Misconceptions 7 – a chapter about hook's and Emma's wedding, you say? Then surely the two starring characters will be Emma and Hook?

No no no. David and Hook.

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Any other day, David would be tugging at the collar of his tux, Mary Margaret would be forced to straighten his tie, and his cufflinks would mysteriously find their way into his pocket. For someone who'd grown up under the hand of royal tailors, David was as amiable to dressing up as a rebellious teenager.

Weddings, though…for weddings, it was different.

Weddings were trances. Spells. David had woken that morning feeling ill and dazed and questioning reality so thoroughly, he hadn't had time to protest the tux Mary Margaret pressed against his chest.

"Still so handsome," Snow said with a wink, when he'd finished dressing. Gentle hands fixed David's tie. Maybe it was a tad crooked.

Crooked ties were important because today was a wedding and weddings were classy and it wasn't some distant dignitary's wedding day. It was Emma's. His Emma's.

That was a warm thought. It filled David with fatherly fuzzy feelings.

Yes, this was Emma's day, and if David simply grabbed onto that idea with both hands, stuffed it in a bag, and refused to let it go, maybe he could battle down the swell of nausea that hit every time he remembered that marriages required two partners. Emma was to be wed. Emma was to be wed to…

This was Emma's day.

"Alright. Honey? Honey. Look at me." David snapped out of the staring contest that he hadn't realized he was in (the match was against the floor, and thus a losing battle) at Snow's hand on his face. "Okay. I'm heading off to Emma's to help her finish getting ready."

"That's not fair." David huffed. "I want to see Emma too."

"It's a mom perk. Besides, I know you have a thing for hair products now, but I don't think you're qualified to play stylist for a wedding."

David pointedly let his gaze rest atop Snow's pixie bob head. It was hard to do without smiling. His wife was too adorable. "Right. Because you're so much more qualified."

A cheery cheek-pat. "I am!"

"Sure." David swallowed a sigh. Emma, their Emma was getting married. Today. "Tell her I said hello, alright? And that I love her."

"Of course. I'll see you at the terrace." Snow showered him with one last kiss (could she sense that he needed it? Probably. She had a very accurate Charming-Temperament-o-Meter.) "Remember. We're both walking her down the isle so make sure you don't go take your seat right away."

"I would never."

Snow laughed as she left, which was bittersweet because the door closed behind her and killed the sound flat, leaving David with a very sudden feeling of being alone.

Alone wasn't a great state to be in when vaguely nervous.

'You know he's changed. A lot. He's not the same guy that he was in our world.' The practical voice inside David's head steepled imaginary fingers. 'I recall the pirate asking for your blessing before he proposed, and you gave your hearty consent.'

David brushed the voice aside. He'd been giddy with relief and goodwill towards the pirate at the time the word 'marriage' first cropped up. It was different when faced with the wedding a few hours away, dressed in a tux and in the dreamlike limbo that surrounded all major life events. Idea versus actuality. 'We should start a business together' versus 'taking out a loan and buying a restaurant'. Wedding ring in a box versus wedding rings being exchanged.

It wasn't that David still feared the pirate's intentions; once up a time he'd been certain that Hook was maliciously manipulating Emma, toying with her emotions like a child playing with a precious, perfect, beautiful rubber duck. Those doubts had ebbed to nothing. David was certain. Hook loved Emma.

Hook also loved the ocean and rum and freedom and dramatic flair, three things that didn't bode well for marriage. The honeymoon phase would end, and then…

The pirate would never abandon ship, but David wasn't convinced that he and Emma wouldn't someday sail into a storm so thick that neither of them would be able to get out.

Maybe if David gave Hook a Dad-Talk about marriage using a ship analogy, the message would seep through. (Henry reported that such a tactic had a miraculous track record. If 'severs' were ships and 'friends' crewmates, one could effectively explain Discord to Killian Jones, King of Sextants and Homing Pigeons and Adjacent Technologies).

But then, such an excursion would require leaving the house, and David wasn't up to such a tall task, not when his stomach squelched at the idea of getting off the couch. A need for distraction drove him to turn on the TV. Nothing good was on. Nothing good was ever on at 2:00PM on a Thursday.

Thirty minutes of scrolling through guide later, there was a knock on the door.

Was it wrong for David's first thought to be suspicion? Maybe. Forgive me for the caution, when everything that possibly could go wrong in this town does go wrong. If anyone ever wanted to scientifically prove Murphy's law, they'd have enough data to do so after spending a long weekend in Storybrooke, with all the villains and vendettas and ridiculous monsters that showed up ad nauseum. Usually such catastrophes occurred on the eve of important events.

Like weddings.

David glanced around the room—there. The umbrella that Snow bought from a garage sale last week, which was the single ugliest, heaviest umbrella ever manufactured in the former Soviet Union, and simultaneously was an umbrella that Snow inexplicably loved, would be his weapon if it came to it.

He opened the door to a wide-eyed Killian Jones.

"Hook?" David blinked, mentally dropping the umbrella. "What is it? Is something wrong?" A horrible thought slammed David like a battering ram. "Is it Emma? Is she alright?"

"I believe so." It was a good thing that Hook was so taken aback by the question. He raised a dark brow. "I've no reason to believe otherwise, though I have yet to see her today. Tradition and all."

That checked out. Hook lived by sailors' superstitions. "Oh. Are you okay? You look like someone spilled paint on your ship or something."

"Aye. I'm afraid I've overlooked a rather crucial piece of today's proceedings."

David steeled himself—had the rings disappeared? Was today the 100th anniversary of some weird wizard's birth, did they need to repurpose the wedding cake into a 'Happy Birthday Warmonger the Wizard' cake to avoid a magical meltdown?

"It seems I am ill equipped to tie this," Hook said, holding up one edge of an untied bowtie. It was draped over his shoulder like a towel, creased in a way the suggested a two-year old had been attempting the knot.

Or a guy with one hand. Either-or.

"And it seems I've come to the right place," Killian added, with a hopeful gesture at David's Windsor knot. "You've managed quite nicely with yours. So, if you would be so kind?"

"Yeah. Come on in. Though—" it was only fair to let the pirate know what he was signing up for— "It wasn't this straight an hour ago. Snow sort of…fixed it."

"Oh." Some of Hook's enthusiasm dimmed, but it was replaced by a surge of confidence that still looked a smidge smug. "No matter. It's sure you'll do better that what I would have done."

"I'd bet. I guess you pirates don't do formal dress when you're out battling kraken?"

Instead of dismissing the jibe out of hand, Hook gave the chaise lounge a contemplative look and said, "Not pirates, per se. However, I recall the Nautilus crew battling a fair few kraken in their uniforms. Which may or may not count as military dress."

"Fine. I guess pirates don't practice knot-tying on the daily."

'A smidge smug' turned into 'unabashed, amused, and completely smug'. "Wrong again, there, mate," Hook drawled, "A knowledge of sailor's knots is crucial for any seaman, pirates included. But there is a difference a timber hitch tied at the dock and a frivolous thing tied at the throat."

David snorted. "So you thought 'frivolous thing' and came straight to me, huh?"

"Indeed. But no need to worry. I won't be judging you on your skill." Hook offered David the tie and turned up his collar. "As I said, I did make an attempt. If that piece of fabric had been alive, I would have no doubt killed it in my earlier efforts."

"That bad, huh," David murmured, grateful for the distraction of looping the tie and making the first cinch.

"Worse, likely, than you're imagining."

They fell into a comfortable silence; David hadn't tied a proper bow in years and twice he was forced to tug out his errant loops and begin again.

The second time it happened, he heard Hook snicker, and a friendly, "I know I said I wouldn't be passing judgement, but—"

"But nothing, Hook. Unless you wanna try doing it yourself again."

"Respectfully declined." Something more somber snuck into the pirate's tone. "The image has to be acceptable, after all. It's Emma's day."

Right. It was easy to sweep the reason for their tuxes and ties under the rug, instead of standing in the heavy knowledge of wedding vows and family ties.

"It's got to be perfect. And perfect is a lot of pressure," David said carefully. Was it loop, then tie, or the other way around? It was an easier question to focus on than 'Are you sure you're ready to marry my daughter and all that it entails?'

Hook shrugged. "Aye. That it is. I once heard it said that comparison was the thief of joy, but I think perfection is a far more dangerous foe."

David had expected some fervent defense in the vein of, 'But for Emma, I'll sail to the ends of the earth to make her life perfect', or, perhaps a more cliched, 'But I've already found perfection—it's Emma.'

(That was a good line. David noted it for next Valentine's day. Snow loved the Hallmark brand of romantic sonnets).

"Why's that?" he murmured instead.

Killian paused for longer than the question probably merited before saying, "I believe I've mentioned my brother Liam to you before. Very by-the-books. Quite similar to your temperament, in some regards."

"Right. Yes. That rings a bell." Not that David had any clue what that had to do with anything, but he supposed they would circle back. Just like he would circle back with tie and make a clean loop here—

"He enlisted in the Navy, a few years before I, and—"

"Wait. I'm sorry." The floor tilted. "I must have hallucinated. Did you say you were in the Navy?" At Hook's tepid nod, David felt his already loose and sweaty grasp on reality slip. "You. Were in an organized battalion. With a commanding officer and Navy hierarchy and everything?"

"Every sailor must cut his teeth on a ship not his own," Hook replied cryptically, seeming to savor David's surprise like fine wine. "It's not pertinent at the moment. What matters is that Liam entered the service as a cadet with much to prove. He was not starting as an officer or crewman of rank. However, he did start with an unblemished record, and since this was the only merit given to him, he clung to it. Obsessively."

"That sounds like a good thing."

"It was," Hook agreed, in a tone that made it clear he didn't really agree at all. "In a way. As time went on, it became a badge to wear, as the Navy was ridiculous in its enforcements of regulations."

David did not miss the sour note in the last sentence, and he scoffed, barely noticing that the knot was done, and damn well, too. He took an appraising step back. "I'm guessing you landed on the wrong side of those regulations?"

"I was not a miscreant at the time," Hook mumbled—more because he was arching his neck at an uncomfortable angle to see the finished knot, and less for moodiness. He gave up and meandered to a mirror. "But yes. I was written up several months into service for tying a rowboat one inch away from the appointed mooring. Thus my chance at an unblemished record was ruined almost at once. Liam avoided all such infractions."

"It does sound like I would've gotten along with your brother," David hummed. It was so odd to think of Hook—snakish, bejeweled, overdramatic Captain Hook—dressed in old-guard Navy tan and blues with epaulets instead of eyeliner. "How many other people had a perfect record?"

"None of rank, in our quadrant. By the time Liam became Lieutenant, he was the only one within ten ports."

Hook's original point floated to the front of David's mind, and he raised a questioning brow. "And since you're claiming to believe that perfection isn't all that great, I'm guessing that this backfired?"

"It did. In small ways. Which, when summed, were impactful." Killian didn't take his eyes off his reflection—and yes, he'd changed, but David suppressed an eye roll at the fact that vanity was still going strong. "The longer Liam went without staining his transcript, the more he became interested in protecting it. And sometimes what needed to be done—in the name of civility or practicality or even the crown—required rules be bent."

"Like?"

Killian made an absentminded motion and frowned at the middle distance. "Shore leave, for one. I recall one lad under Liam's command who received word that his father was dying. We were in port, at the time. Not due to sail out until midday the next day. It would have been no detriment to relieve the lad of his post so that he might ride into town and say his farewells. Yet Navy shore leave regulation at the time required two days of advance notice for any approved leave, so it would require a twist of the rules for Liam to allow it."

David remembered snippets of complaints from his youth listening to courtiers drone—'The Navy is a pool of hierarchy and it is too easy for good men to drown,' one of the crown's advisors had once whined. 'It has been stuck in its ways for centuries. Reform is of utmost importance.'

Those would, of course, be reforms a few hundred-odd years too late to benefit Hook.

"Did he let the kid go?" David asked, settling onto the couch. He sunk into the cool pillows like they were balm for any and all wedding stressors.

"He did. Only after I forged documents claiming that the request had been issued the week prior."

"And you act shocked that you got written up for infractions," David scoffed, without any real malice.

Hook preened, smiling in the sneaky way David used to loathe, and which he now only found vaguely nonsensical . "Didn't get caught for that one, mate," Hook bragged. "If you are ever in need of a Royal Navy forgery, I produce documents of legendary quality."

(For the sake of goodwill, Hook refrained from mentioning that part of his piracy had been forging denied conscription papers for people hoping to avoid the draft; David still got snippy at hearing about Hook's more ambitious illegal endeavors).

"The point is," Hook pressed on, "Liam's pursuit of military perfection began to degrade his performance, not enhance it. It kept him from taking any risks. From doing what ought to have been done. Things he might have done, brushed aside to maintain perfection." Hook sobered. "Not everything can be perfect. For if it is, there's a bloody good chance that you've been sitting on your haunches doing nothing worthwhile, which in itself tarnishes the perfection you were trying to protect."

"So marrying Emma—"

"Will not be a perfect affair," Hook confirmed. This time his smile was far less smug. It was tempered with a distant fondness—perhaps thinking of Liam or Emma or maybe both. "Regardless of the regard in which I hold Swann. Perfection is too high a threshold for any mortal soul. I think I muss press forward with my own imperfect advances and hope that it is enough."

David couldn't help but prod a little. "You think it'll be enough?"

"Aye." There was a falter, a whisper of doubt in Hook's tone that hadn't been there before. "I do."

Then, quick and blunt and honest: "Do you?"

David stilled. Glanced out the window and at the sky to make sure it wasn't plummeting towards earth. "You love her, Hook."

"I do." The agreement was immediate, and it untied one of the knots that had been tangled in David's stomach ever since Emma bought that white dress.

"That's half the battle." Was he really saying this? "And in my experience with Snow, the other half is realizing that it's not always a picnic. That a hiccup here and there is normal. And it sounds like you're already there." David didn't bother biting back a shocked laugh at his shoes. He really was saying this. "I cannot believe I'm saying this—and I want to reiterate how much I cannot believe it—but I really think you two are going to be okay. More than okay. Maybe not perfect. But pretty damn close."

Killian's face smoothed to something resembling grateful. "I appreciate the bode of confidence, mate."

"I mean it." David nodded once, a final affirmation. Then, because he was not prepared to cough through an awkward silence with the pirate, he added, "And you look good, too. Shockingly. I think it's mostly due to the tie."

"I was about to forgo it," Hook agreed, chipper again as he admired his reflection like a car afficionado would appraise a well maintained classic. Which, David thought with an internal gag, is probably the terms with which Hook would describe himself. "A challenge for when you've a few hours to kill—try to replicate the knot you've made one-handed. And if you succeed, kindly write up instructions; at the moment I'm convinced it's an idle fancy."

"Next time I'm on a plane, sure thing." David stood up when Hook took a step towards the door. "Heading off?"

"Yes. Sorry to deny you the pleasure of my presence, but there's a few other things I've to attend to before this evening." A head-tilt. "I'll see you at the ceremony, then?"

"You will." David pictured his daughter, who would be on his arm, and added, "Though the next time you see me, I'm pretty sure you'll be preoccupied looking at someone else."

"Trust me, mate—if I've a choice to look at either you or Emma, I will be choosing Emma every time, wedding day notwithstanding."

Hook closed the door before David could get a word in edgewise.

(That was just how the pirate was; years ago, David would have followed him outside to say something self-righteous and bristling like a poked bear. Now it was a constant of life: birds chirped, the sun rose in the morning, and Killian Jones made antagonistic parting comments.)

David sat back down on the couch, exactly where he'd been several minutes ago, but decidedly less nauseous.

Some of the haze had cleared.

Emma was marrying.

Emma was marrying Hook.

And no one could ever be worthy of Emma—no father would ever esteem a man worthy of their daughter—but against all odds and history, they were right for each other. It would be alright. Hook was a good man.

Sometimes the truth took a while to realize.

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Later, driving to the plaza with the wedding march on his mind, a novel thought popped into David's head—had he harbored any other misconceptions about Hook? He dismissed the thought almost as soon as appeared. No. No, that was the only one.

Everything else about Hook was exactly as it seemed.

And that's a wrap! : ) If only David knew that a Storybrook quartet is well within reach... hope yall are having a great spring!