Hook + bookstore (specifically the Strand)

Thanks to scapeartist for the suggestion!


Hook wasn't sure what was the worst part of this bloody mess he had found himself in.

Was it that he had to relinquish his beloved ship to that blackguard Blackbeard?

Was it that there was yet another curse to be dealt with?

Was it that True Love's Kiss had failed?

Was it that he'd taken a knee to his privates?

Perhaps it was that he was back in this city.

Even if this exit from this damned place a year ago hadn't been pleasant, he'd been relieved to be out. Away from the fumes and the noise and the crowds.

And now he was back.

He angrily kicked at a rock in his path. Why couldn't this be a little bit easier? Why must it be like this?

He wearily allowed himself to be shuffled along with the crowds. It wasn't as though he had any sort of direction anyway. He had a feeling that returning to Swan's dwelling would result in her alerting the authorities; it certainly was unlikely to engender any trust.

A quick pat to one of his pockets reassured him that at least he still had the vial of memory potion. But it was just the single dose; he wasn't even sure it would be enough for one person. It was why he'd tried that tack in the first place—if he could have restored Swan's memory with a kiss, then they would have had a chance to give Henry the potion.

In retrospect, he should have known Swan would react the way she had. Even on her better days, the woman wasn't keen on letting strangers kiss her. Now, she would trust him even less; he was now the stranger who'd tried to force himself on her, as opposed to a harmless, mysterious man who was just asking her to take a leap of faith.

But he'd … he'd just been so happy to see her.

All of the words he'd planned to say had simply fallen out of his head as soon as he'd laid eyes on her. All thoughts of calmly asking to come in to discuss her parents, all thoughts of the ways he'd get her to question her false memories, all thoughts of finding a way to rope Henry, Truest Believer that he was, into helping, just evaporated.

And all he could think of was that he couldn't wait one more moment, couldn't stand one more moment of her staring at him as though she'd never met him in her life, as though he meant nothing to her, nothing good or bad or in between. Just nothing. And so the kiss that was supposed to wait until he'd earned her trust simply couldn't.

Perhaps it would have failed regardless. But that moment they'd shared at the town line—it had to have meant something. Didn't it?

It was at that moment that he took notice of his surroundings; the noise and odor of the city seemed lessened, and he realized he was standing amid greenery. Had he stumbled into another realm?

No. A quick check around him revealed that everyone was still dressed the same as before, using the same technology as well. And right behind him was the city; he'd simply stepped into a large public garden. But what a relief that was, to find a breathable part of this wretched place. He found an empty bench and immediately sank down onto it.

What was he to do now?

Even if he were a man inclined to give up, and he most certainly was not such a man, that would be no simple task anyway. He was alone here in the Land Without Magic; it wasn't as though he could simply head back to the Jolly Roger and go back to his pirate's life—

His heart ached so suddenly at the thought of his ship. It simply wasn't fair, that he would have to surrender her to Blackbeard. The villain had delighted in Hook's anguish and desperation; it had been terrible enough to lose the Jolly Roger, but to do so in such a degrading manner had been humiliating.

No, he didn't lose the Jolly Roger. He had to stop thinking like that. He had made a fair trade; magic beans were rare to the point of absurdity and it was the only method available to him to get to Swan.

Regardless of whether or not she returned his affections, with or without her memories, he had to keep her safe. Her and Henry.

How was he to do all this though? He had to convince Emma and Henry to go to Storybrooke. And take him with them; he'd lost the map he'd made last year, and without it, he had no clue how to return to town. And no clue how to transport himself there either, although commandeering a ship wasn't entirely out of the question.

What was out of the question, though, was remaining here. After all, if he was to be trapped in the Land Without Magic, he'd prefer to be in Storybrooke. Even if no one remembered him initially, Swan would break the curse, and then he could remain among people who understood who he was.

People, he recalled a little shamefully, whom he'd abandoned almost as soon as they'd all landed back in the Enchanted Forest. But what choice did he have, for the sake of his broken heart? For too long, his life had been one long lesson in the futility of hope, and losing Swan from his life permanently (at least, as far as he'd known at the time) had solidified that belief.

And how could he spend time with David and Snow without thinking of their daughter? She had her mother's eyes and chin and ferocity, and her father's tenacity and tact. To look at them and listen to them, Emma Swan split in two, was the worst agony he could have imagined.

(At least, that he could have imagined at the time. He had been wrong. To see his love's eyes devoid of all recognition, to see him as a stranger, had been worse.)

It had been crucial, in retrospect, that he had fled and tried to return to his old life. Had he remained behind, the curse would have taken him, too, and then who knew what would have happened? If he'd stayed, he never would have recovered the Jolly Roger; without his ship, he would never have escaped the Enchanted Forest before being swept up in the curse.

But bloody hell, he wished he could have picked Regina's brain about the nature of the curse she'd placed on Emma and Henry. Had he known there was the slightest possibility that he would be back here, that he would see her again and have the opportunity to remind her of who she was (of who he was), he would have asked.

Regina might not have answered; she had been crushed by the belief she would never see Henry again. But perhaps Snow White could have given a rousing speech about hope and encouraged the queen to discuss the possibility.

But no—then he would have stayed behind and worked with them to find a way back to Emma and Henry, and then he would have been cursed all the same.

He wracked his brain. From the message he'd received, he knew this was a repeat of the same dark curse that had brought everyone to Storybrooke. He knew that during the first curse, time had frozen, only restarting when the Savior arrived. After all, it was a few months before the curse broke that he came back to himself in the Enchanted Forest, to find that nearly three decades had passed without him realizing it.

The dwarves had provided some information about the curse during the single night in Storybrooke where everything had been fine, and he'd been an accepted member of the little band of heroes. They had mostly wanted to tell him all about the benefits and idiosyncrasies of the Land Without Magic, and so information about the nature of the curse had been sparse.

But there had been one interesting occurrence that had raised the subject.

As they had been talking and drinking, a blonde woman he didn't know had entered the diner, a handsome blond man on her arm; she'd approached David, who'd smiled and hugged her. He'd asked the dwarves who the woman was.

"Oh, that's Kathryn," one of the dwarves had explained. "During the curse, she was married to Charming."

"Come again?" he'd asked.

"Regina's curse kept him and Snow apart," Grumpy said. "But even though Charming thought he was married to Kathryn, he still fell in love with Snow."

"How?" he'd asked. "Wouldn't the curse prevent that?"

Grumpy shrugged. "It was supposed to. But when Emma showed up, people started changing. Caring about the stuff they'd cared about before. It was like she reminded them about what was important to them."

"That, and Snow read Charming their story while he was in a coma," another dwarf interrupted. "It woke him up, hearing her read from the storybook about how they met."

The storybook was gone now. Swan and Henry had left everything behind in order to escape Pan's curse; they'd hardly had time for goodbyes at the town line before the purple smoke swallowed them up and dragged them back to the Enchanted Forest. Had Henry tried to take the book with him, it would have been too late: Emma would have been dragged back along with them, and that poor boy would have been left, stranded in the wilderness, with hardly any memories of his past.

But perhaps there were other ways to jog a memory. He just had to find something that would bring back either Henry's memories or Swan's. That's all he needed; whoever regained their memories first could help him convince the other to drink the potion. And then they could return to Storybrooke and see what fresh hell awaited them this time.

He certainly wouldn't find any answers here, though, as lovely as it was to be in a more peaceful place. With renewed hope, he lifted himself off the bench and strode back into the filthy city to find a reminder.

Reasoning that he was less likely to feel overwhelmed with desperation if he were in a more familiar part of the city, he began by walking back in the direction of Swan's abode. He had no intention of confronting her again so soon, of course, but it wouldn't do to get lost. It was a long walk, but then again, he'd been lost in thought and misery when he'd wandered into the public garden. That had a way of distracting from the passage of time.

A few streets beyond Swan's home, a sizable storefront caught his eye and held it. It was a bookstore, oddly named (Strand? What did that mean?). But more importantly, it boasted a variety of tomes: old, rare, and new. What if there was another copy of the storybook? Surely it would exist here, in a bookshop of this size.

He'd been to plenty of bookshops and libraries over his long life. The former were usually tiny, especially since the Enchanted Forest wasn't teeming with printing presses. The libraries were often more expansive; he recalled late nights studying, surrounded by books, when he was learning how to be an naval officer. He also recalled, with a smirk, a few stolen nights in royal libraries, pressing a noblewoman up against the stacks.

Probably not the sort of thing to ever mention to Swan, now that he thought of it. Unless she'd be into that sort of thing—no, he needed to focus.

He'd determined through observations and both inductive and deductive reasoning that mass production was standard in this part of the Land Without Magic. Clothing and food could be purchased, already made; it did not surprise him that the same extended to books. But nothing could have prepared him for the immense size of this bookshop, larger than almost any library he'd set foot in.

Like every other part of the city, the shop was filled with people. But the scent of books was a small comfort; it was the same as it was in every other realm he'd traveled to, and it reminded him of his purpose.

"Can I help you, sir?" A young woman, wearing an indicator of employment in the shop, had approached him. She was eyeing his attire rather suspiciously.

"Apologies, lass," he said, recalling his first visit to this city. "I've just gotten off an entertaining job and have yet to return home to change into more suitable clothing."

This seemed to mollify her, and her smile relaxed into something more natural. "Well, that's a great costume," she said politely.

"Thank you. And, ah, yes, actually, I could use your assistance. I'm looking for what I expect might be a rare book."

"Very exciting," she said. "Let me show you our rare book selection; it's really substantial."

He followed her through the winding pathways of books, glancing at the stacks as he passed. Some of the shelves had books that were uniform in style, with spines that boasted the same colors and fonts, and many that were the same height and material. But other shelves contained a riot of books of all shapes and sizes—some several inches thick and others only a fraction, some squat and some tall, with clear or illegible titles. They passed patron after patron browsing, and he wondered how on earth they knew how to find what they were after.

Once they reached a less crowded section of the shop, the woman brought him over to a strange device. He'd seen similar ones before—the Storybrooke library and the sheriff's station desks each contained one of the boxes, and the private investigator he'd hired to find Swan had used one. And so he watched with fascination as the woman began poking at the alphabet board with her fingers, and the images on the box changed.

"What can you tell me about what you're looking for?" she asked.

"It's called 'Once Upon a Time.'" He thought back to that evening at the diner, when Pan, wearing Henry's skin, had flipped through the massive tome. "It's a large brown book, perhaps a foot and a half wide. Beautifully illustrated set of fairy tales."

"Do you know the author?" she asked as she continued punching at the board. Words appeared on different parts of the box.

"No, unfortunately I don't. But I would know it when I saw it."

"All right, that's fine," she said patiently. "Okay, um, I'm not seeing anything matching that description exactly, but if you give me a few minutes, I can get some help from my supervisor." She smiled reassuringly at him. "You might want to check out some of the collection while you wait, though."

With nothing else to do, he accepted her suggestion and wandered around this particular area of the shop. As he did so, a title caught his eye.

Peter Pan and Wendy.

Oh bloody hell.

He couldn't help but pull the tome down; it seemed to be in excellent condition, at least, so he felt no guilt for handling this particular rare book. He began to skim as best he could. Perhaps this could help Henry regain his memories.

It was too difficult to interpret, given that nothing seemed to be remotely similar to the story he knew—the story he'd lived. By the time he'd determined that apparently, his name in this version of the tale was James Hook (and truly, that seemed ridiculous; what were the odds that a man named Hook would end up with a hook in place of a hand?), and that he'd lost his hand to Pan, who'd fed the appendage to a crocodile, it was clear to him that this book would do nothing for Henry except provide him with inaccurate information.

"Sir?" Now a man was approaching him. "Hey there; I'm Andy. Cindy told me you were looking for a particular rare book?"

"Aye," he said, slipping Peter Pan back onto the bookshelf. "It's called 'Once Upon a Time.'"

"She mentioned. I don't think we have exactly what you're looking for, but I managed to pull a couple books that might work."

Hook bit his tongue; his first instinct was to remark that he wasn't looking for a similar book, and that he didn't appreciate having his time wasted. But then again, these folks had spent several minutes trying to help him; he didn't want to waste their time either.

As expected, though, none of the books, which were mostly fairy tale collections, would work. One in particular, a gorgeously illustrated book that involved characters from various stories meeting up and interacting, had seemed like a potential winner, but upon further reading, the plot took a nasty turn. And there were too many players missing: Snow White was barely mentioned, Charming was nothing like his true self, Red Riding Hood and her grandmother weren't recognizable, and he, Regina, and Rumplestiltskin were absent entirely.

He thanked both Andy and Cindy profusely before walking out empty-handed.

Well, mostly empty-handed. Though he hadn't left with anything physical, hope burned in his chest. There were other booksellers in this city. They might have the book. And so he continued his journey.

As he walked, a sense of familiarity overtook him. How that was possible, in this massive metal city, he wasn't sure; to gather his wits, he moved towards the buildings lining the walkway, out of the way of other passersby. He remembered what had happened last year, when he'd stopped in the middle of the path, and that disrespectful fellow had nearly knocked him over, and the dreamshade along with him. He

Oh, that was it. He'd stumbled upon the very same location where he'd nearly achieved his revenge.

For the first time in a long time, he recalled how he had lived for centuries for that single moment, and how little it had mattered since he'd thrown his lot in with Swan and her family.

And now, he was back at the scene of the crime, as it were, but with a fresh understanding of the events that had transpired. At the time, he hadn't known the Crocodile had been looking for Baelfire, or that the man walking with Swan was the boy himself, all grown up. He hadn't known that Henry was Baelfire's—no, Neal's, he wanted to be called Neal—Neal's son, or even that Emma had had a history with him in the first place.

When that unpleasant lass, Tamara, had freed him from the storage room, she'd let on that this was where Neal lived, explaining why she, his fiancée, had access to the closet.

This was Neal's home, or it had been a year ago. Swan and Henry had been here. Perhaps there was something here that could help break the curse on one of them.

Inside the building, in the very space he'd sunk his poisoned hook into the demon, he discovered several boxes and buttons labeled with names. What was Neal's full name here again? He couldn't recall. But none of the labels was anything remotely resembling Neal's possible name.

Though there was one that was unlabeled. Number 407. Uninhabited perhaps?

He made quick work of the lock (because he had his lockpick on him, of course; he even carried extras after what had happened in the hospital) and began roaming the halls for that particular number. And once he found it, it was even easier to break into than the door downstairs.

The living space he found was covered in dust; it had clearly been uninhabited for a great while and smelled slightly moldy. A quick check of the place revealed no one at all, in the living area, sleeping area, or the bathroom. He felt confident that if this were Neal's apartment, no one had been in here in a long time.

A device on a chest of drawers caught his eye. The object itself held no meaning for him, but it had attached to it a thick, woven strap.

With Henry's name on it.

This was what he needed. But bringing it to Swan or to Henry wouldn't mean anything, not necessarily. Either one of them could argue that whatever this item was, he'd simply purchased one with Henry's name on it; it wasn't as though the boy's name was unique.

But—if she knew that the object was in Neal's apartment, would Swan believe?

On a table in the living area, he found several envelopes, all bearing Neal's name (Cassidy—had he forgotten it, or never known in the first place?). He fumbled for a piece of parchment and a pen from his coat (he would have to find a shop that sold ink; he was running low), jotting down what he recognized as an address, thanks to the private investigator who'd supplied him with Swan's.

This would be easier, he reasoned. He could convince her to come to this location, perhaps by piquing her curiosity regarding her parents and the truth of her origins. She would find this strange device belonging to Henry.

She would remember. Then Henry would follow in short order. And then they'd be off to Storybrooke, ready to break the curse.

He placed the new address in his pocket, headed back downstairs, and began the long walk back to Swan.