Emma was able to resist Killian's temptations - more than once- and with the assistance of magical hair-drying, she was able to "poof" them to the clinic's front door by 8:35. Wearing his best gentlemanly smile, Killian held the door for her and then followed her inside. As Emma marched straight to the front desk, he took in the grassland murals covering the walls of the waiting room. Exotic creatures with wild markings cavorted among slender trees and a pond, all in the shadow of a giant purple mountain crowned with wispy clouds.

The man seated behind the desk gave them a bright, toothy smile. "Good morning! I'm Wilbur. What can I do for you today?"

"Killian Jones, to see Dr. Taymor," Emma replied.

The receptionist checked something on his computer box and nodded. "Yes, I've got you right here. Thank you for being early!" When he grinned, his eyes all but disappeared behind ample cheeks. He had his dark curls cropped close to his scalp, except for one longer strip that ran down the center, from his forehead to the nape of his neck. Unusual, but it suited him somehow.

Wilbur pulled a thin plank of wood from beside his desk. Killian recognized it as a "clipboard." Under the clip the receptionist attached a stack of papers. Dangling from a chain was one of this realm's most practical inventions: a self-inking pen.

"You can sit anywhere you like and get started on the paperwork!" Wilbur said animatedly. Killian accepted the clipboard with a polite smile and turned back to the room.

A couple of the chairs already had occupants; no one they knew, though. He found that to be a bit of a relief, although he didn't know why. As he made for an empty corner, motion caught his eye. Halting abruptly, he exclaimed in a low voice,

"Bloody hell, Swan; this building has an infestation!"

He crept closer to the sight of insects crawling every which way, and Emma laughed.

"It's an ant farm."

"Ant… farm?" He raised an eyebrow. "What use could anyone possibly find in breeding ants?"

"It's just for fun…"

"Ants are actually quite delicious!" Wilbur added jovially. Killian couldn't decide whether he was joking. Emma rolled her eyes.

"You can watch them through the glass, digging tunnels and stuff. Kind of unusual for a waiting room; most places just have an aquarium. But it fits the theme, I guess."

Killian wasn't sure how, unless the painted animals also used these insects as a food source. He chose seats facing the "ant farm" so he could make sure they really were enclosed inside the glass.

Emma sat in the chair to his right, and he managed to balance the clipboard on his left forearm and hook. He gripped the pen and then flipped through the first few pages with his thumb. There were more than he had expected, and he began to wonder if Emma had actually underestimated the time it would take to complete them all.

The heading on the top page said Consent for Care and Treatment, and it was mostly full of typed words, with a line for his signature at the bottom. A contract, then. He began to read dutifully, but after only the first few lines, Emma whispered to him,

"No one really reads those. Just sign and date."

"Given the nature of my agreements in the past, I generally like to know what I'm getting myself into."

She smiled. "I'll summarize then. You give them permission to know personal information and to do what they think is best to keep you healthy. And you promise not to sue them for touching you."

Killian looked flabbergasted. "Why would I threaten litigation for the performance of the very act for which I sought this man's services?"

"You'd be surprised. In this world, doctors have to have ridiculous amounts of malpractice insurance, and they get sued all the time."

He studied her for a moment longer, then shook his head and scrawled his signature on the line. Like always, Emma took a second to appreciate the beauty of his fancy penmanship. He added the date and then flipped to the next page. More words and a signature line. "Swan?"

"'Notice of Privacy Practices…'" she read aloud. She lifted the page and found this clinic's version of the document, which she pulled from the stack. "We keep this. It tells us how they protect any information they get about you. You sign there to indicate that they gave you this paper."

This he did without further discussion.

Next was a New Patient Questionnaire. It started off easy enough, with the current date, his name, and preferred name - he wrote "Killian," Emma noted with love. But then came Date of Birth. He used the pen to scratch that place behind his ear. After a long pause, he asked,

"Can I leave it blank?"

"Well… I think they would want you to write something. It's one of the ways they differentiate between patients. Not that there are a lot of duplicate names here, but if they somehow… connect your information to another facility. Like, say you were travelling and got sick. If you went to a doctor outside of Storybrooke and they wanted to see your records from here."

"But… I've no idea."

"Make something up," she suggested. "Do you have any lucky numbers or anything?"

He considered briefly before shaking his head.

"Ok, well, let's start with the year. For the sake of your "real world" profile, let's say you're similar in age to me. So that would put it somewhere around 1982, '83."

She grinned when he wrote 1981. "Sure, whatever you want."

"I think the number one suits me, love. One hand… one hook… in fact, many of my more important and treasured parts are singular."

Emma resisted the urge to slap him. "Careful, buddy; that '1' could very easily become a '0.'"

He responded with only a suggestive smile.

"So, for the month… what's the best month to go sailing?"

"Anytime is a good time for sailing."

"Of course you'd say that. So, what, then?"

"How about we let luck decide?" He pulled a pair of dice from his pocket, and she stared at them in disbelief.

"You just happen to be carrying those around?"

Killian shrugged. "Only because of our last game night with Henry."

She lowered her voice. "Are they your loaded dice?"

"What would be the advantage of that?" he replied, not even bothering to deny that he owned such a pair. "I've already told you I have no preference." He shook the dice gently and then tossed them onto the clipboard, which he had adjusted to lie flat. "A five and a three. August, then."

"Okay, making progress. I can't think how you'll randomly pick a day, though. At least not in a way that gives all numbers an equal chance."

"Let's not make this so complicated. One again, for the one and only Killian Jones. Aye?" He wrote down The First of August, 1981.

"Whatever floats your boat."

"Ship."

Address, Phone Number, Emergency Contact, and Occupation were much simpler. Marital Status gave him a happy glow as he ticked off the Married box. Emma, too, grinned, playing gently with the hair on the back of his head. For Education, he chose High School, as he wasn't sure his Naval Academy training would translate to a college degree in this realm. The questions about Living Will and Advance Directives they elected to discuss at a later date.

Allergies and Current Medications he could leave mostly blank, although he did write in the vitamin supplement Emma made him swallow each morning.

Next came a long list of conditions with the instruction to "Check if you have had any of the following." Many of them he had never heard of. His pen hovered over the box for Anxiety/Stress.

"Three centuries, most of them not the best of circumstances…" He inscribed an "X." The only other condition he decided applied was Chronic Pain, as he still suffered occasional phantom pains in his missing hand, even after all this time.

The next section was Previous Hospitalizations and Surgeries. He grimaced, remembering both the physical pain and his mental state at that point in his life. He refrained from writing that he was injured seeking vengeance on the bloody Crocodile, instead opting for the far less dramatic Hit by a car. Neither he nor Emma knew the exact date of that incident, but he wrote down an approximation and Emma pointed out that the clinic could call Dr. Whale if they really needed the details. He was about to reply No to the question about blood transfusions, but Emma stopped him.

"Actually, I think you might have, that night. There was a lot going on, but I think I remember hearing Dr. Whale order one."

So he checked Yes, saying,

"What does it matter, anyway?"

"There are a few diseases that can be transmitted through the blood. It's rare to get them from transfusions, though, because they do check donor blood."

Killian nodded absently, about to move on. But Emma stopped him.

"What about when you lost your hand?"

"What of it?"

"I don't know if it would count as a surgery or hospitalization in the modern sense of the word, but it seems appropriate to mention it here."

"I'm not sure a cutlass through the wrist qualifies as surgery in any realm."

"No, but the treatment that followed, maybe?"

His face darkened fractionally; just enough that she could see it, even if no one else could. "I had no treatment, love."

She leaned back and let her hand fall to rub his back. "Seriously?"

"We were never fortunate enough to have a ship's surgeon aboard the Jolly Roger. Most wounds were self-treated, and one either recovered or festered and died. Mr. Smee had the dubious honor of tending any unreachable areas on my person." He sighed. "The abuse that man suffered… It's a wonder I didn't kill him those first weeks in bloody Neverland."

"So he was the one to…" She couldn't quite bring herself to finish.

"The Crocodile's blade made a relatively clean wound, at least insofar as leaving no jagged bone or flesh protruding. With copious amounts of rum forced into me and several of the crew holding me down, Smee was able to tie off blood vessels and seal off the rest using cautery. After he'd bandaged me up, I couldn't be still. I spent the whole of the night stalking the deck, howling my rage and pain to the stars. At some point I became lucid enough to fashion a more primitive version of this." He shifted his brace slightly. "I shoved it on over the bandages. It was excruciating. But it gave me distraction when grief and despair threatened to overtake my sanity. The very next day, we gave Milah a sailor's burial and set sail for Neverland. The Crocodile would very soon find I'd tricked him and stolen the bean, and I couldn't face him again until I'd found a way to destroy him."

"Gosh, Killian, that sounds awful."

"Aye. And the following months were hell. I can't remember all of the atrocities I committed while the pain was still fresh; nor do I wish to. There were weeks and weeks of raging fever: sickness such I have never felt before or since, rivaling my experience in the Underworld, but lasting far longer. I begged for death and yet Hades would not have me. I honestly cannot say why my crew and Mr. Smee kept tending my wound and forcing me to eat and drink. Fear of the consequences of neglect, I suppose. I do know I came out the other end of it lacking a significant number of my men, and truth be told, it is no mystery who brought about their demise."

They were both silent for a long moment. Then Killian sighed and flashed a fake smile.

"Ah well, that was all so very long ago. I suppose the relevant bit is that the wound eventually healed, through a combination of Smee's clumsy ministrations, my own stubborn grip on the idea of revenge, and the passage of time. Such as that was in Neverland."

"Killian… I…"

He silenced her with a caress to her cheek. "It's all right, love. I've been meaning to tell you that story every since the Cricket suggested I should."

He wrote down a terse Hand Amputation in the box, and Who bloody knows in the space for corresponding date. "Moving on. Sleeping habits… that's a bit personal, isn't it?"

"It's not what you're thinking, but yes, they do go there." He smirked sideways at her, and she smirked right back. "It's important to be honest and thorough, though. Just so they know what tests you might need, and if there's any health advice they can give you."

"Do I snore, Swan?"

She kissed his cheek. "Not always."

The number of hours he slept varied greatly depending on the night... and what kind of mood they were in. So he settled for an average of 7.

He self-rated his diet as Good and his weight as Appropriate, commenting,

"This realm has an unhealthy obsession with 'weight.' As long as one feels healthy and is able to enjoy one's desired activities, why should a particular number matter?"

"You've been watching too much TV if you've picked up on that already, but you're right. It's mostly just so bogus fitness 'experts' can sell their products."

At Do you get regular exercise (describe), he smirked, but merely wrote Calisthenics and other activities. For his hobbies, he listed Sailing, swordplay, and reading, again leaving off the "hobby" he knew would get him in trouble with Swan.

The next question was Have you recently traveled outside the country? If so, where? He emphatically circled Yes, then wrote, Every bloody realm imaginable, and not by choice, either. Emma knew that wasn't the point, but she let it slide. And smiled when he filled in the Future travel plans section with Sailing with my Swan, no confirmed date as yet.

When he reached the Lifestyle questions, he paused. He settled on one alcoholic and two caffeinated drinks per day, which was probably the correct average for the last month or so. But then he asked,

"Would you consider self-medication with rum to be a 'drinking problem?'"

"Um… I don't know, Killian. You seem to have been able to cut back without much problem. Do you think you'd be able to give it up entirely, or would that be hard?"

"I… can't say for certain. But I never feel I 'need' a drink; at least, not anymore."

"Well, they'll probably check your liver function today no matter what you put down. You can leave it blank if you want, or answer what you think is closest. For the record… I don't think you do."

He smiled at that, and chose No. But the next question was just as challenging.

"Oh, Swan," he sighed. "Neverland was… well, it was one disaster after another, to say the least. Even after my wrist had healed, there were a multitude of occasions where I woke with significant gaps in memory. And times with Pan when… mind-altering substances were certainly involved. But it would be impossible to give any detail."

She read the questions he was struggling with, regarding smoking and drug use, and shrugged. "So check 'Yes,' but make it clear you don't do it anymore. Or add a 'Maybe' box if you're not sure. You don't have to stress so much about it. What's the most important is your current lifestyle, which I would say is pretty darn healthy."

"You're right, love. It's just… if this is to become a part of my permanent record, I would like it to accurately reflect my history as well as my present state of being."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "You're doing fine, don't worry."

In the end, he opted to report Yes, with a handwritten qualifier of A long time ago in the margin.

Fortunately, he could confidently answer that he did, in fact, wear a seat belt. And definitely Yes to the query about being sexually active. He also knew the correct answer when it asked for more details, but he couldn't help glancing guiltily at Swan. But she only shook her head ruefully.

"It's nothing I don't already know. Or at least, have guessed at."

And so he selected All of the above, and they left it at that.

He had no idea what HIV/AIDS and STIs meant, but based on the context, he could make an educated guess. He'd never had any issues or symptoms that he knew of. And he didn't know what testing for them would entail. But he was trying to make Swan happy, and to be honest, he would also find it reassuring if he knew there was no danger of him infecting her with anything. So he indicated that he would like to have the testing done.

He breezed through the questions on abuse in their relationship and his current mental state, both subjects one hundred percent trouble-free. Then he flipped the page and stifled a groan at the long list of text under Systems Review.

"Wasn't there already a section like this?"

Emma skimmed the list and replied,

"That was more like… already diagnosed conditions; these are more… individual symptoms."

Fortunately, it didn't take him long to read through the list of sometimes scary-sounding symptoms, none of which applied to him. He could also skip the Past Medical Tests and Vaccination History section.

Finally, on the last page was the section on Family History that Swan had mentioned. It was true that his immediate family had all died early, before any chronic conditions could be discovered. He clenched his jaw when he realized he could at least fill in their causes of death. Unknown illness for his mother. Poisoning, his brother. And his father… he finally settled on Violence, hoping that was specific enough not to warrant further questioning. Emma squeezed him tight for a moment.

He scrawled another signature at the bottom of the page. And with that, they'd reached the end. For all the hesitations and off-track deviations, they'd still managed to finish with ten minutes to spare.

Killian eyed the ants suspiciously on his way back up to the desk, where Wilbur accepted the clipboard jovially.

"Thanks! I'll let them know you're ready."

He turned to help the next patient, and Killian stepped aside with a polite nod. A few of the faces in the waiting room had changed, but he still didn't recognize anyone, and could be assured of his anonymity. Well, as anonymous as he could be, being married to the savior and as recognizable as he was. As he turned to head back to his seat, an informational plaque caught his eye, and he stopped to peruse it. It seemed the clinic was home to three physicians. There was a husband and wife, Leo and Savannah Taymor, both specializing in "Family Medicine." The third was an eccentric-looking older gentleman with tufts of white hair around his ears and a beard to match. In fact, there was more hair on his face than on his head. His name was Ralph Asante, and his specialties were "Naturopathy and Hypnotherapy." That sounded a little ominous to Killian.

He was just reading their biographies, hook clasped in hand behind his back, when Emma came over to join him. She slid her arm through his.

"Nervous, Hook?"

Adopting his best air of bravado, he scoffed,

"What could I possibly have to be nervous about?"

But as he said it, he realized she might be right. After all, he really had no idea what to expect. His only experience with this realm's medicine, or really any since his naval days, had been that cursed night when he'd taken it upon himself to harm Belle to get to the Crocodile. Needless to say, his memories of his actual treatment were clouded by a hazy mixture of pain, their magic drugs called "painkillers," strangely empty elation that he'd gotten in a blow to his oldest enemy, and the confusing mix of emotions he had experienced whenever Emma was near. Drawing his mind back to the present, he admitted to himself that, yes, he was a bit nervous. But there was no reason Emma needed to know that.

"Perhaps, my love, it is you who are nervous."

He knew her super-power would have picked up on his evasion of the question, but as he'd told her, he was skilled at reading her, too. And he knew there was some anxiety in the way she held him now. Whether it was questioning if Zeus' benevolence had strings attached, or if the Land Without Magic would somehow cause his true age or past lifestyle to catch up with him… she definitely feared bad news, however remote the possibility.

"Come on, Swan; let's go watch the bloody ants. They have nothing to worry about."

AN: Dang it, I just watched "The Crocodile" again last night (for the hundredth time, so I don't know why this detail never sank in! I must have been distracted by Killian being so cute.) Smee wasn't technically on the crew until just before they set sail for Neverland. Killian didn't even know his name yet. So I guess this his how I explain it, since I still like the idea of Smee having treated Killian's amputation: I think the crew made Smee do it, in case Killian lashed out in pain/anger. He would take it out on Smee, and since Smee was just a worthless captive, there would be no harm done. Doesn't really explain how Smee knows what to do, but I guess he just lucked out and knew first aid. Whatever :)