his usual good humor, stepping back in invitation. "Tracked me down, have you? To what do I owe the effort?"

"Effort? Hah. Pirate. Marina," Emma waved, taking in their surroundings. "If you're avoiding me you're going to have to try harder." She braced herself on the low doorframe, taking the steep stairs with care.

He smiled back at her over his shoulder and she stopped short on the bottom step. His grin was like an invitation to the best adventure she'd never had and she remembered suddenly why she hadn't sought him out at home before. There are things it's safer not to know: A) fairytales are real and B) where Killian Jones sleeps.

"Me? Avoid you, Swan? If I were on speaking terms with any of the gods still you'd be hearing laughter from heaven just now."

He was putting on a good show, seemed more like himself than he had in days. But the cabin wasn't exactly huge and there, open on the far pillow of a neatly made up bed was the book. Emma's eyes slid over the broad pages, finally swinging back to meet Killian's. A new expression flickered across his eyes, like he felt someone walk across his grave. She could already feel him preparing to lie.

"Nice place," She said quickly, lamely. His cabin was an efficient table and chairs, bed, the merest semblance of a kitchen, and as devoid of personal affects as her apartment in Storybrooke once was.

"My thanks." Hook accepted the hollow compliment with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, it was either a stance of confidence or uncertainty with him. He was an adventurer who carried his home on his back. With nothing of interest in the cabin to preen over, he looked a bit lost.

"I take it back," Emma said, not quite playfully but with less urgency than she felt. He doesn't mean to stay, she thought and with the thought, promptly deserted all plans for tact. "What's this?" She crossed the diminutive distance between the entrance and Hook's bed, but found herself stopped short against a shoulder, view obscured by an out flung arm. It was the one with the hook.

"That would be my bed, Swan. I'm surprised you don't recognize it. Not much, I know, but you're usually a bit sharper than that. Regina's memory charm did a number on you, did it? Well, can't be helped."

The words sounded like Hook's but they were coming out far too fast. Hook was charming at his best, sly when up to something, taciturn with his back against the wall. Now he was nearly babbling.

Emma felt her pulse rise in her ears, quick and strong. For once it had little to do with the proximity of the pirate and everything to do with the way he took a step back and out of her personal space.

She stepped forward so that her nose nearly bumped up against his chest. The sudden flood of his scent, unchanged over all these months and mistakes, washed over her with the potency of a memory potion. She was wrapped, for the briefest moment, in jungle heat and the blazing stars of the Neverland.

"Swan," he said, chest caving in, retreating meager centimeters to a safer distance from her. "I implore you, please do not touch that book."

She nearly reached out with magic, employed that eager new limb that was only just learning its own strength and grace. But his hook still filled her vision. She remembered his face when she'd vanished at the diner, remembered how, despite his encouragement, he'd lost a lot to magic.

"Okay." Emma steeled herself, stepping back with such an effort it was like watching someone else make the choice. "Okay."

"Okay?" His arms were still raised like a shield.

"Okay, I won't touch the book."

"Are you feeling alright, Swan?" He asked, already trying to make light, still fearful.

"Not really," she replied. "Are you?"

She felt it again, he was preparing to lie. Me? I'm always alright, love. I'm Captain Hook, he'd say.

His arms came down slowly. Emma felt the floor rock gently in the wake of a passing ship. "Not at all, love," he said finally. "Not at all."

She would have taken his hand then. Maybe. Perhaps she would have considered that small amount of comfort for both of them if she wasn't so acutely aware of the distance he'd put between them, his chest caved in, the backs of his legs pressed against the edge of the bunk.

"I need you to tell me what's going on, Killian," she said as firmly as she could, though all her instincts were telling her he was afraid. What's wrong with you? What happened last year? Where's your ship? "Start with the book."

"It's only...think of it as a, what's it, library book, Swan."

"A library book?"

"I borrowed it."

"Borrowed or stole?"

"Borrowed! Please, Swan, I'm not stupid enough to steal from him."

"Him who? There are very few people you are not stupid enough to steal from, Hook."

"Hurts, a bit that does-Swan!"

His dodging had outlasted her patience and she made another grab for the book and was again rebuffed quite forcefully. His strong right hand held her back nearly as effectively as his tone of voice. "It belongs to the Dream King."