He feels like himself, or at least he's fairly certain he does. Although if a particular hand in fact is influencing him in any regard, he wouldn't necessarily feel any changes, would he? Or wouldn't he? Widening his stride, Killian hustles to Granny's with more fervor than the destination would normally allow. If he can just fall into bed, being sure to lock the door behind him...or better yet, ask Ruby to hold onto his keys for the night and lock him in...he could figure this out properly.
Turning the corner, he spies a figure crouched in front of the library door that is distinctly not Belle stooping down in search of a lost key. Angling his head, he shakes it. One would think the mere happenstance of running into the sheriff not too long ago would have quelled whatever compulsion the thief suffered from—picking the lock to the library of all places the latest piece of evidence it's a compulsion...
Well, opportunity knocks, he tells himself, crossing over to him. The man he used to be wouldn't have given a whit about how some foolhardy delinquent spends his nights, but breaking in is breaking in.
"Bloody hell," he mutters to himself, close enough now to spot the empty glass bottle in the thief's wavering hands.
"That's what I say." It takes a beat for him to rise up and look at his new conversation partner. "You."
Small world, Storybrooke, he thinks with a tight smile.
"I've been a pirate long enough to know there's nothing worth stealing in there," he says to him. Ah. Proof that this hand didn't trump his own will in any way. Talking a brash and, judging by the odor, inebriated thief out of anything invites more trouble than turning a blind eye and heading back to one's room.
"That's what you think," the thief argues, snapping back down to continue his work, if one could call it that. Killian rolls his eyes. Escorting a staggering drunk home isn't quite how he'd pictured the night ending, but be that as it may...
"You're drunk, mate. Go home." Reaching for his arm, he expects to be rebuffed, expects that defensive "get off me" that usually follows, and that only frustrates him more as he tries to pull him from the lock with a little more force. It's the second time the thief's elbow tries to jerk him away that dislodges him from reality, sends him spiraling to a more primal time when throwing a punch meant keeping your wages, when hitting back with excess flavored your reputation. And then the spiraling forces him downward even faster as all the meager details of his life weave themselves together into a long tapestry of frustration.
Before he knows it, he's dealt the thief a blow hard enough to slam him to the ground.
"What the hell, mate?" the thief snorts out from behind a ribbon of blood dripping from his nose.
Killian stops and blinks away memories of charging a downed opponent and knocking him senseless with the hilt of his sword. He's on a street, in Storybrooke, where no one had been threatening him. No one had accosted him. Looking from his hand to the deserted street, his eyes veer down to the thief's bloodshot eyes. Gods, had he really been ready to flay some stranger just for making an ass of himself? Calm down, he orders himself.
"You tell anyone about this, you're a dead man," he snarls at him, backing away until he teeters back into one of the library's windows. The punch had taken some of the skin off his knuckles, leaving a raw, crimson wound.
"Bloody crocodile was right," he almost gasps to himself. It had reduced him to Hook with minimal effort, and so covertly he hadn't noticed until he'd nearly... No, no he'd worked too hard on breaking himself of the things he'd fallen prey to before, the instant gratification, the selfishness, the ability to tune out that nagging voice that always made him doubt himself when he'd done a terrible thing.
Mr. Gold's Pawn Shop sign almost resembles a beacon in the dark, an inverted lighthouse that can only steer a ship toward trouble and then back out. As quickly as he hones in on it, the light goes out and there is a faint jingling of bells. The Dark One emerges and locks the door, a small bouquet of flowers in his hand.
The Dark One won't let him break their deal without punishment, he thinks, sprinting toward the sign. In fact, he knows whatever he'll end up doing to pay for it will have been what the crocodile wanted all along. The first deal had only been a trick and the smarmy reptilian imp had even told him so. He throws himself into the car right outside the shop just as Rumpelstiltskin slides into his seat.
"You were right."
"Get out!" Rumpelstiltskin growls at him.
"I don't want this infernal hand anymore. It's taken possession of me."
"You should have heeded my warning when I offered it," he argues. Oh, how he could kill him right now. Could he really blame anyone anymore for being just a tad dubious about what all he has to say? Warnings or not?
"I can't control it! Remove the damned thing before it makes me do something you'll regret!" He doesn't know what. He only knows that whatever rage he might have harbored toward the thief, just or unjust, feels like a mischievous detour compared to how he feels now in this enclosed space, right next to the monster responsible for it all. No deal. There can be no deal. He'll tell Belle. Hell, he'll tell everyone, shout it out from the clocktower if he must.
"Is that a threat?"
"Aye, mate. Take it back, or Belle learns that the dagger she has is as fake as your new disposition," he says, the scheming producing a calming effect on him, enabling him to think.
"Oh, is it?" Rumpelstiltskin counters, his cool tone hairs off from being chilling.
"Is it what?"
"Fake."
No, no, it has to be fake. He knows what it is to be sure about something, and that had been a sure thing.
"Well you wouldn't have given me the hand if it weren't," he tries.
"After you extracted that price, I switched the real dagger back," the crocodile explains. It doesn't matter how or when or if that's even true. All that matters is that he's been outwitted. Any scenario he can imagine in which he somehow tips off Belle about the nature of the dagger is now thwarted, for the Dark One's already taken all of them into account. He won't be telling her anything of the dagger.
"No, you're lying," he finds himself saying at the same time his mind tries to shut off the little voice clinging to the idea of informing Belle.
"Am I? Seems you've lost the leverage you once had. So if you want to part ways with that hand and get this back..." He flings his hand out from his body and grasps the hook. "There's only one way I'll help."
Cornered into fighting for the bloody thing, he thinks, his shoulders slumping. Breathing out a curse and then rolling his tongue around at his lips, he closes his eyes. "What do you want?"
"All in good time," he says so dismissively it creates a lump in his throat. He may have erred, but he won't a second time. He'd reviewed the terms of so many contracts between the Dark One and desperate, sometimes greedy, souls throughout the centuries they could have all been scrolled together and looped around the oceans. Just like all those times, the Dark One isn't the only solution. Emma...he banishes that thought. He won't burden her in the middle of another crisis, and even if he did, she's not practiced enough to know what kind of magic or how much a situation warrants. Regina. Regina could restore things, with some gloating, but she's a thousand times easier to appease than her old mentor.
"And you think I'm daft enough to agree to that without knowing the terms? I'll find another way to rid myself of this damned hand."
"I'm afraid that's easier said than done," he says, flicking the hook around in his hand. "You see, my magic put that hand on, and only my magic can take it off."
So smug. Always reveling in how weak he could make other people appear, and toying with that hook as if it were a trophy... He knows it won't kill him, the first thing he'd learned about him, but the rage is consuming him. Reaching over, he jams the tip of hook right into the crocodile's worthless chest. He bleats, bleats like a bloody sheep for only a moment and, after a few ragged breaths, returns to his natural state, smirking down at the hook.
They're both staring at the hook. Instant gratification—you cursed wretch, he scolds himself. Stupid enough to fall for his tricks and now falling back into those old ways...
"You'd think you've have learned the first time you buried that hook in me—it never sticks." He waves it away, but the air in the car feels so stifling hot. How easy it would have been had he been any other person. Any other person in the whole town could have suffered Killian's anger, that selfish need to get what he wants without regard for anyone else, worlds removed from the man he's wanted to be growing up.
"That wasn't me," he blurts in a small voice.
"You're losing control, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin chides. "Next time, you might do something to someone who can't be so easily fixed."
He can't risk that. He can't risk that for anything in the world.
"You have a deal. I'll do whatever it takes," he sighs, voice cracking.
"Oh, I do love it when they say that," the Dark One sings, squirming in his seat. So satisfied. They might as well have come to this point from the beginning. Avoiding it all seems so futile, and yet so inevitable. Older than most and you learn slower than most, he tells himself. How many horrible choices is it going to take?
"Meet me at the docks tomorrow morning, Captain. We have work to do."
"Good morning, Captain."
The cold greeting shakes him out of a sleep he didn't know he was in. Wincing at the smell of seagulls, the crick in his back from sleeping on a bench, and all the memories of last night that led him here, his hand flies up to his temple, as if he can massage his eyes back into a state of alertness.
He didn't retire to his room last night. The notion of anyone running into him and setting him off had proven too great. Instead, he'd ambled around town, toyed with the idea of drinking himself unconscious, finally deciding to sit and watch the dark waves crash against the hulls of the boats.
"Well I trust you're ready," Rumpelstiltskin continues. Sitting up, Killian squints, his fitful, yet dreamless night making the sun seem bright by comparison.
"I'm ready to pay the price and get this over with," he mutters.
"Good." Rumpelstiltskin, still and straight as a pole, whips out his arm and opens his hand. Faster than his mind can process, he sees a broom fly out of nowhere into the Dark One's grip. Gods, the fact that it isn't some doomsday potion should come as a relief, but he knows this particular broom could be meant for anything but cleaning.
"What are we going to do with that?" he grunts.
"This is going to help me find an old friend," he says, setting the broom on the ground. Gliding along the pier, it sprouts twiggy arms, the bristles parting like short thick legs. "After you."
He has the feeling this will either take all day or a few brief, horrifying seconds. Reaching around for his jacket, he throws it on and follows the broom, refusing to throw a backward glance at the crocodile. He's there, he tells himself. He wouldn't miss the chance to be there.
His spine tingles, the instinct to brace himself at Rumpelstiltskin's footfalls waking him up more than the morning's rude awakening. Rumpelstiltskin catches up until they walk side by side past the paralleled gray streets of downtown and drift toward the outskirts.
"And where have you told your lovely wife you are this morning?" he inquires.
"Out collecting the rent, and with the amount of time I've squandered thanks to this man, he does indeed owe me a considerable amount of debt."
Half-truths and entitlements, he thinks. Sounds about right. The sun softens as it hits more trees and reflects off the tops of the cars along the street. It's a more run-down part of Storybrooke, but still unassuming, still cloaked in the mundane design of the town. For a moment, he wonders if it's all connected to Elsa. A man, Rumpelstiltskin had said, so not Anna, but had there been anything else going on that would have forced the Dark One into action?
"To whom is our bristled guide leading us?" he asks. He bites his tongue. It's not as if learning a name will shine any light on what this is all about.
"Someone who wronged me long ago, and today he's going to pay the price." The broom marches up the steps of a porch and sets itself next to the door, its animation drained from its body. Without as much as a sneer in his direction, the crocodile knocks on the door.
A scraggly old man answers with casual, unexpected movements, and then halts. The ends of his unbuttoned shirt furls with that split-second realization of horror Killian is sure has greeted the Dark One more than once.
"Hello, old friend," the Dark One hisses. "Captain, please see our host to a seat."
Inhaling, he glances over at Rumpelstiltskin before gripping the man by the shoulders. He doesn't struggle too much. Through the sleeves, he feels the man's arms go rigid, the muscles so tight they spasm. Well, he won't exert more force than he needs to. Whatever the man's done, it's a far worse fate Rumpelstiltskin has in store for him than being slammed down into a chair. He shuffles to the back of the chair and holds the man down on it, his rigidness feeling more and more like steeling himself for the inevitable.
After the minimal amount of scuffling, Rumpelstiltskin takes his time entering the living room, a round box of sorts in his hand. He kneels and places it on the floor in front of them, each step deliberate and showy, meant for the man to see.
The front two legs of the chair jerk up, the item enough to jostle some fight into the man. Behind him, he can't see past the gray frizz, but he can feel the terror sweeping over him, the pulse quickening, the involuntary spurt of his shoulders as the Dark One presents the dagger. Waving it over the box, it almost unfolds...a milky collection of yellow stars in a violet mist swirling up and up until it all molds itself into the shape of a pointed hat.
"You have it?" the old man croaks out. Have what? What is it, he pleads with himself not to ask.
"Don't tell me you doubted me."
"Every Dark One tries," the old man states with staunch authority. "Every one fails."
"Might be time to update the motto," Rumpelstiltskin quips.
"You may have the hat, but we both know you will never collect enough power to do what you want," he says with such a calm it incites Killian to loosen his grip. May everyone be so brave in the face of the Dark One's wickedness, he thinks, finding his breaths growing shallower.
"Oh, I will, but, alas, you won't be there to see it." Setting the dagger down, he pinches the top of the hat, applying as little pressure as possible, and flips it onto its side. The opening is a blinding golden light...with a deep sucking sound growing louder and louder until he feels the air whizzing by him toward the hat. Letting go of the chair, he realizes as strong as the sudden rush of wind may be, he doesn't feel it. It should be blowing his hair forward, pressing his jacket into his back. Only the old man seems to react, convulsing in the chair. There's no need to hold him down. Low guttural moans escape from him as his arms and knees get pulled closer to the hat. The more it pulls, the more he fades from view. Killian had seen traveling by magic so many times before, but it had always been faster than a snap of the fingers, a mere blink and one could miss the vanishing altogether. This, this slow, to the tortuous whirlpool of magic is something more insidious.
The old man fades from view completely, the slightest yellow vapor drifting in the air with the dust particles for a fraction of a second before disappearing into the hat.
"Where the hell did he go?" he breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the empty chair.
"Exactly where I need him." Rumpelstiltskin answers as if his pulse didn't rise at all. Holding up the hat, he turns it, eyeing it here and there with a smirk. Setting it down with the opening into the floor, he retrieves the dagger and waves it over it in the opposite direction. Sealed up once again in its box, there is no hint whatsoever it contains a human being, maybe more. "Well...shall we?" he gestures at the door.
"Is he dead?"
"Let's not concern ourselves with trifles like that now. Not when there's a bargain to fulfill. The shop?"
"You could just do it here or outside and I can be on my way," he protests. Gods, go back to that shop? Be forced to watch him perform some ritual that requires the old man's corpse? Watch him grind the bones or magic out of him until it serves some selfish whim? An abrupt sound from his phone in his pocket even takes a moment to register.
"Don't answer that. We're not finished yet, are we?" the Dark One snaps. With a crooked smile, he clutches the box to his chest and folds his arms. "I am surprised you want to linger, however. The little curtains on the door aren't exactly my taste."
He snaps his fingers and, as he had thought earlier, the house disappears and they are back in the shop.
Waiting, Killian does nothing more than watches him cross over to behind the counter, his fingers running over the lid of the jar that had contained his hand.
"Okay. We're done. I've fulfilled our deal. Now take it off," he demands, holding up his hand. Stoically, the Dark One stares at him, with an expression that would have been unreadable save for the corner of his mouth fighting to stay put and not curl up. Finally he feels the weight of the harness...and the hook...back on his wrist after Rumpelstiltskin's waved his hand.
"Our deal actually isn't complete," he says.
"I say it is. You can no longer control me, mate. I just saw you use the real dagger, so I know you're lying to Belle." He'll tell her anyway for the sheer avenging of the old man at the house. Who he was or what he did doesn't matter; all that matters is that he opposed the Dark One. There's something delicious about it, the knowledge he won't win this time, no matter how confident the coward may appear. Smiling, he adds, "You've got nothing on me."
Rumpelstiltskin holds up one finger, face unchanging. Reaching to the side with no extra movements or flourishes, he picks up the black rectangular...what are those called...he's seen them at the station a few times, and underneath the talking box in Granny's sitting room... They show things that have happened; that much, he knows.
"Security tape, from the house we just left," Rumpelstiltskin whispers to him, in an almost conspiratorial tone. Killian takes a step back. No, no they are not collaborators on what just happened there. They are in no way partners. "How do you think Miss Swan is going to react when she finds out what you did to that kindly old man?"
"I know how that device works, and if I'm on there, so are you." He must have conjured it up as they were leaving. He won't dare show it to anyone. Cowardice and common sense alone dictate one doesn't incriminate one's self. Rumpelstiltskin passes his hand over it.
"And now I'm not," he chuckles softly. "But you are."
But all those years being something you weren't, just now getting used to being someone people depend on and that they're okay with it...you get that. Give her some faith, he tells himself, swallowing. It's not like she can be in the same room with this world's Mr. Gold and not suspect him of deceit.
"I only did what you asked so I could rid myself of that cursed hand, so I could become a better man. Emma will understand that."
You and I, we understand each other.
"Even when she finds out the truth?" he asks.
"What truth?"
"This hand," he begins, pointing at the jar's grotesque contents. "Isn't cursed."
His blood runs cold before he can even inhale. The entire night after the thief...the flaring temper, the feeling that something wasn't right...
"N-no, you said-"
"You were right!" he scoffs, holding his hand out to silence him. "Dark One lies, Dark One tricks. This hand is nothing but a lump of flesh. The only thing it did was give you permission—permission to be the man you really are, not some puppy dog chasing after the object of his affection, but a ruthless pirate who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. I did you a favor," he growls at him. "I helped you remember the darkness that lies beneath."
He hasn't changed. He's made a mockery of change, of redemption, playing a part and convincing himself that's all it takes to change... Everything he ever did that he'd hoped to never think about again rushes back at him as if it was all on the broad side of a blade flying toward his face. His throat burns at the idea of it, the uncertainty of whether or not it's true worse than even accepting it. Sw—Emma may love him, may, but what's he done to deserve it? A few deeds here and there resembling bravado more than whatever a hero is supposed to embody. When it all comes down to it, he's just another person in her life that lets her down, only in a different way.
His eyes drift back up to the amused brown orbs drinking him in. It's what he hated most about this world, about this curse. After all he's done, fate rewards the crocodile with comfort, with chance after chance, with love.
"Then you know that that darkness will have no problem crushing Belle's heart." The pity he might have felt for her before grows cold. She'd allowed herself to become an ignorant little simpleton, someone who just chose a weak, cowardly man to love so she could be the one to save him. The best part is he won't even have to lie to her to show her what she's become. The vows the two of them might have made to each other, the rings on their fingers—they might as well have been two small children pretending to be husband and wife.
"If you go after my love, you will surely lose yours. You threatened my marriage, tried to destroy the only light in my life, and for that, you will owe me as long as you live."
So he can sink deeper. So he can fall back into the villain pit and feel that gnawing emptiness all over again...he'd rather die.
"What if I'm willing to take you down with me?"
"I think I know you better than you know yourself, dearie," he says, smiling. Taking his time stepping out from the counter, he approaches him as if they were old friends. "So here we are, Captain, still in business together. I think you and I are going to have some fun."
He refuses to think about what errand he might be sent on next, much less if he'll do it or not. The shame...no, it's more than shame. Guilt. True, concentrated guilt bears down on him, an anchor plunging itself and him into the dark depths. Finding his honor, trying to change, had been the only way to the surface, and he'd thought he was there. Fool, he scolds himself. Drowning men never know which way is up.
A/N: Coming up? Hook discovers another book of our world in an unlikely place.