Hook + modern clothes


Killian stepped out of the Crocodile's shop into the early afternoon light. Hopefully, Swan wouldn't question the story he planned to tell her, especially given that he'd already enraged Rumplestiltskin on more than one occasion in too short a period of time. The least he could do to maintain some semblance of order would be to perpetuate the lie that Mr. Gold was, in fact, a changed man.

It was pathetic that the man didn't seem capable of change. Did he not want to try? Did he not care about his own wife? How could a man profess to love a woman enough to wed her, and yet treat her like a child or a simpleton?

He shook his head, realizing that deep in his thoughts, he'd stopped walking. He knew that marriage in and of itself wasn't terribly meaningful, especially to someone like the Crocodile, who'd treated Milah as though her desires and needs were unimportant annoyances. Of course he'd do the same to Belle. Both women deserved better.

Perhaps he shouldn't judge Belle as much as he was tempted to. Milah had been fooled into marrying Rumplestiltskin; there was obviously something about the man that made it easy for him to deceive beautiful, brilliant women.

Killian didn't need deception. He didn't need fraud. He was winning Swan's heart by being honorable.

But bloody hell, if this date was going to go well, he'd need more than just a hand.

His hand. He flexed it in wonderment again—how strange it was to have it back. What would Emma think of it? He shook his head; she would of course prefer it. Her comment last week, before they'd tried to confront Zelena, made her feelings plain enough. At least now, she could have no complaints about having a beau with only one hand; she'd be happy that he was now fully endowed, as it were.

Now, what should he do next?

The day was still young; it had barely been an hour since Swan had shocked him to no end by arriving at Granny's and nearly sweeping him off his feet. As much as he'd protested being on the receiving end of a romantic invitation, he was honestly quite pleased. Having her propose an evening together meant so much more than if she'd simply accepted his own proposition. Not that he would have made one, at least not any time soon: he wanted her to approach him on her own terms, when she was ready for him.

And, well, it was nice to be courted. It was nice to know that she did want him, that she wasn't attending dinner with him out of a sense of obligation only because he'd asked. He was winning her heart, as he'd promised.

But this had to go well. It just had to. What would she enjoy?

Royalty in this realm was a little odd; Henry had mentioned that there were monarchies, although not in this part of the world (something about a present? A prescient? Granted, he hadn't really been listening; Robin had already promised to lend him a reference book that Regina had let him borrow that would contain this sort of information). Here, Emma was not considered a princess; she was simply a woman making her way in the world.

But this wasn't like the rest of the realm; this was Storybrooke. As far as he was concerned, she was a princess, or at least a lady of high pedigree, and she should be treated as such. What would that entail?

If they were in the Enchanted Forest, he would arrive with flowers, of course. And then he would escort her to dinner in the nicest local establishment. And then, at the end of the evening, they would go for a short walk and he'd perhaps steal a kiss before returning her to her parents' home.

He snorted. He was thinking like a young lieutenant, not a pirate captain. But this was Emma. She deserved a proper evening. And as much as he knew how much they would both enjoy some pillaging and plundering, as she had so eloquently phrased it, a proper evening wouldn't end in that sort of dalliance.

If she wanted to fuck him, well then, she'd have to go on another date with him, wouldn't she?

He had to secure that second date. This had to go well.

He flexed his hand again and returned to Granny's; the proprietor herself was at the register when he arrived. "Excuse me, Madam Lucas, are you busy?"

"What do you want, Hook?" Her exasperation could possibly be characterized as fond; after all, she was fleecing him for all he was worth for his rented room.

"Is there some list of businesses here in Storybrooke? I have some inquiries I wish to make."

She smirked a bit. "All the rooms should have the yellow pages in a drawer somewhere. Have you tried that?"

He frowned. Yellow pages? What did the color of some parchment have to do with business? No matter; he'd search the drawers in the bureau and nightstand and see what he could find. He turned to head to his room

"Wait, wait." Granny called him back over; she seemed almost as though she felt some level of guilt; it was an unusual sight. "The yellow pages is what we call the directory here. It has everyone's phone number in it—well, most of them at least—and it also has a list of businesses and their phone numbers as well. Like I said, every room should have a copy; if you don't find yours, come back down and we'll find one."

"My thanks, madam." He nodded at her and went up to his room.

Sure enough, in the nightstand, he found the yellow pages—well, the Yellow Pages; it was an official name (although the pages were indeed yellow). He'd actually discovered the book on his first evening in the room, a year ago, but hadn't a clue what it was and therefore promptly forgot about it.

He dragged it out and began flipping through the pages. Not everyone's phone number was present, and some of the numbers differed from the ones he had in his own phone's contacts. But the Widow Lucas had been true to her word.

The businesses were listed in the front, alphabetically by type. Could he simply find a business and call and make inquiries? He was about to find out.

First, he needed to buy flowers; sure enough, under F, he found florists. Of course, there was only a single business in Storybrooke that sold flowers, a shop called Game of Thorns. What an absurd name—how was it a game?

He pulled out his phone, entered in the number, and pressed the call button. It was awkward, making a phone call to someone who wasn't already a contact in his phone. Would the person receiving the call know that Killian Jones was calling?

He remembered learning to use the phone and thought probably not. Would he need to introduce himself if he was simply making inquiries? Bloody hell, what was he going to even ask again?

"Game of Thorns."

It took him a moment to realize that that was how the call was being answered, as opposed to saying, "Hello?" or, "Hi, Hook," as he was accustomed to hearing.

"Ah, yes, I was calling to inquire about your shop."

"Okay," the person said slowly. "What do you need to know exactly?"

"What hours are you open?" he opted to ask first.

"Mondays through Fridays, nine am till eight pm, Saturdays from nine to six, and Sundays are noon to three. We're also open weekday hours on holidays like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day and the like."

That was more information than he'd wanted, but it did provide him with the information he'd needed, which was that the shop would be open all day today. "Excellent," he replied. "And what sort of selection do you have?"

"Uh, I guess most of everything?" The person seemed to suspect that he might be calling them as a joke. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"I'm not really sure," he admitted. "Do you have roses?"

"Of course." He seemed almost angry at the question. "Those are our bestseller. My daughter's favorite flower, you know."

"Well, that's probably what I'll get. Thank you very much; I'll likely stop by today. Where are you located?"

"We're at eight-sixteen Main Street. Can't miss us."

"Wonderful. Thank you for your time."

"Great." And then the call ended. It had been awkward, certainly, but he'd obtained the information he been seeking. Before arriving at the loft, he would stop by eight-sixteen Main Street and purchase flowers. Perfect.

And then they would go to dinner—where? Back to the Yellow Pages; he found the list of restaurants, which was more substantial than the list of florists, but still quite sparse.

He could not—would not—bring her to Granny's for supper. That was not special, and tonight had to be special. Emma needed to know she was special, that she deserved a lovely evening out, that she should eat a delicious meal in the company of someone who thought she was delightful, beautiful, fearless, incredible …

He was getting distracted.

Most of the establishments listed seemed to be specialty businesses, such as the shop serving something called ice cream. Emma had mentioned that cuisine the other afternoon, but he still wasn't sure what it was; he could ask about it at dinner. But it didn't sound like a place to sit and enjoy a full meal. Perhaps they could visit on a subsequent date.

If she would permit him to continue to court her. Bloody hell, this date had to go well.

One place, Tony's, looked promising. He picked up his phone again, this time a little more prepared for the call.

"Tony's Restaurant, how can I help you?"

"Hello. I was wondering, what sort of an establishment are you?"

"Ah, we're an Italian restaurant."

"How … " He cringed, knowing how absurd his next question was going to be. "How classy is your establishment?"

"Oh, quite," the person replied enthusiastically. "Four stars. This isn't your local diner."

Perfect. "Excellent, that's just what wanted to hear. Would it be possible to have two for dinner tonight?"

"Absolutely. What time?"

He hadn't finalized any details with Swan, only that they'd have a date that evening. Hopefully, whatever time he selected would be amenable to her. "Is seven o'clock available?"

"It is. Two for dinner at seven o'clock." They seemed to be making a note of it. "Whose name is the reservation under?"

"Killian Jones," he said without hesitation.

"Killian Jones …" The person paused. "Uh … wait, Captain Hook?"

He sighed. "Yes." He tried to remind himself that the entire town would probably know of the date within the hour anyway, given the dwarves' propensity for gossip.

"O-oh, okay. Well, uh … Mr. Jones, we've got your reservation all set, and we'll see you at seven o'clock."

"Thank you. Where are you located?"

"Five Cannery Street, down by the docks."

"Thank you very much."

As he tried to reassure himself that the entire town knowing about the date was not going to ruin the evening, he thought about what the man had said. He looked down at his left hand once again; was he still Captain Hook? He'd been Hook for centuries at this point. He still felt the same. Perhaps this wasn't as simple as exchanging one appendage for another.

But this was still better. That had been the whole point: Emma deserved a perfect date, with someone who could show her just how important she was to him. And with two hands, he could give her that perfect date.

He still had hours before he needed to head to the florist. He removed his greatcoat; perhaps a quick nap wouldn't be a terrible idea.

It felt strange to hold his coat with both hands. It looked strange. Actually, what did he look like now? He stepped into the bathroom, where there was a full-length mirror on the back of the door.

This was a Killian Jones who hadn't existed in years. He was hardly older than he'd been the day he'd lost his hand, and looked very much the same, albeit slightly more hardened. But that young, fearless pirate, whose thirst for revenge had been sated when he'd destroyed his former kingdom's navy, was staring back at him. He smirked.

And then he frowned.

The date had to be perfect. And what had Emma complained about incessantly until he'd practically shouted at her to leave him alone?

His attire. Bloody hell. It wasn't that a princess couldn't be courted by a pirate; Swan clearly liked that about him, and he enjoyed that she didn't expect him to change who he was. But Emma was a lady in this land, and he was a pirate from another. How would she feel if they went to an upscale establishment for a meal, with her dressed in more formal attire for this realm, and him in his leathers and greatcoat?

He needed new clothing. Back to the Yellow Pages he went. Within minutes, he had the address of the only garment shop in town, which was mercifully across the street from Granny's. Shortly after, he was inside.

It was time to discover what this realm's clothes really felt like. What he'd worn in the hospital hardly counted, as Swan had reassured him.

He was delighted to find that the entire shop was full of labels; he found a section specifically filled with men's attire, and within that section, everything was clearly marked.

First, underclothes. He typically went without, given how restrictive his trousers were, but he was pleased to find that in this realm, those garments were smaller and appeared to be much less complicated. They were also packaged in bulk, which seemed convenient, although then he ran into an issue.

What size was he?

"Can I help you?"

He nearly jumped when the shopkeeper, standing behind him, asked that question. "Ah, yes, I was wondering how to tell what size to purchase," he explained.

The shopkeeper appraised him for a moment. "Well, you can't try these on, but if you try on some jeans or something and let me know what size you are in those, I can hazard a guess."

"Jeans?"

Here. The shopkeeper led him to another part of the men's section, where there were pair after pair of trousers. "Jeans."

Ah, the same kind of trousers the majority of people here seemed to wear. He selected a pair that looked similar to his own leathers, as opposed to the slightly baggy ones David seemed to favor.

"Might want to grab a few different sizes," the man said. "See which ones fit best. If none of them do, just come back out and grab some more."

"Ah, very well."

The man grabbed the jeans from him and pointed to a small piece of fabric sewn inside the waist. "Size is right here."

"Thank you."

He pulled off two more pairs with different numbers inside, and followed the man to some small stalls off to the side. "Whatever doesn't fit, just leave by that table over there when you're done." And then he wandered back off to the rest of the shop.

Inside the stall, Killian did what he assumed he should do: change into the jeans and see if they suited him. The jeans were very strange, to be sure. They were tight in a different manner than his leather trousers were, and to fasten them, there were no laces. There was a strange mechanism he'd seen before, such as on Swan's leather jackets. He pulled at the small tab and sure enough, the front of the jeans closed, as if by magic. And then there was a button at the top to finish it off.

The jeans were not comfortable; he could hardly walk in them; they were certainly too small. He managed to pull them off (the strange mechanism worked the same way in reverse; fascinating!) before trying on the other two pairs.

Fortunately, the third pair felt comfortable, and unlike the second pair, it was neither too loose, nor were the legs too short on him. He changed back into his leathers and stepped back out of the stall, leaving the ill-fitting jeans on the table, as instructed.

If he was to be the man for Swan, he'd need to purchase more than one pair, to have a selection to choose from. The people here did not wear the same clothes day in, day out, after all. Checking the number inside the waistband, he pulled a few more pairs off of the rack, checking on the numbers to ensure they matched.

He approached the shopkeeper once more, showing him the numbers. "Ah, medium, then. I think that's what you picked out already." Sure enough, the shopkeeper was correct. "If you want, you can leave what you want to purchase up here, so you don't have to carry it around.

"My thanks."

Underclothes and trousers were finished, but he'd need boots, stockings, and shirts as well. And while Swan deserved a modern man, she was falling for a pirate; a vest and leather jacket would be essential.

Shirts were simpler; it was easier to guess his size and find several flattering ones. He especially liked some of the prints; would Swan like them? Would she notice?

There were also waistcoats available, although not many; that was discouraging, since that was the garment he typically relied on to add variety to his wardrobe. He opted for a couple of black ones, including one made partially of leather that he hoped would remind Swan of his Enchanted Forest attire.

Stockings and boots were a challenge; the shopkeeper had to assist him again. Shoes in the Enchanted Forest were made to fit; the few pairs he'd ever owned as a free man had been custom made by a cobbler after a fitting, and then repaired over and over until they finally fell apart. Here, though, there were boxes and boxes of shoes and boots, already finished. The shopkeeper had him place his stockinged feet on a strange measuring device, after which he then gave him a number and letter and set him to find a pair of footwear he liked.

The half-boots he found were quite comfortable, and the shopkeeper assured him they would go well with the style of trousers he'd set aside for purchase; he also provided several pairs of stockings as well.

Finally, the last piece of the sartorial puzzle, and perhaps the most important one: a leather coat.

He knew from observing other Storybrooke residents that the greatcoat he favored was absolutely out of style; even the men wore short jackets similar to the ones that Swan wore regularly. Therefore, he was not surprised, and therefore not very disheartened, when he found only the short style in the relevant section of the store. Once again, though, the shop had limited variety, and he was somewhat disappointed that none of the jackets had buttons or clasps like his greatcoat did, or if they did, they were ornamental in ways he found unflattering.

But he was trying to be a modern man now, for Swan's sake. "What is this called?" he asked the shopkeeper, pointing at the closure mechanism he'd encountered when trying on the trousers.

"It's a zipper," the man replied. "Because it zips up and down." He picked up a jacket and demonstrated its use, and Killian could understand how the name came about; the sound made was slightly recognizable as a zip. Killian tried it a few times before thanking the man and returning to his perusal of the selection.

He was about to give up and resort to wearing his own coat for the time being, before he spotted one last jacket on the end. It was black, as opposed to red or brown, and while it had embellishments—what appeared to be zippers that opened and closed nothing—they weren't overly ornate or awkward-looking.

In fact, he noted approvingly, it also had zippers along the ends of the sleeves; it looked very similar to the sleeves on the leather jacket that Swan had been wearing when they'd first met. He recalled how she'd zipped open the end of her sleeve so he could place the magic cuff on her wrist.

Oh, the animosity he'd being on the receiving end of! He remembered how guarded she was, how distrustful. He remembered how she'd nearly entirely refused to engage with him, lying about being in love until she'd realized he was a kindred spirit. He remembered the guilt on her face when she'd left him behind, ignoring her own gut instinct.

Now, she permitted him to hold her and kiss her, and she'd even asked to court him. She'd come so far.

And so had he. He was going to be the man she deserved, no matter what it took. This date would go well: he'd pick up some flowers, take her to a delicious meal, and return her to her parents like the gentleman he was. The modern gentleman.

He grabbed the jacket and made his way to pay for it and the rest of his purchases. It was only as he was paying (and receiving some very unsolicited, polite instructions on how to obtain the currency of this realm) that he realized something a little odd:

He'd kept forgetting to use his left hand.