Hook + painkillers and running water

Thanks to captswanjones, who suggested ibuprofen (I went more general here—"painkillers") and feeling-quilly, who suggested running water.

When Swan finally left the overly bright, sterile room, Hook tried to get a sense of his situation. He still had a Crocodile to slay, or at the very least avoid—he was now in a kill-or-be-killed scenario. It was time to determine his liabilities and assets, so he could formulate a plan and get the bloody hell out of this place.

He remained shackled to the bed he lay in; depending on the complexity of the locking mechanism, it was likely not an insurmountable obstacle. More worrisome than that was his attire; someone had undressed him and put him in an uncomfortable shift and scratchy dressing gown. His clothing was nowhere in sight, which meant that his lock pick was inaccessible. And, of course, his hook and brace were both missing.

And damn, it was cruel and unusual punishment to force a man to wear such itchy material and fail to give him the range of motion necessary to relieve his discomfort. He'd have to complain to Swan about that.

Topping off his liabilities, while he'd been in worse pain before, the pain he was in was rather severe. Swan hadn't helped, what with her intentionally provoking him into flinching. Perhaps he could convince someone to heal him? Unlikely; if someone were interested in helping, they would have helped already.

He had to get out of here. Pain or no pain, he was just lying here, at the mercy of the Crocodile, or anyone else who might want to take advantage of the situation and dispose of Captain Hook.

He examined the shackle more closely. It wasn't a locking mechanism he was familiar with, and the little holes and gaps were too small for a makeshift pick to access. Even his own lock pick might not be sufficiently narrow, even if he had it on him.

As he stared at the shackle, he heard the door open. A young woman stood in the doorway, wearing in a short white dress, with a small white cap perched atop her head. "Sorry, sir, did I wake you up?"

"No, lass. I was simply acclimating to my surroundings."

She nodded, and he realized she was holding a tray; atop it sat a dish cover and a strange cylinder that appeared to be filled with liquid. "I brought you your dinner, if you're hungry."

He wasn't, but he might as well play along while he figured out his course of action. He nodded, and the woman approached him, placing the tray on a strange tall table off to the side.

He thought he would feel better sitting up, but as the woman helped him, the extent of his pain became abundantly clear, a stark reminder of his invalid state. Getting out of this place was going to be much more difficult than he anticipated.

Once he was upright, he saw that the table was on wheels; the woman was dragging it towards the bed so that he could reach his meal without having to get up. Well, at least that was something. Or it would be, if he had any intention of eating.

"Nurse?" A man in a long white coat stepped into the doorway and got the woman's attention.

"Yes?"

"When was his last dose of oxycodone?"

"Uh …." The woman was clearly caught off guard by the question. "I never gave him any, sir. He'd been unconscious since he arrived."

"All right, well, let's give him a dose now. Fifteen milligrams."

"Very well; I'll take care of it."

It was a little unnerving and slightly irritating that they were having a conversation that was clearly about him while simultaneously behaving as though he weren't present. However, it wasn't as though he was able to follow their conversation all that well: a dose of what?

The woman left briefly and returned with a small see-through cup, which contained … something he couldn't quite make out. She held out the cup to him before glancing at his hand. "As you can see, I've a limited range of motion," he said lightly, trying to set her at ease. Maybe she would free him?

No such luck. "Open your mouth."

"And what will I be ingesting?" It was unlikely to be poison, but given that he'd been to Wonderland, he knew better than to eat or drink something he couldn't identify.

"Oxycodone."

"I'm not familiar with that." Surely she understood he was from the Enchanted Forest and would have no idea what she meant?

The woman simply lifted an eyebrow. "Painkillers?" It was a term he didn't recognize, but at least it was self-explanatory. These must be drugs that would rid him of pain.

"Very well, lass, let's have it then." He hated feeling as helpless as he did as she tipped the small capsules into his mouth for him. But at least these drugs would relieve him of pain and enable him to escape.

"You swallow them," she said, mercifully before he crunched down on one with his teeth. "Do you need water?"

He swallowed, and they caught in his throat—quickly, he nodded, and the woman brought water to his lips for him. A few gulps, and the sensation of the painkillers sticking in his throat faded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Those should kick in pretty quickly. Anything else I can help you with?"

He shook his head; unless this woman would free him, she wasn't going to be very useful anymore.

But as he glanced over at the tray that carried his meal, he realized that perhaps she could be useful. After all, lock picks came in all shapes and sizes.

"I understand that I'm not to go anywhere, but it won't be possible for me to feed myself while I'm shackled so." He pulled at the shackle for good measure. "I'm sure you have other matters to attend to, and I wouldn't feel right asking you to stay here and assist me. Perhaps I could be trusted simply to eat my meal?"

Several expressions flashed across her face—irritation and disbelief were prominent at first, but then he could see her debating the benefits and disadvantages. And finally, she caved with a sigh. "All right, I'll be right back again."

This time, her absence was much longer. It wasn't alarming; she was clearly not the person in charge and was likely trying to acquire permission. Swan probably held the key to the shackle anyway.

Ah, Swan. It was unfortunate that they found themselves on the opposite sides of a conflict, and even more so that she hadn't even trusted him when they were on the same side. Imagine what it would be like to work alongside her when she was a willing ally! He couldn't suppress his grin at the thought. He'd gotten just a taste of fighting alongside her, and it had been so refreshing.

She was a fascinating woman, to be sure. Not that it was odd to meet a princess who wore trousers, who willingly engaged in violence, or who had endured hardship; Snow White famously met those same qualifications. But Swan had felt like a pirate. And he quite liked that. Very much. What might she look like if she dressed the part? Not that he didn't appreciate how skin-tight her clothing already was.

How long had the woman been gone? He was reminded of his time in Neverland, when moments seemed to stretch out or blur together. But he couldn't bring himself to feel worried about it. He felt … well, he felt rather good, actually. Odd, wasn't it?

Finally—or had it been a minute or two?—the woman returned with a small key. "Just so you can eat, okay?" she asked sternly. He nodded and suppressed a wild grin as she unlocked the cuff that was shackled to the bed frame. "Then I've gotta come back and redo the cuff—sorry, doctor's orders."

"Thank you very much, lass." He sounded inebriated—how strange. "I appreciate your kindness."

"Yeah, well, okay." And with that, she was gone.

Excellent! Now he could get out of this wretched place. He shifted up, finally able to brace himself with his right arm. Finally able to relieve the itch that had been plaguing him ever since he awoke.

Finally able to … pull that table over and see what meal had been provided for him. He was actually feeling a bit more peckish than he'd previously thought, and he was curious to see what the woman had provided.

The main course appeared to be some sort of meat slathered in an unappetizing sauce. Well, that was fine; he'd had worse, after all. There were also some chopped carrots mixed with peas. The cylinder, which looked like an unusually-shaped bottle, had a label on it with a lot of confusing information. But it claimed to be spring water, and by all accounts, it looked like water; he tucked it gently between his left arm and his chest and undid the strange cap with his hand. Yes, it was water, nice and chilled and quite refreshing, even if it did come in a very strange receptacle.

He was about to begin his meal when he noticed something else on the tray. Something blue.

And … wobbly. What on earth was that?

Drugs. He'd been drugged, he recalled. Those painkillers must be causing him to imagine things. But no, he reached out and touched the plate that the strange substance sat upon; the plate was real enough. Tentatively, he poked the material.

It jiggled.

Well, there was no bloody way he could eat this … whatever it was. What was it?

This was ridiculous; he was a well-traveled pirate who'd lived centuries, and he was spooked by some unknown delicacy. His crew would be in stitches over his trepidation. He shook his head in disdain at himself before grabbing the provided fork and getting started on the meat and vegetables.

As he'd expected, the dish was edible, though not especially delicious, and it mostly sated his hunger. What remained unsatisfied, though, was his curiosity. What was this blue substance?

Swan would know. Best find her. Perhaps she was still here.

It was relatively easy to rid his body of all the strange cords and tubes that had been attached to him, though he found he was dizzier than expected as he swung himself around and pushed himself off the bed. And he was immensely pleased to find that the painkillers had indeed killed the pain—well, to a degree, enough that he could walk slowly.

Time to find Swan; he grabbed the plate.

As he began wandering down the hallway, squinting in the strange, unearthly light, no one seemed to even give him a second glance. It had its benefits; no one was accosting him and dragging him back to that bed. But no one was assisting him either, and he hadn't the faintest idea of where he was even trying to go.

There was signage everywhere, reminding him again of Wonderland, though he suspected the signs here were actually meant to be helpful and not deceitful. However, the majority of the labels were entirely foreign to him (what on earth was obstetrics?).

As he stared at some arrows, trying to make sense of the words and phrases, and slowly forgetting why he'd gotten up in the first place, there was a tap on his shoulder. He nearly dropped the plate he was holding; how had he not noticed someone approaching him?

It was another woman. "You seem a little lost," she said kindly. "Where are you trying to go?"

It took him a moment to come up with an answer. "I'm trying to find my—friend. She visited me a few minutes ago."

"She's probably in the waiting room." The woman pointed down one of the many hallways that seemed to surround them. "Just follow the signs, and you'll find her nice and easily."

"My thanks," he said with a smile and a nod. The waiting room sounded a little on the nose, but then again, so did many things in this strange world. And so he began his shuffle in that direction, following signs and arrows as he saw them.

There was finally a room before him with chairs and people who certainly looked as though they were waiting. And sure enough, there was Swan!

"What's this?" he asked. Journey over, he leaned up against the door and held up the offending substance. "I found it on a tray."

"Really?" Swan asked angrily, approaching him. She was glaring at the shackle still dangling from his wrist.

"Pirate," he reminded her, though he didn't clarify his method of lock-picking. There were more pressing matters to attend to. Specifically: "What the bloody hell is this?"

She was as irritated as he'd ever seen her, far angrier than she had been earlier. "Gel oh," she said, glaring at him.

"It's food—you eat it," Snow White added, sounding just as aggravated.

"I thought it was an hallucination," he admitted. An annoyed chuckle got his attention, and he turned to see a statuesque brunette who seemed exasperated at his intrusion. "Hello," he said, resisting the urge to lick his lips. "You're quite real, aren't you?"

The woman scoffed rolled her eyes—fair enough. But he was rather pleased with Swan's reaction. "Go," she said sharply, and she roughly tugged him around and began practically dragging him along with her. "Eat your gel oh."

Twisting around suddenly reawakened some of the pain in his torso, and he grunted as she pulled him along. "No need to be so rough, Swan. I didn't mean to make you jealous."

"What? I'm not—who am I supposed to be jealous of?"

"That lovely lass I just spoke to." He grimaced. "She was real, yes?"

"Ruby?" She sounded incredulous. He enjoyed that. "Please, as if I care who you're hitting on when you're flying high on opioids."

"I've no clue what you mean, love."

"Whatever."

It had taken what felt like ages for him to locate Swan in the first place, but they were back in his room in the blink of an eye. "All right, any last requests before I cuff you again?" she grumbled.

"Must you?"

"Um, yeah," she replied impatiently.

There would be no arguing with her—he could sense that. Her mood had turned sour since she'd woken him and threatened him, however long ago that had been, and he surely would fail to make any progress with her at the moment. His hunger was mostly sated (though perhaps he would try this "gel oh" substance—if it were poisonous, there were easier ways to off him), and any itches he would want to scratch had yet to surface.

He eyed the bottle of water, still half full and sitting on the tall table. "Perhaps I could use the chamber pot," he said. "I hate to be difficult, but if you wouldn't mind pulling it out for me, I'd appreciate it immensely. With my injuries, I doubt I could do so myself."

Swan didn't answer. He turned and found her staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement on her face. "What?" he asked.

She silently pointed to a narrow door within the room that he hadn't noticed before. He shuffled over and opened it, finding a dimly lit closet with very, very strange furniture inside: an odd-looking ceramic chair that looked quite uncomfortable, a cabinet with a bowl sunk into it, and tiny curtained stall. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Swan," he admitted.

"Here," she said, gently pushing him out of the way so she could stand in the closet. "This is a toilet," she explained, grabbing the seat of the chair and lifting it up. "You … do your business in there and then you push down on this thing to flush it away."

"You sit on that?"

"Well, if you're … uh …" She blushed fiercely. "Most guys stand up and pee into it, and then sit for the other thing."

The other thing. Swan was too shy and embarrassed to explain defecation to him. It would have been endearing, except that he was reasonably sure he'd be similarly uncomfortable in her shoes. She seemed to shake it off, though, and she continued with her lesson. "Anyway, after that, you have to wash your hands—well, hand. So, you use the sink." She pointed to the bowl in the cabinet and then grabbed at a fixture. "Cold water on the right, hot on the left, although hot water usually takes a bit to warm up. Soap's right here."

As she spoke, water actually came pouring out of another fixture. He couldn't help but push into the closet beside her so he could see better. Yes, it was indeed water, flowing out of nowhere, and running down a small hole at the base of the bowl. Hadn't Cora told him this was the Land Without Magic? How was this possible?

Oblivious to his distress, but (he noted with pleasure) not oblivious to how closely pressed together they were in the tiny room, Swan pointed to the stall. "That's a shower. It works sort of like a sink, but you stand in the stall and the water rains down on you so you can get clean."

"Are you quite serious?"

"Yeah." She was smirking a little. "I bet you're going to be glad you're not in the Enchanted Forest once you take your first shower. That was seriously the first thing I did when Mary Margaret and I finally got home. I was in there for, like, an hour and a half and used up all the hot water. Mary Margaret was pissed."

It was a nice moment. He felt really good, with her pressing gently into him, and the smell of her hair invading his nostrils. She hadn't been this open with him since … well, not even when they were dealing with the giant. Though his body seemed keen on lying back down for more rest, he was more interested in staying in this closet with Swan, enjoying the warm fuzziness that pervaded his body and mind.

"Uh, so I'll leave you to it." Her anxious tone broke through the warmth a bit, bringing him back to his senses. Without another word, she pushed past him, exited the closet, and shut the door behind her.

The seat of the strange chair—toilet, she'd said—had a lid that Swan had already lifted up. He could now see that below the lid lay a ceramic bowl of water. He was to urinate in that?

Very well, he supposed. He managed to adjust the shift he wore, and though it was difficult to balance due to his injuries, he did his business. He was immensely grateful he'd thought to ask Swan about the chamber pot; he hadn't realized just how badly he'd needed to relieve himself.

Once finished, he reached for the lever Swan had pointed to and pushed it down. He grunted in surprise as the toilet roared to life, and the waste and water was sucked down into nowhere. He could hear Swan snickering in amusement at his audible reaction. These terrifying things were commonplace in this world? And bloody hell, now the bowl was refilling with water ...

"You have to wash your hand," she called out. How long had he been standing there, staring at the toilet? These drugs were skewing his sense of time far too much; he wasn't sure they were worth the pain relief.

He turned to the sink. What had she said? Cold on the right, hot on the left, hot would take time to heat up, soap to the side. Yes—one knob was labeled with a "C," another with an "H," and there was a box on the wall that read "SOAP." Mercifully, there was a button that said, "PUSH;" Swan had neglected to explain how to get the soap out of the strange dispenser.

Cold water that came from nowhere was odd enough, but hot water? This he had to experience for himself. He twisted the appropriate knob, this time expecting the cascade of water that resulted. Tentatively, he stuck a few fingers into the stream, finding it cool but not unbearably so. How long would it take to heat up?

As he was thinking of teasing Swan over her mistake, it changed, and suddenly warm—no, hot water was scalding him. He reflexively jolted away. Why would anyone want such hot water anyway? He quickly shut it off and turned the cold water on instead before turning to the soap.

It took two tries to get some soap on his fingers; when he'd first pushed, the strange pink liquid had just dripped out the bottom of the box and onto the surface below. On his second attempt, he turned his hand palm up under the dispenser and pushed the button with his thumb; now, the liquid fell into his hand. The substance smelled strange, but much less offensive than most of the soap he was used to. He quickly wetted his hand and rinsed it as best he could before shutting off the water and drying himself on his dressing gown.

"You done in there?" Swan asked impatiently.

Yes, but also no. Yes, he was finished relieving himself and washing up. But in the short amount of time he'd been conscious since the events at the town line, nearly everything felt changed. He was drugged and imprisoned, and now he was in a tiny little room full of strange inventions designed for personal hygiene. This new world was terrifying.

He stared at a mirror above the sink; he looked different. Yes, he recognized himself; his hair was tousled but, as always, it looked intentionally mussed. His facial hair was groomed just as he liked it. It wasn't unusual for him to look so bloodied and battered either, as he'd been in his share of battles and fistfights, and he always thought it made him look rather rakish.

But in this light, in this attire, he looked pathetic. His eyes were unfocused and hazy. The oversized and ill-fitting dressing robe made him look like a boy dressed in his father's clothes.

He'd always known that revenge on the Crocodile would cost him his life, and he'd understood that by facing the monster in Storybrooke, it meant dying here as well.

But he hadn't realized he would lose his dignity, too. He was going to die in this strange world, entirely out of his element. Bloody hell.

"Seriously, I know you're still in there," Swan called out. "No windows to climb out of." She paused. "Did you drown?"

"I'm fine, love," he called back, before turning and opening the door. Swan had been sitting on the bed, waiting for him; she hopped off and waited for him to climb back in.

It was a longer and more difficult process than he'd anticipated, getting back into that bed, though he hadn't planned on returning when he'd left it. What had possessed him to seek out Swan in the first place?

The gel substance, back on the tray, caught his eye—oh, right.

Swan looked as though she kept thinking of helping him before stopping herself. But soon enough, he was back in the bed and mostly settled. She stepped up beside him, gently grabbed his wrist, and redid the shackle.

"All right, well … Just stay here, okay?"

"I've no other choice, do I?"

And with a roll of her eyes, she was gone.

His mind turned back to his escape plan. It wouldn't be difficult to convince the attendant to release him again, especially since he very obviously hadn't fled the premises upon leaving his room. Even better, he'd simply run (or hobbled, more accurately) straight into the arms of the Savior; if anything, he'd been looking to get caught.

That couldn't happen again, and it wouldn't. It was these drugs, he was sure of it. Although the pain relief was quite something, nearly as magical as the closet with water coming out of nowhere, the rest of the effects were a different matter. Though he was enjoying the warm fuzziness, it was making him behave absurdly. What sort of pirate managed to free himself, only to get distracted by unusual food?

It was then that another effect of the drugs made itself known, and he found himself falling almost immediately into a deep and troubled sleep.