It sits on her dresser, taunting her with its aquamarine dances and twirls. It sings to her, calling her like a siren, begging to be consumed. She ignores it, for a time; after leaving the park with Henry with the flask weighing heavy in her coat pocket, they went to a café, had an early dinner, went home and watched a show. It moved from her coat to her jeans, and she could feel its outline as she kissed her son goodnight, as she moved around the apartment, turning off lights and settling into the darkness. After undressing for bed, it had moved to the top of her dresser, and its color was dimmed with the gloom of night. She fell asleep to the sounds of the city, without the pull of the flask to wake her.

In the morning light, however, it sparkles and coils, sometimes caressing her face with glitter and other times blinding her with a blue glare. She cannot think of what to do with the thing. She knows it would be foolish to consider drinking its contents; a strange man in a leather coat is not the sort of man she would trust even if she actually knew him. But there is something deep and ancient stirring within her that she cannot explain, and grows every time she looks at the flask.

Henry is still sleeping. Normally, she would have already started gently waking him with the sweet smells of cinnamon hot chocolate and banana pancakes. He would amble in, tousle-haired and adorable, and she would smile at her son, still exhilarated at her long-ago change in heart. Without it, she wouldn't have him, wouldn't have the joy that he brings her every day. She marvels at how beautiful Henry's life is, when it came from such a painful time in hers.

Henry is still sleeping, but she does not have the courage to wake him. She knows that when he does get up, all of her focus will be on him, and she is still selfish enough to want to feel this tug towards the object on her dresser. She can remember experiencing tiny yanks in the direction of her son in the past, but this feels different; this feels likemagic. What do you know about magic, lass? The man's voice pops in her head, and she can see him, standing before her, claiming to know about real magic. It can't possibly be true, right?

Something tells her that it can. It calls to her, leading her towards its secrets and truth. Her hand is reaching for the flask. Henry is moving around in the next room. Her fingers close around the cold glass. The blue liquid is dancing in excitement. Magic could be real, but there is only one way to be certain.

Hook is in hell. He had been dragged from the park, shoved into a tiny car that swerved a bit too much, and yanked into a dank building with far too many malodorous patrons. He had been in brothels that had smelled better. He had then been shoved in front of a wall, had bright lights snapped at him, and black ink smeared all over his fingers. To make matters even more brilliant, they had told him to make a phone call (which he couldn't do, as the only woman he wanted to talk to would probably never speak to him again, and he didn't even know how to work the phone devices anyway), and when he didn't, they threw disgusting food at him that even rats would never sniff. They then put him into his current home, where he was able to get a little shuteye—but the only reason this had been possible was because he had been unconscious.

His skull aches; one of the officers had shoved him a mite too forcefully into his cage the night previous and his head met the stone interior quite nicely. The officer in question is now standing guard, and Hook, cranky and tired, can't help but heckle him. "Oi, mate. Are you able to rustle up some ice for me head? I would hate to pass out on you, beautiful."

The officer grimaces. "You're gonna hafta wait, mister."

"Oh? Wait for what? Winter? Water to freeze? Come on, mate, my head is pounding." Hook watches as the officer sighs in frustration and walks away. Finally. He searches the tiny room for something to use to escape, but his eyes land on nothing valuable. The bars, he notices in interest, are half-barrel hinges, and with enough pressure surely he could lift the door straight up. This pea-brained thought has barely formed when the icy officer struts back into the room. Sans ice. "What, mate, no ice? Still? Did you forget already, boy?"

"Watch yourself, matey. Or I might forget something else." He pulls a set of keys from his belt and begins towards the barred door.

"Yeah? And what might that be, darling?" A grin is forming, warring with the headache that still pounds behind his eyes.

"That you've made bail, asshole." The officer holds open the door with one hand and gestures out with the other. "Let's go get your crap so you can get out of my hair."

Hook makes his way out of the cage and shakes his head with amusement. "Ah, but I'll miss you, my friend. What a pair we could have made, you and I. We could have taken the pubs by force, drank all the rum and stolen all the women. Would've been nice, don't you agree?" He winks at the officer, who struggles to conceal a grin.

"What kind of bar do'ya think we could have stormed, then, with you in that get up? The ones at Treasure Island? Disney World?" He hands Hook his things (including the fake hand—that had been an embarrassment) and says, "Stay out of trouble, mister. I don't want to see your face here again, ya hear?"

"Ay, mate. I'll endeavor to do so, don't you worry." Someone leads him through the maze of corridors and another holds open a door through which bright, amber sunlight is streaming. As he steps out of the building, he blinks for a moment, getting his bearings, and a voice breaks through his stupor.

"You alright?" She is standing at the bottom of the steps, peering up at him with a slightly wary look about her. In her hand is the flask, still blue with its twirling contents. Feeling a twinge of disappointment, he walks slowly down to meet her. A hand tightens her crimson coat around her, and the other gently places the bottle into her pocket. He reaches her, and he can't help but wish he could brush her dancing hair from her face.

"I'm fine, lass. So. You didn't drink it, I see." He wishes, for once, she would try to trust someone. Must she always be so stubborn?

Her fingers grip the corner of her coat tightly. "Well, no. I didn't. Listen, this whole thing is crazy—"

"I know that, love, I do, but you just need to—"

"—but, I've decided, against my better judgment, to believe you."

That stops him. "What?" He can scarcely comprehend her words, given everything they had been through these past few days, but a smile forms on his lips nonetheless. "So why haven't you swallowed it, then?" He gestures to her pocket, where her other hand is still clutching the flask.

Her lashes lower and her voice is small. "I was afraid, alright? I don't…I don't understand this, this feeling I have. About you, about magic, but I know I feel it. I know it's real, it's there, whatever it is. So," she says strongly as she pulls the bottle from her pocket, "I want to know what you know. And if you say this stuff can help, then I believe you."

He grabs her, then, pulls her towards him with a desperation that frightens him. His fingers delve into her hair, and when her hands reach around him loosely, returning the embrace, a sound escapes him. He holds her closer; strands of her hair tickle his cheek and he smiles, ecstatic that she has returned to him, finally, after so long.

After a few moments that were far too short for his liking, she extracts herself from his arms, a sheepish grin on her face. "So. How does this work, then?"

He takes the hand she offers. "Let's find out."