Hook + NYC

Thanks to dramawiie for the suggestion!


It was as though no one ever seemed to remember that he was a pirate. On the one hand, it was bloody useful when it came to getting what he needed. On the other hand, it was a tad offensive, as though he were entirely unmemorable no matter what he did.

As he only had the one hand in the first place, he opted for the former as his general attitude. After all, it was quite entertaining to see what exactly people wouldn't notice.

Regina had been so focused on helping Cora find the Dark One's dagger that she hadn't noticed that someone had broken into her vault. It hadn't been surprising to find that the vials of locator spell hadn't been well-protected—on its own, it was an innocuous spell, after all. Nothing dangerous, or difficult to make. Nothing that needed to be protected from vengeful pirates.

Snow White had been too distracted to notice that one of the windows to her dwelling had been left unlocked (here he would have liked some credit, though—climbing up to it had been no small feat given his injuries). On a dresser upstairs, there was a brush that clearly belonged to Swan, with several of her long blonde hairs stuck within the bristles. He had taken one of the small, elastic bands that had been wrapped around the base, reasoning that she wouldn't miss such an insignificant item.

And the prince, of course, was still dazed by the blow he'd sustained to his head. Far too dazed to notice that there was anything missing from his pockets. Like the small, folded piece of leather that contained what seemed to be this realm's currency.

From the bits and pieces of conversation he'd eavesdropped on, it was clear that wherever the Crocodile had gone, he had been deliberately unforthcoming about his destination. However, Hook had been able to glean some information from a discussion between Snow White and the prince, during which time, Snow White had relayed a message from Swan. Apparently, she, Henry, and the Dark One had traveled to a place called "Logan," which was a waypoint between Storybrooke and a city called "New York." While the locator spell should do its duty, it was beneficial to know the name of the place he'd be traveling to.

And just in case, it wasn't difficult to pilfer a map from one of the local shops. Naturally, no one noticed.

The journey on water went relatively smoothly; he wasn't sure if Cora's cloaking spell remained in effect once he'd left Storybrooke's borders, but no one seemed to pay much mind to the Jolly Roger. The few ships he spotted along the way (all similar to the dumpy little vessels that littered the harbor in Storybrooke) were captained by folks who were preoccupied with their own business anyway.

The locator spell was proving quite useful. He was familiar with the concept—after nearly three centuries, there was very little magic unfamiliar to him—but he had been concerned that this object of Swan's would simply speed off into the breeze, leaving him behind entirely. But thankfully, the magic seemed to understand what he needed, and the item floated in front of the wheel, drifting port or starboard when necessary. Meanwhile, he annotated the map, mainly out of habit. But it would be bad form to sail to an unknown land without some sort of record of the route.

The object he'd stolen from Swan was, he had to admit, a little fascinating. Though it had been years (hundreds of years) since he'd worn his hair long, he was familiar with the thongs and ribbons and such that were used to tie back one's hair. He himself had preferred a leather string. He might not have understood that this object was also a hair tie if it hadn't been for its placement and condition, but now he had to admit that it was rather obvious.

And ingenious. He'd since gotten over some of his culture shock (though what Cora explained to him was indoor plumbing was still unnerving, even if it seemed useful), and could at least begin to appreciate the utility of some of the strange innovations. This particular hair tie was extremely elastic and didn't actually require that a person tie it at all, as it was one continuous circle. He wondered what it was made from.

He saw his destination well before he reached it, and he found himself grateful that he'd brought along the locator spell. Many cities he'd traveled to in the Enchanted Forest and other realms had been rather large; assuming New York was similar, he'd expected it might take a few hours to suss out the location of the Crocodile, even without the spell.

But this? This sprawling, metallic, smoggy jungle with buildings so tall, he was sure they must be prone to toppling over? Without the aid of magic, how was he supposed to locate anyone? Bloody hell, even with magic, how could he? This wasn't a city—it was a country.

The men at the pier seemed a little suspicious of both his attire and his sudden materialization; the cloaking spell did seem to remain functional. When they made the assumption that he was some sort of entertainer who'd used a parlor trick to appear out of thin air, they did seem to relax. However, he very well couldn't have another ship docking here and discovering an invisible one already taking up space; the currency from the prince's wallet, and a few jokes about invisible ships seemed to satisfy the workers.

Swan's hair tie was cutting off his circulation slightly, as he'd secured it around his wrist, but its magic still worked effectively. He could feel it tugging at him, ever so slightly, as he made his way into the city. He had no other guide, and so he let himself be gently dragged along, all the while taking in the sights.

He quickly noticed the patterns. There seemed to be some sort of grid, made up of the paved roadways running east-to-west and north-to-south. They were packed with those strange horseless carriages he'd encountered in Storybrooke, along with other odd vehicles that only had two wheels.

As in Storybrooke, there were paths alongside the roadways for people to walk down, but these particular paths were simply filled with people, as well as carts and stands and strange objects. He had never before felt so claustrophobic in such an open space.

And the stench—granted, he was accustomed to the scents and smells of the Enchanted Forest, as well as those of a crew on a ship that hadn't made port in quite some time. But the fresh air of Storybrooke had lulled him into olfactory complacency. And more than that, this particular odor was of a different quality than anything else he'd ever experienced; it was cloying, chemical, suffocating.

Almost as terrible as the stench was the cacophony that arose from having so many people and so many horseless carriages in such a small space. The carriages themselves were quite noisy, filling the air with a mechanical roaring, interrupted only by what might be described as honking. And then there were sounds that were more familiar to him, that came from being in an area filled with people: talking, shouting, singing—to themselves, to each other, to whole crowds.

All the while, his wrist continued to tug at him, gently but persistently. Whenever he felt himself becoming distracted or overwhelmed, the hair tie would pinch at him, and he would snap back to himself and his task.

Find Emma Swan so he could find the Crocodile and kill him.

"Mister pirate? Excuse me, mister pirate?" He felt a tug on his longcoat.

The tug and the voice belonged to a small child, perhaps four years old. She peered up at him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. "Yes?" he asked, unsure of what a babe would want with him.

"Can I get a picture with you?"

"Sorry, she's super into pirates right now." There was a woman behind the child, who was holding up a small object he was beginning to recognize as a talking device. Everyone in this land seemed to have one. "Do you mind if we take a picture of her with you? It would make her day."

He looked down at the tiny little girl, with her blonde curls and hopeful eyes. It had been years since he'd seen such an expression on a child's face. The last time he'd seen it, it had been …

"Of course," he said, his voice hoarser than he'd expected. Granted, with the filth that he'd been breathing in, he shouldn't have been surprised.

"Oh, thank you!" the woman said. "Okay, Susie, smile for the camera!" The little girl turned to face the woman and looked at the device—the camera—with a wide grin on her face. Hook followed her lead, opting to smirk instead. "Got it! Thanks so much, mister …"

"Jones." He hadn't been keen on giving this stranger information about himself, but the hair tie was tugging at him insistently and he was too distracted to lie. "Have a lovely day, madam." And to the young girl, he nodded. "And to you, Captain Susie." She beamed before the woman grabbed her hand and led her away.

If his revenge didn't kill him, he would need to get some clarification regarding that device. He could have sworn it was for talking, but apparently, it was for something else.

He'd seen pictures when he'd broken into the sheriff's station and Snow White's loft, so he understood that now there would be a likeness of him standing beside the little girl, which could be put in a frame and displayed in their home. Now, at least, he had some modicum of understanding of how those images were captured in the first place.

The tie tugged on his wrist. Time to go.

As he let himself be led around the city by his wrist, he thought about how exactly he would enact his revenge. He was very pleased with himself for how he'd handled Belle; he hadn't wanted to hurt her, and he'd especially wanted to avoid killing her. Not that he'd been swayed in any way by her saving his life; he just knew that it would be more satisfying if he could force a separation between them, so that the Dark One would have to watch his love from afar, but remain unable to be with her.

The look on the Crocodile's face as Belle stared back at him in confusion and fear, with no recognition on her face, was priceless. He wished he could watch the moment again and again, for hours at a time; he was sure he would never grow tired of the memory.

Agony. That's what he needed. The Dark One didn't deserve a quick death, as much as it would be satisfying to sink his hook into the monster's jugular and watch him bleed out. He patted the breast of his longcoat, feeling the shape of the small vial he'd saved all these years. The concentrated dreamshade would fulfill his needs; the Crocodile would perish, amidst excruciating pain, knowing his fate but unable to stop it.

It would be another memory Hook would cherish through the end of his days, however many of them he had left.

Perhaps, though, he might survive? This was the Land Without Magic, after all; the Dark One would be both mortal and powerless. And the beast of a man was with Swan, who seemed reluctant to do more than simply lock up those in her way.

But then again, she might leave him with the local authorities if he couldn't charm her into letting him get away with his plan. And he'd no clue what the laws were like here, but he was reasonably sure that walking up to a man and murdering him would result in quite a penalty, possibly execution.

That didn't matter, though. It did not matter what happened to him, so long as he could enjoy that moment, of tearing into the Crocodile's flesh and watching the terror in the monster's eyes.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost barreled straight into Swan.

Bloody hell—he quickly crossed to the other side of the roadway before he could be noticed. It wasn't difficult; he simply let himself be carried away with a crowd of people who were also crossing. Once he'd reached the pathway meant for walking, he turned his attention back to Swan. She didn't show any sign of having noticed him.

As expected, she was with the Crocodile, though the Dark One was several paces ahead of her. So was a young boy; he had yet to meet the oft-mentioned Henry, but this seemed likely to be him. The boy appeared to be attempting to engage the demon in conversation, with little success.

Swan herself was walking alongside a man Hook didn't recognize. She didn't appear to feel comfortable around him; she walked stiffly, with her shoulders practically up to her ears. He'd never seen her so tense before, not even on the beanstalk.

Both pairs came to abrupt stops at nearly the same time; the boy and the Dark One seemed to have recognized they'd arrived at a particular destination, whereas Swan and her companion appeared to have halted to have a serious conversation. Henry, however, interrupted, and soon, the four of them were walking into a building.

This was his chance. His heart began to pound. This was it, this moment.

He nearly dropped the vial of concentrated dreamshade as he pulled it from his coat and popped open the cork. This was happening. It was really happening.

He nearly dropped it again when some rude fellow practically shoved him over, walking into him by accident. "Hey, asshole, you can't just fucking stand in the middle of the sidewalk!" His accent was thick and unrecognizable.

"Apologies, mate, just getting my bearings."

"Get them somewhere else, you jerk!" And the man stalked off.

One thing was certain: he would be getting the bloody hell out of this wretched place as soon as his business was finished.

He shook his head. Where was he? Oh, yes. He poured the poison onto his hook, tossed the empty vial into a receptacle he'd seen other people throw refuse into, and crossed the road once again.

He could hardly think—barely process what he was finally, finally doing.

Open the door.

Move Swan out of the way.

Shove the Crocodile to the ground.

Sink his hook into his chest.

"Tick tock."