The waitress twitched her red lips to the side as she pulled the pen from behind her ear, and set it to her worn notepad. "All righty, boys," she croaked though her cigarette-stained Brooklyn accent. "What's it going to be?"

"Uh…" Neal glanced across the table at Hook, who was still moodily perusing his menu, letting the pages drop from his fingers. "You know, I think we're going to need a few minutes. Maybe just some coffee for now?"

"Two coffees, coming up."

Neal nodded a "thanks" as she left, his smile fading the further she got; when she'd disappeared behind the counter, he leaned across the table and hit Hook in the shoulder.

"Excuse me, ow," Hook said in annoyance, looking up from his menu with a glare.

"Sorry," Neal said, not sorry at all. "But you've got to stop with the moping, already."

"Would that I could," Hook exhaled, and Neal could tell from the faraway look in his eye, he was preparing to deliver one of his melancholy speeches. "But my heart is broken, scarred by size eight knock-off Prada heels—"

"Two coffees." The waitress unceremoniously slammed two cups down, coffee slopping over the edges. Neal silently thanked her for cutting Hook's speech short, taking up a napkin to wipe down his cup. Hook eyed his own disdainfully, making mo move to pick it up.

"Thank you," he said after a minute. "What impeccable service."

She raised heavily-penciled eyebrows. "You boys know what you want, yet?"

"No, I think we'd like a few more minutes, darling," Hook said, giving her a patronizing smile.

"Fine." She stuck her pen behind her ear again, and walked off, the smell of old cigarettes and cheap perfume lingering even after she left. Hook made a noise of disgust, and pushed the cup further away, as if the mere sight offended him.

"Drink your coffee," Neal admonished. "It's good for you."

"I much prefer this," Hook said, reaching into his jacket for his flask. Neal gave him an exasperated look as he tilted it back and took a long draw from it.

"Rum? Really? At nine in the morning?"

"It soothes the soul. And I assure you, Neal, my soul is in great need of…" He trailed off, staring at Neal with an incredulous frown. "What are you doing?"

Neal blinked. "Drinking my coffee?"

"But you—you didn't put any half-and-half in it!" Hook protested. "Here—" he scooped up a handful tiny creamers and tossed them at Neal—"put these in there, before you burn a hole through your stomach."

"No, no, no—I only drink it black," Neal told him, shaking his head. "I had a bad experience once. The cream separated in my coffee, and it got all flaky-looking and floated on top…It was disgusting. I've never used it since."

Hook scoffed. "Ridiculous," he muttered into his flask, but thankfully, didn't push the matter. He took another draw of rum, and capped it, stowing it back into his pocket. "I've got to keep my wits about me," he explained in response to Neal's skeptical expression. "This city is more dangerous than all seven seas, and I've faced the likes of Charybdis."

"That's a lie," Neal snorted.

"Fine, it's a lie," Hook shrugged. "But I've met my share of monsters. I've seen Granny in her night cream."

Neal suppressed a shudder at the mental image of a bathrobed Granny with curlers and green face cream. "And on that disturbing note…"

"Of course, I've played the part of the monster myself, over the years," Hook went on. "Remember, I was the most feared pirate captain in all the realms."

Which Neal found impossible to picture, right now. Maybe it had been easier to believe, when he was a scrawny fourteen-year-old, half-drowned and collapsing on the deck of a pirate ship; but considering that this was the same guy who'd once called him in the middle of the night to ask, "Wait, so Bruce Willis was supposed to dead the whole time?"…?

"…and that was just in the villages. Country folk, you know? Scare easily. But even my crew were terrified of me! And that was sort of what I was going for, because I take a very Machiavellian approach to leadership—you know, to be feared is better to be loved, and so on and so forth—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—how do you know Machiavelli?" Neal frowned. "You're not smart."

"I know," Hook said, nonplussed. "But Belle is. And I occasionally listen when she talks."

"And Niccolo Machiavelli comes up enough for you to remember?"

"She mentioned him, I don't know—his last name was fun to say, so I remembered. Point being, I liked my crew to fear me rather than love me, because it's a quick way to earn temporary loyalty. Now—" Hook cleared his throat, as if preparing to impart wisdom—"the best way to scare a group of people at large is—"

"Hockey mask and a chainsaw?" Neal suggested dryly.

"Unpredictability," Hook said, giving him a stern look. "I'd let my temper go off sporadically. I'd randomly kill a guy and loot his corpse, for a minor offense. Really," he nodded, seeing Neal's skeptical look. "What, you don't think I'd have to the guts to do that? I was the most fearsome, bloodthirsty, black-hearted pirate legend in all the realms!"

"Yeah, I know, you told me," Neal exhaled.

"Then what's with the eye-rolling?" Hook demanded. "You don't believe me?" Without waiting for an answer, he slammed his elbow on the table, fanning open his fingers to show him his rings. "You see this?" he said, (strategically) indicating the ring on his middle finger. "I got it off a guy named Edgar." He smiled briefly. "Called me 'One-Handed Jones', so I drowned the bitch."

"For calling you 'One-Handed Jones'?"

"Yep."

"But you are 'One-Handed Jones'," Neal pointed out."I'm not even sure that's an insult."

"I got more," Hook said, ignoring him and holding out his thumb ring. "This one here? Alexander Smook. Old man I used to keep around for swabbing the deck. Also, the parrot on his shoulder was a riot, let me tell you. See, Alex had taught it all these dirty jokes, and it….eh, never mind, you had to be there. Anyway, I caught him drinking the captain's wine, so I gutted him with my hook, and tossed him on the deck for the whole crew to see, while he bled to death."

"What happened to the parrot?" Neal asked.

"Monty lived a good long life, he's in a better place now," Hook sighed, looking genuinely sad. "Poor Monty."

"You're aware that you're showing more compassion for a parrot than an actual human being right now?"

"He was a very good parrot."

Neal shook his head, and muttered, "You're so fucking weird."

"I know," Hook agreed with a little shrug, putting away his hand in favor of lifting his coffee cup to his lips—huge mistake, apparently, because he started coughing and gagging.

"You already threw your little tantrum over the coffee, why are you drinking it?" Neal said exasperatedly.

"I forgot," Hook choked. "Good God Almighty, that's disgusting!"

"It's not that bad," Neal scoffed. "It's diner coffee, what are you expecting?"

Hook glowered at his cup, shoving it away. "I miss Ruby's coffee," he muttered, unfolding a line of napkins to clean up the spilled coffee. "She had a great coffee maker."

"You know who has good coffee?" Neal said; and without giving him time to answer: "David."

"David's got good coffee," Hook nodded. "And you make pretty good coffee, except your brewer is too slow."

"Yeah, I was thinking about getting a new one, but it's always a gamble, you know?" Neal sighed. "Because I might get a better machine, but find that it doesn't make coffee like the old one, and I really like my one now."

"Best to leave it," Hook decided. "I'd rather wait an extra ten minutes for a decent cup, than not wait for a crappy cup."

"My dad's got this fancy little machine, and he—"

"—makes the worst coffee known to man," Hook shuddered. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"Hmm," Neal said vaguely, checking his phone as it ping!ed with a text from Emma: Call me.

"Who's that?" Hook frowned.

"Emma…" Neal said, typing back a quick reply. "She wants me to call her."

"Ugh." Hook rolled his eyes. "Emma."

"Yep." Neal tucked his phone away, and looked back at Hook. "Hey, what happened with you two, anyway? You used to be friends."

"We are friends," Hook said, nonplussed. "I hate her in that special way you can only hate someone you're friends with. Like Regina with Snow, or Leroy with everyone."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Oh, wow. It's almost sweet when you put it like that."

"It is, isn't it?" Hook said serenely, missing the irony.

Stealing a quick glanced at the clock, Neal swiped his cup up and drained the last of his coffee. "You want to go?" he said, already getting up from his chair and shrugging on his jacket. "I mean, you don't really have a choice, I got shit to do—but you want to go?"

"Yes, please," Hook said, snagging Neal's scarf with his hook to drape around his neck. "Where are we going?"

"Landlord's. I'm dropping off the paperwork, then we'll go get the rest of my stuff from the apartment."

"You mean, there's more?" Hook said incredulously. "We spent all bloody day yesterday moving boxes, how can there be more?"

Neal shrugged noncommittally, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He tossed a few bills down, and snapped it shut, waving it at Hook. "Always tip your waitress," he said with a wink.

Hook crinkled his brow. "Are you quoting something, or is this random Neal wisdom?"

"Forget it." Neal reached over and reclaimed his scarf from Hook's neck, ignoring the indignant protests. "Come on, let's go."

"Give me the scarf," Hook demanded.

"I'm not giving you the scarf," Neal said, shaking his head.

"I'll freeze!"

"Well, maybe you should go out and buy a decent winter coat," Neal said, giving his slutty leather jacket a meaningful look. Hook crossed one arm over it defensively.

"I love this jacket, how dare you insult it," he glowered.

"And I'm terribly sorry for offending your trashy wardrobe. Can we go?"

"Fine." Hook dropped his arm, following Neal around the table and out the door. "Let's just pray I don't freeze to death on the way over."

"Would it be so terrible if you just bought a normal coat?" Neal asked, as they joined the sidewalk traffic. "It's not like we won't recognize you if you don't wear the exact same thing every day."

"But I won't feel like myself," Hook explained. "Leather is sexy."

"Hypothermia isn't."

"And Ruby likes it."

"Hypothermia?"

"Leather," he clarified exasperatedly. "Ruby likes leather. on me. More specifically, she likes it—"

"Off you, I know," Neal sighed.

"Actually, I was going to say, 'on the floor', but…" Hook exhaled; he closed his eyes, shaking his head. "God, what's the point? She's going to break up with me, I know it."

"You'll get her back, you always do," Neal said noncommittally, turning to sidestep a frazzled businesswoman jabbering on her phone. "You guys break up once a week, don't make a big deal out of it."

"Yeah, but—ow!"—as the businesswoman slammed into him—"Don't you give me that look, that was all you, lady!—Neal, you don't understand. This time, it's serious."

"You always say that."

"But this time I mean it."

"And you always say that," Neal sighed.

"But Neal—"

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he exclaimed, whirling around. "Are you that fucking stupid? Listen—" he took Hook by the shoulders, giving him a shake to startle him—"I don't know how the inside of your head works, but it's painfully obvious to the rest of us that you two are stuck together! You know why?"

"Because underneath all the screaming, she loves me?" Hook suggested hopefully.

Neal blinked. "Okay," he said after a long time. "Okay, let's—let's go with that, that sounds better."

"Sounds better than what?"

Neal closed his eyes, shaking his head as he turned back into the crowd. Hook followed, keeping a close step behind him as he insisted, "Better than what? Better than what, Neal?"

"Nothing. You two are very in love, and we're all rooting for you kids to pull through. Here, this is us—" Neal pulled him to the side as they reached the apartment complex. Hook scrunched his nose, looking up distastefully at the building he'd gotten far too acquainted with over the last few days while Neal fished the key out.

"How did you keep coming home to this place?" he said, letting Neal nudge him through. "Good God, man…"

"You lived on a diseased pirate ship with unwashed octogenarians and rum-soaked criminals for centuries," Neal reminded him.

"Hmm. Fair point." Hook glanced around as Neal steered him through the entry, a reminiscent smile on his face. "Still, we do have some good memories here, don't we? Right there, look—that's where I stabbed your father with dream shade—had to shove your girlfriend out of the way to get a clean shot at him, sorry about that—"

"Not okay."

"If it makes you feel better, she smashed a board over my head—knocked me out cold."

"It does. Thank you."

The interaction with the landlord was brief: Neal had ordered Hook to wait outside, and leaving him alone for too long was never a good idea; that, and he hadn't prepared much material in the way of, "Cassidy, where have you been the last few years?" or "Seriously—you disappeared. What happened?" Thankfully, Jimmy had always been a neglectful landlord and didn't ask too many prying questions; just accepted his papers with sleepy mumble, and waved him out the door.

He found Hook dawdling in front of the bulletin board, studying the various notices. "Hey—" he lightly punched his shoulder—"let's go."

"Okay…" Hook murmured, lingering as his eyes ran over a "Lost Pet!" notice. "Ah, poor Sparkles…she'll never make it."

"Hey, come on. Have some confidence in Sparkles—she's a fighter."

Hook tsked doubtfully, still shaking his head as Neal pulled him away. "Mark my words…that little Chihuahua is gong to come home in a very tiny body bag."

"That's horrible."

"That's life."

Jimmy hadn't bothered to fix the elevator in the past three years (no doubt his extremely busy schedule kept him from that), so they had to use the stairs. Hook spent the first two flights lamenting Sparkles, and the last two chatting up every girl they passed ."To keep my spirits up," he explained to a humiliated Neal. "I'm upset about Ruby, I'm upset about Sparkles—"

"Okay, but could you do me a favor?" he cut in, keeping a firm grip on Hook's elbow as he steered him to the door. "Stop making eye contact with people. Don't wink at the girls, don't smirk at their boyfriends…Try to be as invisible as possible, okay?"

"Invisible?" Hook scoffed back. "I'd be doing the world a disservice. Look at this handsome face!"

"Whatever."

"Yeah, but Neal, look at this handsome face," he insisted, crowding Neal as he stopped to unlock the door. "Neal—"

"I know!" Neal said exasperatedly. "I'm familiar, okay? Enough with the 'handsome face' already! Jesus…"

The lock clicked, and he shouldered the door open, letting Hook follow in his wake as he walked into "the New York apartment" for what was very likely the last time ever.

"Ready to say goodbye to this dump?" Hook muttered beside him.

Neal took a deep breath, taking in the sight of his old home with a mixture of nostalgia and relief. It wasn't as though he'd had so many good memories here…maybe a handful, here and there, but nothing that really should have made, as Hook so eloquently phrased it, "saying goodbye to this dump" all that difficult.

It was the city, he was going to miss. The apartment was his last foot in New York, and once that was gone? Storybrooke—fucking Storybrooke —was his home. The world he'd been trying to escape his entire life now became his entire life. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to picture an alternate reality: him, Emma, and Henry, living in New York…happy, thriving, normal.

"Neal, my handsome face is getting wrinkles over here, hurry up," Hook said briskly, snapping his fingers.

"Right. Sorry." Neal gave his head a little shake, and beckoned Hook to follow him. "All right, c'mere….grab those two over there, I'm going to just go around, make sure I didn't forget anything…"

"What could you have forgotten?" Hook muttered. "David's truck already looks like a basement on Hoarders."

Neal pointed straight ahead, his eyes already fixed on the netted circle hanging in the window. "Dreamcatcher."

"Dreamcatcher?"

"Emma's dreamcatcher," he said, moving past him. "She found it in one of the motels, back when we were on the road." He lifted it off the hook, smiling faintly at the memory of a bespectacled Emma dangling it from her fingers. "Flypaper for nightmares."

"Howzit what now?"

"Never mind," Neal exhaled. "It's a whole thing, don't worry about it. Just get those boxes."

"Yes, Master."

Hook swept him a mocking bow, and went on to complain (in a highly audible voice) about being the equivalent of Neal's pack mule. Neal ignored him, too engrossed in the dreamcatcher to listen: he ran his thumb across the interwoven cords, down the frayed feathers… It had been the first thing he'd hung in this apartment; it seemed only fitting that it was the last to leave.

It was supposed to hang in their first home, in Tallahassee. Not the car—an actual home. That's what they were supposed to do: ditch the Bonnie-and-Clyde routine, and kick back on the beach, just the two of them. He frowned, flicking the dreamcatcher. Couldn't catch one good dream for us? he thought. Kept all the nightmares, didn't you?

"Neal…" Hook's footsteps drifted over. "Hey, listen, uh…I don't want to interrupt whatever emotional moment you're having over here, but do you think you could wrap it up? I'm bored. I want to go back to the motel and watch America's Next Top Model."

Neal frowned, lowering the dreamcatcher to give him an incredulous look."You're in the greatest city in the world, and you want to sit in your room and watch T.V.?"

"The greatest city in the world is Tortuga, and when the challenge is 'Sexy Lingerie and Pillow Fights', hell yes." Hook adjusted the boxes in his arms and exhaled, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "You want a few more minutes to reminisce, or can we go?"

"I'd like a few minutes to judge you and reconsider whether or not I want to be friends with a guy who thinks Tortuga is the greatest city in the world."

"Wenches and beer, what's not to love?" Hook said shortly.

"Oh, good. Wenches. That's classy."

"Wenches aren't supposed to be classy," he scoffed, following Neal into the bedroom. "Have you ever seen a wench? They're sexy barmaids, Neal—borderline whores."

"Like your mom?" Neal returned acidly, glancing around for lingering possessions.

"No. My mother was a straight-up whore, there was no borderline about it." Hook dropped the boxes on the bed, and fell back beside them, folding his arms under his head; he stared up at the ceiling, a wistful look in his eyes. "Imagine Ruby as a wench…"

"Do you honestly think Ruby would appreciate you trying to envision her as a slutty barmaid?" Neal asked, raising an eyebrow. "I feel like that remark just earned you a slap upside the head."

"You don't know her like I do," Hook said absently. "She'd pretend to get mad if other people were around, but she'd love it. She loves attention…loves hearing that she's beautiful…loves telling me I'm an asshat…" He closed his eyes and sighed. "Goddamn it. Now you made me think about her and I'm sad again."

"Ah, come on," Neal said, nudging him. "You're a brave little soldier. You'll pull through."

"I suppose I've survived worse," Hook reflected. "Your father's wrath. Your father's coffee."

"Speaking of coffee, do you want to stop somewhere on the way back?" Neal asked, stepping back to allow him space to stand up. "I could use another round, that diner coffee really didn't do it for me."

"You have an addiction," Hook sighed, even as he patted his jacket pockets for his flask. "It's a sickness, Neal. You need help." He popped open the top of his flask, and took an appreciative swig, exhaling loudly as he swallowed. "Ah…."

Neal slit his eyes witheringly, which Hook acknowledged with a chuckle, shaking his finger.

"I know what you're thinking, but here's where you're mistaken: I have a slight alcohol problem. You, my friend?" He shook his head, tsking shamefully. "This coffee situation is getting out of hand."

"Are you high? Craving a decent, satisfying cup of coffee is totally and completely normal—"

"You were the one who said, 'Drink it, it's fine—'"

"You were making a ridiculous fuss about it! It wasn't that bad, but it wasn't good enough—"

"Oh, here we go."

"What 'here we go'?

"Here we go with, Neal Cassidy: Coffee Connoisseur. Here we go with an in-depth discussion on roast type and the richness factor—"

"Do you know how many hours I've spent listening to the intimate details of your relationship? You can stand one discussion of roast type, when I've had to endure at least forty about Ruby's limberness—"

"Ha! Like you wouldn't want to hear about it, anyway!"

"When it's reference to all the kinky shit she does to you? No! I wouldn't!"

They bickered all the way out the door and down the stairs, continuing in frustrated whispers as they made their way back to the cluttered streets. To the rest of the New York, they probably looked like two guys arguing over normal guy-things; to the one eavesdropping homeless guy Neal stopped to toss a couple bucks to, they must have sounded completely mental:

"You're well over two hundred years old, Neal! Surely you're mature enough to handle a conversation about what goes on between consenting adults!"

"That doesn't change the fact that I don't want to hear about the effect the full moon has on a werewolf's sex hormones!"

"A hot werewolf! An insanely hot werewolf! With an insanely hot pirate captain! Who wouldn't want to hear about that?"

"Gee, I don't know—anybody who knows you?"

"You're being a child! You do know what goes on between Rumple-'Sugar Daddy'-Stiltskin and little Miss Belle, don't you?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want to hear about that, either!"

"Well, that's understandable, he is your father…."

Neither of them noticed the homeless guy staring incredulously after them as they strode away, wondering if perhaps his schizophrenia was flaring up again.

Hook didn't allow Neal to stop for a proper cup of coffee, like he wanted: in fact, he hardly allowed him a word in edgewise, until they got to the motel. The argument had gone from irritated hissing to angry mutters to full-on shouting by the time Neal slammed the door shut behind them.

"—don't care if you don't want to hear it, I need to talk about it! You're my best friend, I should be able to confide in you! But no, you have to be stoic and aloof because you're so goddamn better than the rest of us mortals—!"

"But you've already confided the same bullshit to me a million times! There's nothing more I can do! I've listened to your Ruby-problems more than any one man should be capable of, and you're accusing me of ignoring you?"

"That's different!" Hook raged. "Sure, you've listened, but you don't have any bloody choice, because I refuse to shut up! My point is, you don't provide wisdom or council—or at the very least, solace! Have some compassion!"

Neal threw his arms up frustratedly "I'm too exhausted for compassion! And I have offered you wisdom and council, you dumbass! What do you think all that stuff about, Hey, she'll get past it, you two will always end up together was for? My own personal entertainment?"

"Do you really think your empty words and half-hearted reassurances make a difference?" Hook glowered. "You don't know how lucky you are! You've already found the love of your life, and she's as mad about you as you are about her! Do you know how that looks to someone like me? Someone who's spent his entire life chasing after hearts and coming up short, breaking my own in the process?"

"Oh, Lord, he's getting poetic now," Neal muttered, closing his eyes.

"You're goddamn right, he's getting poetic now!" Hook spat. "For Christ's sake, Neal—you already have everything! A woman who loves you, a son who adores you, a father who'd give his life for you, and whatever I count for! Is it so much to ask that you lend me a moment of kindness?"

He must have (correctly) sensed that Neal was about to argue, because he stepped forward with an earnest look in his eyes, resting his hand and hook on Neal's shoulders. "I know, I'm the last person in the universe with the right to ask for it, but couldn't you just overlook the fact that I'm a reprehensible human being, however angelically beautiful, and keep me from falling apart?"

Neal looked at him for a long time, unable to fathom the completely ridiculous and pathetic man before him. "What do you want me to do?" he said finally. "What do you want me to say?"

Hook bit his lip. "I don't know," he said, lowering his arms. "Maybe just…some gentle honesty."

"I think I can manage that."

"Gentle honesty."

"…I can try to manage that."

Hook nodded wearily, sinking to a seat on the bed. He adjusted his hook absently; twitched his fingers over his tangled necklaces; ran his hook along his jacket zipper. Neal waited with raised eyebrows.

"Any time you're ready," he prodded. "I'm happy to wait for the next few hours while you deliberate, but—"

"Do you think two hundred years as a pirate qualifies me as a bad enough guy to not get a happy ending? All innuendos aside?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you think Ruby will really take me back, even though I'm a bad guy?"

"I really do."

"If I'm so terrible, why are you my best friend?"

"Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, and you are, on occasion, cool."

"But you are my best friend?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"And you forgive me for all the stuff that went on with Emma a few years back?"

"Not entirely, but working up to it."

"And all that stuff that happened when you were a boy?"

"Mmmm…no. No, I'm not over that."

"Will you ever be?"

"Probably not."

"Ah. Well, that's fair, I suppose."

Neal scratched the back of his neck, rocking back on his heels. "So…is that it?" he asked. "Any more questions?"

"I'm thinking…" Hook frowned, thoughtfully rubbing his chin; after a minute, he dropped his hand and looked up at Neal. "Do you believe in magic?"

"What?"

"Do you believe in—?"

"No, no—I heard you, I just didn't understand the question." Neal stared at him for a minute, trying to decide whether or not he was being serious. "You…know who my father is, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know where I come from?"

"Yeah."

"You know that literally every other person—girlfriend, son, half-sister, future pets—all have magic?"

"Yeah."

"Is it remotely possible for me to not believe in magic?"

Hook smiled faintly. "I know that you know it exists, but I didn't ask you that," he said, as though he were very wise. "I asked if you believed in it. Can you put your faith in it? Do you believe in its power?"

"Are you just talking now to hear your own voice?" Neal asked exasperatedly.

"Point being, do you believe in all that stuff about True Love and how it overcomes everything?" he pressed. "Do you believe in all that stuff about heroes and villains, and getting happy endings?"

Neal lifted an eyebrow. "Where are you going with this?"

"To an entirely selfish place, regarding my own fate." Hook snapped his fingers impatiently. "Come on, Neal: do you think I'm doomed to misery, yes or no?"

It was the first time Hook had ever been truly thought-provoking. He probably didn't realize how deep of a question he'd posed, but…the more he turned it over in his head, the more Neal realized how much it defined him. Not the bit about Hook's personal misery, but: Do you believe in it? Can you put your faith in it?

As a kid, his attitude toward magic had gone from disinterested awareness to fear to utter loathing; now, he pretty much tried to ignore it. He used to run from it, but after a while, it had just set in that no matter how fast and far he ran, he could never escape it.

On the other hand, he had yet to see anything amount from "heroes" and "villains": by all counts, his father and Regina should have been trapped in their own personal hells; prozac-dependent and widowed Robin should have been living Elysium; and Neal should have had a perfectly balanced, mediocre life, instead of the ridiculously tragic existence he'd endured up until a few years ago.

"I think…" Neal paused, choosing his words carefully. "I believe in magic, but I don't think we're all characters in one story. 'Hero' and 'villain' are too relative of terms to confine us to a specific fate: we're all the heroes in our own stories, so we all think we deserve a happy ending."

Hook's eyebrows flew up. "Oh, shit, you sound smart."

"Thanks."

"No, but you sound smart," Hook said in awe. "Like—I don't even know what you just said."

Neal smiled briskly, nodding.

"So…" Hook raised his eyebrows, waving his hand. "I mean, I literally don't know what you said, so could you…?"

"I don't think you're doomed to misery."

"Oh, okay, good…Thank you, that's a relief."

"But," Neal added, holding up his hand, "that doesn't mean you get to be an asshole without consequences. Because regardless of Fate, Destiny, whatever you want to call it…actual living people will still punch you."

"That's to be expected," Hook said, absently trailing his fingers around his jaw. "I've got a very punchable face." He let out a sigh, and stood up, offering Neal a tired smile. "Thank you for your wisdom, Neal. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Yeah, me neither," Neal exhaled. "You're hopeless."

—-

I didn't mean to steal your legacy there, bro.

Whale shook his head, laughing disbelievingly as Henry's words echoed in his head for the thousandth time. Didn't mean to steal your legacy. Right. Of course not.

The thing was, Henry didn't mean to steal it: he'd just done it, without even trying. Maybe, Whale realized with a start, maybe Henry hadn't stolen anything. Maybe it had been his legacy all along, and Whale had just been…wasting his time.

Well, that's very encouraging, I'm glad I had that epiphany, he thought irritably, skirting his way around a team of paramedics rushing a man into the I.C.U. Had he no purpose at all?

"Dr. Whale!" one of the medics yelled, chasing after him. "Dr, Whale, we need you!"

Whale stopped, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. "I'll be there in a minute," he said wearily.

"We might not have a minute!" the medic insisted. "We're losing him!"

"Fine…"

Forty minutes later, after the patient had been stabilized to his satisfaction, Whale strolled back out, resuming his melancholy chain of thought: Where was I?…Oh, right—my life has no purpose.

It had been his dream to be the world's greatest medical mind, to achieve the impossible: to cure death. All those years of studying and theorizing, groveling to his father for money…those sleepless nights trying to catch lightening, trying to survive the crushing disappointment of a thousand failed experiments. Years and years and years…What did he have to show for it?

A mild Star Wars obsession and no social life.

Well…that, and a zombie roommate.

Who wasn't a zombie so much as a demigod.

A demigod who had very recently starting questioning his sexuality.

Rock-hard abs! the little voice in his head chanted, the way it always did whenever Graham crossed his mind. Rock-hard abs!

Graham had rock-hard abs. Amazingly sexy rock-hard abs. Caramel-colored curls, smoldering dark eyes, and a smile that made Aphrodite swoon. And that accent, God, that accent!

"Are you all right, Dr. Whale?"

He snapped his head up, startled by Marge's sudden appearance. "What? Sure! Great! Fantastic! I mean, yeah, I'm good, I"m fine…" He straightened his tie, trying to appear casual, even as Marge smiled smugly at him. Clearing his throat, he grabbed the clipboard off the nearest cart, pretending as though he were extremely busy and had absolutely no time to discuss that gleaming look of intrigue in Marge's eye. "So, uh….looks like poor Benny's having migraines again, maybe we should send him in for an MRI and make sure it's not anything serious."

"All right, then, I'll let his doctor know," Marge said cheerfully, plucking the clipboard out of his hands. "Dr. Whale—?"

""Very busy, Marge, gotta keep moving—"

He tried to swivel past her, but she immediately hooked her elbow around his, turning him around to face her. She put her hands on her hips in mock sternness, beaming at him.

"Victor Whale," she said, in an irritatingly affectionate way. "Now, you stop skulking around like an alley cat, and tell me her name."

"What?" Whale said, crinkling his brow. "What are you talking about? Whose name?"

"Hers," Marge said in a loud whisper. "Your secret girlfriend's!"

"My what now?"

"Oh, come on, come on!" Marge giggled, dancing on her pudgy toes. "It's obvious, Doctor! You can't stop thinking about her! You've got all the classic symptoms: you're distracted; you're mopey; you're always letting out these little sighs, like—" she heaved a theatrical sigh, gazing forlornly at the ground; then snapped her head back up delightedly. "You're in love!"

Whale frowned, regarding her skeptically. "Actually, those 'symptoms' sound more like depression and work-related stress, so…"

"It's love," Marge said flatly.

"I think it's depression."

"It's love."

"No, I really think it's depression," he shrugged.

Marge closed her eyes, as though he were being intentionally difficult. "Dr. Whale," she exhaled. "Now, listen: I may only be a nurse to you, but I have a Ph.D. in matters of the heart—"

"Aagh, now I need to kill something cute and fluffy."

"—and I can tell you this much: you are in love, young man. Whether you like it or not."

Whale looked at her for a long time, fighting the urge to smack the obnoxiously sweet smile off her stupid face.

He wasn't in denial: he was aware he was attracted to Graham in way that made it very difficult to be his roommate. But attraction and love were two very different things.

Attraction was the extremely normal human reaction to, Hey, I haven't had sex in forever, and my crazy-hot roommate likes to walk around without a shirt. And Love? Well, he didn't know much about love, having grown up the way he did…but he did have a very thorough background in physiology and neurology, and he knew that Love wasn't a whimsical rainbow of sparkles and magic: it was a chemical reaction with a psychological backdrop. Given a heated pillow for contact comfort; a snack mix for nourishment; and a healthy dash of oxytocin to blend it all together, he could have recreated Love a million times over.

What he could not create was the inhumanly beautiful specimen that was one Mr. Graham Humbert. That? That was in God's hands…

"You know what, Marge?" he said finally. "I'm really worried about Benny. I'm going to go see about getting that M.R.I for him."

He walked away, tucking the clipboard under his arm; he still hear Marge's sing-song voice behind him, but he didn't bother listening. He had a purposeless life to get back to, and he wasn't going to waste another second of it on Marge: he had more important things to waste it on. Namely, his patients.

With the closest thing to enthusiasm he could muster (a kind of frenzied resignation), he punched the elevator keyboard for the fourth floor; the doors slid open, and he stepped in, glancing over his papers to avoid talking to the other people inside.

Small-talk, Whale had long ago decided, was one of the Devil's special inventions: a waste of time, energy, and people skills. If only the rest of the world shared his sentiments…

"You're concentrating awfully hard on those blank forms," an amused voice observed. "Avoiding social interaction, Doctor?"

Whale looked up in surprise. "Archie, what are you doing here?"

"Ah, you know," Archie exhaled, folding one wrist over the other. "I'm doing a patient evaluation in your psych ward."

"Oh, no kidding. Who's the patient?"

"One Miss Wendy Darling." Archie cleared his throat, adjusting the glasses on the end of his nose. "Self-harm, I'm afraid. Apparently, two hundred years of being trapped in a box in Neverland really screws with your psyche."

Whale sucked in a breath. "Sounds like a mess."

"Eh—" Archie shrugged. "I've dealt with worse. I ever tell you about the diseased mind of Killian Jones?"

"I'm sure I'll hear about it, next time he hits me up for free Jello."

"Excuse me?"

"He hangs out in the empty wards to watch T.V. and eat Jello when he's bored."

"Hmm," Archie nodded, already losing interest as his phone went off. He exhaled, exchanging a look with Whale, before putting it to his ear with a resigned, "Dr. Hopper."

Whale pretended to glance over his forms again as he listened to Archie murmuring, "Mmm-hmm….mmm-hmm…No, no, that won't be necessary, Robin. I'll just call it in, you can pick it up at the pharmacy…Right….Okay, good, good—I'll see you Wednesday. Hey, do me a favor? Remind Regina about those anger-management meetings she was supposed to be attending for me?…Thanks. All right, I'll see you."

He hung up the phone with a tired sigh, stowing it back in his inside pocket. "Robin," he said, answering Whale's silent question. "The man's a Prozac-junkie."

"Hey, I'd be depressed, too, if I was living with a pregnant Regina Mills," Whale shrugged.

"Ah, well…it's more than the pregnancy." Archie smiled tightly, bitterness in his eyes. "Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from saying much more than this, but Robin's a gentle soul, and our former queen is a highly independent woman."

"And a major bitch."

"Yeah."

"Right."

Archie exhaled, shaking his head. "I just don't get those two," he said. "If there were ever two people in this world who should not be together…"

"Sex," Whale said promptly.

"Pardon?"

"Why they're together," Whale elaborated. "It's funny, I was just thinking about this."

"About why Robin and Regina are together?"

"No, about sex."

"Right. Stupid question. Go on?"

"Love is a psychological state, created by the right chemicals and circumstances to create an atmosphere of safety and security," Whale said earnestly. "When have Regina and Robin ever looked remotely safe or secure? She dominates him, and he gets to tell himself he's a good guy for loving a difficult woman! Love didn't keep them together, and love didn't get Regina pregnant!—sex did."

"Yeah, that's—that's usually how pregnancy works," Archie blinked.

"And what is sex, other than the right nerves firing to release neurotransmitters to the brain's pleasure centers? Steering away from evolutionary theories and reproductive purposes, I mean." He snapped his fingers in Archie's face triumphantly. "Sex can be completely meaningless— in fact, most of the time, it is. It doesn't have to be that special someone, just the right stimulus for optimal reaction!"

"Where are you going with this?" Archie asked, looking both confounded and curious.

"Everyone in this damn town swears by the magic of True Love and whatever other bullshit the fairies have been spoon-feeding you over the last few centuries. And you know what, that's fine, it's not your fault—that's your world. I, however, am fortunate enough to come from a world of science, not magic. I don't have to believe in True Love, or love at all—I can call it as I see it: a chemical reaction, interpreted by the brain as a favorable experience. Now—" Whale brought his arm around Archie's shoulders, leaning in confidentially—"the human brain is an extraordinarily complex and able piece of machinery—but flawed. It can be duped, it can be fooled. It's an interpreter, not an objective analyzer. Point being, given the right chemicals set off in the right direction, it can perceive one stimulus as another. Look at Robin: miserable son of a bitch, shackled to a tyrannical sex kitten, raising a mentally degenerate toddler in a world he barely understands. Should be enough to send him off the ledge—ah, but Prozac! Lowers the stress, heightens the serotonin—and suddenly, he's not suicidal, he's just overwhelmed. He's taking the drugs to intentionally fool his brain into thinking his life is worth living, and we all know it's not."

The elevator doors slid open, but Whale was barely paying attention. He followed Archie, still jabbering on excitedly as the psychiatrist strode down the hall.

"We're basically simulating happiness, right? Simulating a relatively safe and secure environment, enough to keep the guy from pulling his own plug. Who's to say we can't expand that? We can create happiness—what's stopping us from creating love? Who needs the soulmates, the prophecies, the finding-each-other, when we could just simulate it? With a drug?"

"You're talking about a theory," Archie exhaled. "An interesting one, I'll give you that, but it's a theory. Love is more than chemicals, it's an undefinable feeling—"

"I'm not arguing that," Whale said impatiently. "But that's why we take the advantage of the brain being a flawed interpreter. Trick it into thinking it's feeling that undefinable feeling. Think of it, Archie: a drug that can combat all those feelings of loneliness and abandonment and never-being-wanted; clear out the broken hearts and tears, and just pump that brain full of rainbows and sparkles. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Sure, but—"

"You know, Rumple once told me that Science could never match up to Magic, that it would always be inferior. I almost believed him—there were so many shortcomings that Magic covered that Science couldn't. Resurrection, for instance—there's no way to reanimate life with spark plugs and lightening, no way to reignite that Prometheian flame—"

"You should write a book," Archie remarked. "You're getting pretty poetic now."

"This morning, I had my life's ambitions stolen by a fifteen-year-old, so I either have to get a new passion or a cat. Anyway—" Whale cleared his throat, still matching Archie's quick pace—"resurrection may be beyond my capabilities, I don't have magic and I never will. I'm limited by science. But if I can define love using strictly science—as in, not being held back by the constricted concept of Love you guys have been taught—maybe I could recreate that. Maybe, Archie…" Whale stopped, holding him by the shoulder so he could gaze sightlessly into the distance. "Maybe I could bottle Love."

A silence fell, during which Whale absorbed the fact that he was making a possible career change toward psychiatric drugs. And the fact that if he could pull this off, he was going to be fucking rich, because if there was ever a town that needed a drug to simulate Love and banish abandonment and insecure attachment issues, it was Storybrooke.

Let's see…what would he do with his money first?

Buy a vacation home in Maui?

Buy Maui?

Thank you, Marge, he thought, a little smile curling his lips. If she hadn't irritated him so much, he wouldn't have worked himself into a tizzy over the ridiculousness of love and feelings, wouldn't have deromanticized it into basic chemistry…God bless Marge, and her fat fucking mouth. She'd just given him a new life mission.

Create Love.

Simulate Love.

Never be referred to as "the Love-Doctor", because that was weird, but "Psychiatric Genius" had a nice ring to it.

Okay, Henry Mills…raise the dead. Bring back Life.

But Life without Love…well, what kind of life was that?