Hook blearily opened his eyes, raising a hand against the offensive rays of sunlight that had the audacity to shine right in his face. He looked around himself, puzzled: why was he lying on the floor? Usually when he woke up there, it was because the night before he was too drunk to remember how to get into bed. But his head wasn't pounding the way it usually did when he was hungover. In fact, he felt surprisingly well rested, for sleeping on the floor.

Maybe the pillow had helped. Hook frowned, pulling it out from under his head, and stared at it. Had he done that? It seemed odd: if he'd bothered to make himself comfortable, wouldn't he have just slept in his bed?

He raised his left arm against the obtrusive sunlight…hold on, why was he still wearing his hook? No matter how drunk he got, he always remembered to remove it. Hook knew himself, and he wasn't too proud to admit he was a restless sleeper. If he started waving his arms around in his sleep, he could very well scratch up that pretty face, and he wouldn't be able to get out of half the things he did.

And then he saw something that made his heart drop.

His sleeve.

Was.

Gone.

There is a quaint little town in Maine, where everyone knows everyone. Each day, the sun rises to give warmth to the crisp cool air. The sky softens to a pale, but unmistakeable blue. Birds chirp, serenading the early risers as they start their day, nodding Good mornings's to each other.

Today is like any other day. The townsfolk are awake, cheerfully preparing for the day ahead. The breeze weaves in and out of windows, delicately fogging the windows. The birds sing greetings to each other as the sun rises to bring light to the world.

And then a scream shatters the silence. Hell has come to Storybrooke.

"NEAL!" Hook pounded on the door, struggling to breathe through his fury. He'd been less upset when his brother had died. Briefly, he wondered if that made him a bad person (he was leaning toward "yes"), but then the door opened and he could only think about the fact that some monster had destroyed his beautiful coat.

Neal looked far too innocent and surprised for Hook to believe he was either. "Hey, buddy," he yawned. "What's up?"

Hook shoved the coat in his face. "What's up?" he hissed. He strode into the room, forcefully enough to make Neal stumble back. "WHAT'S UP?"

Neal tried a nervous smile. "So you saw the coat."

"Yes, I saw the coat."

"And you're clearly upset."

"Yes, I am upset."

Neal nodded. "Well," he said finally, clearing his throat, "just so you know…"

Hook glared at him. Neal seemed to be gathering his courage.

"It was Emma's fault," he said quickly, throwing the coat back. Hook stared down at it, breathing unevenly. Slowly, he raised his eyes. Neal must have seen the rage in them because he met his gaze for a brief moment—then flicked his eyes to the side, and back. Hook knew what he was going to do and lunged forward, but Neal darted out of the way and raced for the door. Hook caught him around the ankle, and he dropped like a stone.

"YOU'RE DEAD, CASSIDY!"

"NO! GET OFF!"

"YOU'VE KILLED IT!"

"IT'S A COAT, GET OVER IT!"

"I WILL HAVE VENGEANCE!"

"NOBODY TALKS LIKE THAT, YOU IDIOT!"

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sounds of struggle, incoherent threats, and Neal's gasps as Hook tried to pierce a hole in his eye. "Okay, stop it, stop it— STOP IT!" he shouted, pushing Hook off. They glared at each other, catching their breath, until Neal held up a hand, still panting. "Look…killing each other isn't going to fix anything."

"Are we sure about that?" Hook raised an eyebrow menacingly. He had a fairly extensive range of eyebrow-raises in his repertoire: the height of the raise, degree of the arch, and the angle direction were all important variables that combined to create anything from full-on slutty to I-shall-feast-on-your-bloodied-corpse.

"And maybe…" Neal looked at him cautiously. "Maybe this is a good thing—now, don't get mad!" he scrambled as Hook's eyes widened in rage. "Calm down…breathe…breathe…"

"I'm breathing."

"No, you're not breathing,"Neal said impatiently. "You're turning purple."

Hook forced himself to breath normally. Neal waited and, apparently deciding he had reached a normal-enough color, resumed. "Maybe it's time you settled into this world a little more, you know?"

"I have. Neal, I own a talking phone."

Neal closed his eyes exasperated. "Okay, again," he said, struggling for patience, "it's just called a phone."

Hook rolled his eyes. How utterly ridiculous.

"You've made progress," Neal allowed. "You're starting to get the hang of that phone…you haven't stabbed any more T.V.'s…"

"Those are the…?"

"You called them 'demon pictures'."

"Oh, right."

"And," Neal continued, "you've been surprisingly accepting of microwaves."

Microwaves…The first time Emma had introduced the curious little box to him, he'd been rendered speechless. She'd tugged at the little door, and it was instantly flooded with light. Hook had spent twenty minutes opening and closing it, transfixed by the light that disappeared and reappeared without fail. And then after she had showed him how it actually cooked food, she spent a week trying to convince him not to worry about the price of magic every time he wanted a Hot Pocket.

"Like I said, Neal, I've more than settled into this world."

"But…" Neal trailed off cautiously. Hook narrowed his eyes.

"Go on."

"But…maybe it's time you start dressing a little less pirate-y."

There was a puzzled silence. "A little less pirate-y," Hook repeated.

"Yeah…"

"So, you're asking me—" Hook raised his eyebrows, pointing to himself—"an acknowledged pirate…to dress less pirate-y?"

"That's right."

Hook pinched his forefingers to the bridge of his nose. "I'm lost, again."

"All right, get up." Neal tugged him to a standing position. "I'll get Belle to take you to Old Navy or something today. You can borrow one of my hoodies in the meantime."

"Hoodie?" Hook creased his forehead.

"One of these," Neal explained, tugging on the hood of his shirt. Hook sighed exasperatedly.

"I don't need a hood, Neal, I need a coat."

Neal blinked a few times. "The hood is attached to the coat," he said quietly. Hook raised his eyebrows in dawning comprehension.

"Oh…"

Neal bent down to rummage through his suitcase. "Here," he said, tossing something over his shoulder. Startled, Hook caught it and looked down.

"It's red!"he said, looking up indignantly. Neal raised his eyebrows.

"So…?"

"So, I don't like red," Hook said, tossing it back with a little more force than necessary. "I like black."

"Well—" Neal tossed it back, also forcefully—"I don't have black. I have red."

"But I—" Hook smiled through clenched teeth as he passed it back—"don't like red."

"Well, that—"Neal threw it back—"really sucks for you, doesn't it?"

For a moment, they eyed each other, testing the other's will power. Hook raised his eyebrow; Neal twitched his eye.

"Fine!" Hook relented finally. "My God, you're stubborn."