Cars fly past in the slowly dwindling rain, throwing water onto curbs and passerby alike. Hook is glad to be indoors, staring out of the tall window of the foyer of Emma's apartment building. He had been able to sneak through the door when a tiny, old lady left, quickly opening her anti-water device. Ages seem to have passed, and he feels like he is back in Neverland for all of this infernal waiting. Surely, Emma would have to return to her home, where she would hopefully listen to sense. And if she did not…well, he isn't a pirate for nothing.
His conscience twinges, and he tries to write it off as hunger but he knows better. Blast. When did Killian the gentlemen weasel his way back and silently slay Hook the pirate? Before this damned morality he would have had no qualms about stealing a pretty lady, leaving her child behind with only a coward to watch over him. Gods, but what would Milah think of him now, desperate and pathetic? He is a waste of a pirate and a sorry excuse of a man, leaning his head against glass, aching for Emma, as fraught with worry as a mother bird.
He sighs. It would not serve his purposes to continue berating his foolish behavior. With this thought in mind, he braves the dying rain, wandering aimlessly down the street, avoiding the puddles as best he can. A plan is indeed needed, one that does not involve Emma murdering him or seriously injuring his bits. He winces at the memory as he peers into shop windows, hoping for a stroke of luck that is as elusive as a ghost.
The yellow beetle turns into the street, sloshing muddy water from its tires. It slows as its driver spots a break in the numerous cars lining the curb, and then it is joining its peers, shutting down for a well-deserved rest. Driving in the rain is usually not that big of a deal, but today, the rain was monstrous, and Emma had been forced to go through puddle after puddle after pothole of mud and dirt and grime from the city, and the poor yellow car is now mottled with differing shades of brown. Looking at it grimly, she decides she might have to get it washed before going out.
As she is walking to her apartment building, she remembers the funny man that had shown up on her doorstep that morning, claiming to be someone from her past, someone that knew her family. Her mouth tingles as the memory of that kiss invades, and she chuckles with only slight remorse as her knee twitches, as well. She glances around, wondering where he is now, and fails to notice him watching her from a tiny café across from her building.
Hook feels like a spy, or more, like a stalker. What kind of man stares at a lady getting out of her vessel, watches her as she walks down a street, wonders what it is she is thinking? A vile one, that is for sure, but he must make contact somehow, and so far, his methods have been abysmal. He knows he needs to assess the situation before lunging in, as he did this morning, because his Emma is not easily swayed by soft words and a mouth-watering kiss (not to brag, or anything).
He had been lucky to encounter a man that was willing to give him a few coins. Well, he says willing, but what the man did not know wouldn't hurt him. And after all, you could take the pirate from the sea but that would never make him any less of a pirate. With his coin purse much heavier, he had been able to go back to the little shop selling the brown stuff, and had been able to give the barmaid something in exchange for a "cuppa-chino", as she called it. It had been foul, to say the least, but it gave him something to do as he watched the street with foam on his lip, waiting for Emma to return.
He straightens in his seat, now, as he watches Emma pause in front of the door to the foyer. She reaches into her jacket with an expression of what seems to be delight, and pulls out a long, thin device that she puts to her ear. Ah, he remembers those from Storybrooke. People had walked around the streets speaking into them, and he sometimes had been able to hear little voices coming out of them. Strange devices, they were, but he had been told they were cellular phones, and people could speak from long distances as if they were next to each other. Useful, they were. It would have been rather easy to speak to his crow's nest, as opposed to attempted shouts and whats.
Wondering who could possibly light up Emma's face like that, he quietly leaves the café and sneaks around cars and passerby, gaining distance to his quarry as inconspicuously as he possibly is able. He is sure he looks odd, a strange man in a leather coat with a fake hand, bent double and low to the ground, darting from person to car like an overgrown version of a child playing hide and seek. But he cannot let his Emma see, because she is sure to become the ferocious woman lingering beneath the surface. Finally reaching a spot in a doorway that is a safe enough distance from her to avoid confrontation, but close enough to hear, he listens with a soft grumble as she charmingly laughs to her phone companion.
"You really shouldn't say such things, you know. Bad for the image," she teases, and he grimaces at her soft tone. The person on the other side responds, and she giggles, giggles, again, and something within him snaps. He clenches his hand against his thigh and prays to whatever gods he knows that she is not speaking to a man.
"What time are we meeting, by the way? I need to drop Henry off at the babysitter's….I know, he thinks he's old enough now, too, but she's such a nice girl….Remember Madame Gothel's charge?...Such a creepy woman, but the girl is nice enough….I think she's turning eighteen soon so she'll be able to get away from her….Well, Henry thinks she's pretty cool, or so he has told me. But he still thinks he can be on his own….I've told him that she needs to have some sort of responsibility, and hanging out with a twelve-year-old that already has a lot of that will help her….How does seven work for you, then? There's a place over on Fifth that has outdoor seating, and since the rain finally let up it might be nice….The one across from Ginger's Bar, do you know it? ...Great, I'll see you then."
She is smiling as she disconnects the call, and he hopes again that she is meeting a lady friend, not a man with which she holds affections. He attempts to reason that having another man vying for her hand in the picture would only make his task harder, but not-so-deep down he knows the truth. As Emma walks into her building, Hook steps out onto the street and begins his quest for the bar belonging to Ginger on Fifth in New York. Shouldn't be too hard.
Two hours and just as many sore feet later, Hook curses his luck and the infernal city. First time he comes here, he stabs his prey and then gets left behind with a knot on his skull and a headache to prove it. Now, he's lost, aching, and hungry. And he has become a feeble child, whimpering internally over his plights. Good gods, he needs to get back to the Roger, needs to find something to pillage, needs to plunge his sword into a foe's gut. He needs to get out of this city that has brokenhim.
Desperate to find the elusive fifth street before seven (and judging the sun's position, it is nearing six—at least his navigation skills have not fled), he stops the first person he encounters, which, luckily for him, is a woman. Time to lay on the ol' Killian charm.
"Excuse me, miss, but I fear I am in need of direction."
The woman in question (blonde, always blonde) stutters in her steps and clutches her handbag tightly. Her eyes pop as she takes in the pirate in front of her (as he is nothing but, no matter how one tried to spin it), but a slow smile overtakes her as his words grab her (the women in this city are suckers for accents, and he thanks his stars for growing up where he had).
"How can I help?" Her voice is hoarse, and he grins, knowing that he has not lost his charm with his manhood, at least.
"I am meant to meet a friend," he says with a deep frown, "but I am utterly lost in such a large place. Would you assist me in locating a place called Ginger's Bar on Fifth?"
Her face brightens further (an impossible task, he would have thought) and she replies with fake sincerity, "Oh, you poor man. It's quite far. I suppose you'll have to have dinner with me, instead."
Gods, but this was sickening. Standing before him is a ready-made bedmate, serving herself on a silver platter, and all he can think about is Emma. How the mighty have fallen. "I'm afraid this meeting is a matter of life or death, my dear," which isn't a lie, not really, as Emmais needed for more than just the sake of his sanity.
Her face falls, and she nods with defeat. "Well, it is far, but you can just take a cab…." She trails off as he shakes his head.
"You need coin—ah, money, for that, correct?"
"Well, yes, but didn't you bring any?"
"I fear I left it at home."
The grip on her purse becomes tighter. "You can certainly walk there, but it might take you a while. If you go up this street for five blocks, you'll see Fifth Avenue, and it's just a straight shot to Fifth, at least twenty blocks. Ginger's is there, you should see it. Not a bad bar, good people work there. I hope your meeting goes well, but if it doesn't, here's my number." She pulls a card from her purse and hands it to him with a wink, and walks away. He has enough sense to call out an acknowledgement of gratitude before he is quickly pounding the street towards Fifth Avenue, the card dropping from his hand and drifting into a muddy pothole.
Ages. Bloody ages. He is no stranger to walking, or covering long distances, but the environments in which he does so are jungles, fields, the sea. Not hard surfaces and tall buildings that all look alike, or people that jostle and grumble and shout. The trek had taken him far longer than he had expected, and when he finally spies the restaurant across from Ginger's Bar, Emma is already there with her companion.
He is a well-dressed man, with brown hair that curls around a pale neck that Hook is immediately anxious to throttle. The soon-to-be-dead stranger stands too near to Emma, and she leans into him in a way that makes his heart clench and his gut sick. Too familiar. Too intimate. The look on her face is sad, and he wants to make this man suffer for whatever it is he is saying to make his Emma feel so despondent. He is not near enough to hear the exchange, but before he can move closer, the blackguard reaches for Emma, his arms wrapping around her, and hers gripping back just as firmly.
He wants to hit something.
Luckily, they break apart fairly quickly, and the dapper louse moves away, leaving Emma standing on her own in front of a white table, with a phone in her hand and a frown on her lips. Hating that look, Hook finally makes his move. She glances up at the sound of feet moving towards her, and the frown is replaced by an expression of shock. "What are you doing here? Have you been following me?" He winces at the outrage in her voice, and attempts to placate her.
"Look, Emma, I know you don't remember me. I do. But you need to listen to me."
"I'm not listening to anything you have to say." She turns to leave, but he stops her with his hand on her arm. "Get your hand off of me," she says quietly.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot. You need to come back. Your parents are in great danger."
A look of incredulity spreads across her face. "This again? Look, buddy, I have no parents. Mine abandoned me in a forest when I was a baby. So what should I care if they are in danger?"
He curses her stubbornness and lack of memory. "Damn it, Emma, you only think this because you don't remember. If you would just listen to me, you blasted woman—"
She scoffs. "Oh! Right, because that is the way to get someone to listen to the idiotic ramblings of a mad man! Insult them! I don't know who you think you are but—"
"I'm Killian Jones, the man you know, the man you trusted to save your son—"
Her eyes narrow into a glare, and he knows he's messed it up. Again. "I'm leaving. Stay the hell away from me and my son."
She swiftly moves to her car, and he lets out an oath. Ignoring the scandalous looks of passerby, he ambles down the street, wondering what he could possibly do now to fuck this up more. How could he make the damned woman see sense?