The bell jingled as Emma swung the door open, and she was immediately greeted with the sweet, savoury aroma of coffee. She had been searching for a specialty coffee shop in Storybrooke, and Ruby had recommended The Bean with a waggle of her eyebrow – a humble café near the edge of town that Emma hadn't discovered earlier, much to her regret.

The warm light in the dim shop was welcoming, and the merry chatter in the room created an atmosphere that Emma sought after a long afternoon at work. She brushed the rain from her curls and studied the brown leather chairs, the small marble tables, and the line of snacks along the bar. She crossed to the glass case and peered through – brownies, oat bars, yogurt, sandwiches, and pastries – any snack that Emma might have craved.

Her attention was brought back by a smooth, icy voice that called out to her from the other side of the counter: "Good afternoon, sheriff."

Emma stood herself upright. Staring back at her was a black-haired barista with blue eyes as cool as his accented voice was. His lips twitched into his smirk under the dark stubble of his jaw, and he was – Emma had to admit – unfairly handsome. He had a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, and he wore a brown apron with a bean etched across the chest over a black collared shirt.

"Fancy seeing you here," he carried on, and Emma caught herself watching him warily.

Emma's hand wandered to the badge at her hip, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry," she apologized with an acknowledging nod, "but do I know you?" Doubtful –she would remember a face like that.

He laughed breathlessly. "I reckon not," he responded cheerfully, and he moved himself over to the registers – Emma followed not close behind. "You are the sheriff, though – aren't you?" He motioned a gloved hand to her badge nestled at her belt.

Emma bent over the counter and read his nametag – James was his name – suitable. She pricked an brow at him and cocked her head to one side, unable to push back the grin that cracked through her lips. "Just get on with it; I gotta get back to work."

"So soon?" James protested. "I'm not the one that needs to make the order, love. You have yet to tell me what you want, but I may wager a few guesses." There was a certain vivacity exuding off of him that intrigued Emma, and she could only smile wider.

"Medium mocha, please."

A thick brow lifted on his forehead and Emma couldn't tell if it was surprise or fascination, but the glint in his eye spoke louder than the pitch of his voice. "Just a medium mocha?"

Emma nodded slowly and surely. "Yes?"

James locked his eyes on her as he traipsed to the espresso machines – Emma stiffened uncomfortably against the tightening in her stomach, allowing the redness to crawl its way up her neck to settle in her cheeks. His deep blue eyes reminded Emma of the ocean – the days she would walk along the Manhattan harbor alone, gazing out into the deep blue waves as they danced against the wind. She could hear the machine going, its loud hissing noise echoing. She watched him focused on his work – he seemed a natural – his jaw clenching as he brought the tin of milk up to the steamer, and she could see it turn into a delicious froth. There was more clinking and clanking behind the counter before James finally returned with her drink. He placed the paper cup on the counter in front of her and, much to her amazement, on top of the whipped cream – cinnamon. Emma's mouth fell open. "Cinnamon?" she sputtered, plucking it from the counter.

"You seemed the type," he assumed with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

Emma snorted.

James threw the towel onto the counter and heaved a deep, troubled sigh. "Bloody hell, you didn't want any." The frustration rang in his voice clear as day; Emma shook her head fervently and beckoned him back.

"No, no!" she cried out, and she flattened her palms on the counter apprehensively. "It's just that not many people can guess that I like cinnamon. I'm impressed." The hotness in her cheeks grew warmer.

It wasn't much longer before the cocky smile was back. "I take pride in my work."

"Confident, alright – I'll give you that." Emma brought the warm cup to her lips and sipped delicately. The comfort and sweetness of the drink was nothing like Emma had had before – this was quite possibly the best mocha – but she kept those thoughts to herself. She smiled against the chocolate taste lingering on her tongue before licking the foam off of her lips.

He winked at her, his smirk turning coy. James pressed some buttons on the register screen in front of him, and with a boisterous ding, it popped open. "It's on the house, lass," he declared, pushing it shut.

"Are we really going to do this?" she asked, ignoring the smugness in his brow and the curl of his mouth. There seemed to be a thing with stubbled men buying her drinks – none of them ended well. Emma hitched her breath and held out a five dollar bill insistently, shoving it in his direction.

"Your attempts are futile, love. If you've never heard the phrase–"

"I know what it means," Emma scoffed, interrupting him. She gave the bill one last nudge at his chest. "I'm the sheriff, so what I say goes."

James gave her hand a gentle push and rested it on the counter, patting it. "You may be the sheriff, but your jurisdictions need not apply in my shop," he laughed. "When you are in my shop, you are bound by my rules."

Oh.

Emma removed her hand from under his, and she took note of the black glove slipped over his fingers. "What's with the glove?"

There was a resounding silence that came over them; James retracted his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his apron. His gaze fell to his feet, his other fingers fidgeting among themselves. Emma leaned forward – she propped herself on her elbows and wrapped her hands around the warmth of her drink.

"An accident long ago," he divulged, and Emma immediately pulled back. "I lost my hand." His face was long and pensive – the creases of his brow darkened in the shadows of the dim café.

"Oh…" Emma uttered. "I'm sorry for asking…" From the looks of it, Emma hadn't imagined he'd lost his hand – it looked real under the glove, but that was as far as she saw.

"Not to worry – I barely remember what happened." His frown deepened. "Now that you mention it."

Everything about this felt familiar to her – memories lost, 'been here as long as I can remember's – Emma's eyes wandered down to her mocha and she swirled it, her heart drumming louder in her ears. "What happened?" she queried as carefully as she could. The last time all of this had occurred – Emma remembered – was with Graham. She shook the recollections out as fast as they'd come. She never wanted to think back to it since and now wasn't the time.

Another long quiet drifted, and Emma could see his attempts to recall his own memories in the wrinkles that formed on his face, and the pursing of his lips. When he finally glanced up at her, Emma broke her stare and distracted herself with a plastic cup lid, and she popped it on. "I don't know?" he whispered.

Emma allowed herself another quick sip of her drink. She licked the taste of coffee off of her lips and ignored the awkward twisting in her stomach. The situation and the lull were not helping – the only sounds that could be heard were the buzzing of the patrons and the rain slamming harder against the windows, but they were all just a hum.

James subdued her raptness with a content laugh. "Perhaps this is something to do with that lad of yours," he said, and Emma's head snapped in his direction.

Shocked, she coughed on the drink that lodged in her throat. "You know Henry?"

"Course I do," James exclaimed, and his demeanor changed swiftly – back to when she first walked in and was greeted at the pastry display. "The mayor's boy – him and that storybook."

Emma choked again. "How do you-?"

"Word gets around here quickly, lass," he interrupted, intuitive of where the conversation was going. "Not like the whole town doesn't know you're his mum."

Who are you? Emma's jaw fell open, but all that came out was a sputter of nothing. She immediately detected her persistent stare and she shook it off. She rolled up the sleeve of her jacket to check the time – no watch. "Well, I uh – I gotta head back to work." Emma clutched her cup and nodded at James in gratitude before she spun on her heel and stalked away, her pace quickening as she approached the door.

"Hope to see you again, love!" James called out after her as she swung the door open, the little bell jingling again. Emma felt the wetness on her face – the rain was coming down harder now – and she hastened to a jog to her car, her heart beating loudly in her ears.

The clock ticked eight o'clock as she pulled to a stop in front of Regina's house. She could see that the lights were off – Emma pulled the walky-talky from the glove compartment and hit the side button, speaking into the static quietly. "Hey kid," she whispered. "Come down to the car, and bring your book. It's about Operation Cobra."

It wasn't long before Henry bound out in his pyjamas and a coat, his book clutched protectively under his arm. The door of her bug creaked open and he shut it with a careful slam, settling himself into the passenger seat. "What's up, Emma?" he asked, laying the book across his lap.

Emma put her foot on the gas and drove – Regina spotting them through a window would not bode well. "Do you know of a place called The Bean?" she asked, trying to keep the eagerness at a minimum. She took a left turn into the next block, shrouded in trees.

Why am I even doing this? The curse isn't real…

Henry nodded vigorously. "Of course I do! I love that place!" he answered with excitement. He tapped his book. "He's not in here, if that's what you're wondering." There was a hint of a taunt, like he knew what she was thinking – what she had come for.

"I – that's – I didn't say anything!" The car stopped on a quiet street several blocks away from the house – the light from the lamps illuminated the devious grin that constructed itself on Henry's face, and he shrugged.

"I know," he put bluntly. His smirk never faded and, frustrated, Emma dropped her hands from the wheel and set the car into park. "I know who you're talking about, though. There's only one person you could be talking about."

Emma unfastened her seatbelt and twisted round in her seat to face Henry, glowering – she took a much more serious tone this time. "Alright kid. Cut to the chase – who is he?"

Henry's chuckle made Emma uneasy. "You're talking about James, right? The owner of the coffee shop." Emma made to respond, but Henry didn't wait for the words to form. "Hook."

She cocked a brow in disbelief. "As in Captain Hook?" The Captain Hook she remembered was far too different for her to take this earnestly – as if the curse made any sense? Tacky red coat, hilariously cliché moustache, long black locks and an irrational fear of crocodiles – far from the arrogant, bristly, unfairly handsome barista she'd met earlier that night. The only parallel between the two that Emma spotted was the missing hand, and that could only be a coincidence – if memory served her correctly, he was most definitely not wearing a hook. That, Emma would remember.

"Well, his real name is Killian," Henry frowned. "I think."

"Captain Hook…" Emma repeated slowly. Perhaps saying it again would, to a degree, make it realistic; so far, the plan failed. "As in Peter Pan?"

Henry tilted his head, perplexed.

"Nevermind," she snapped. "So what makes you say that he's Captain Hook, of all characters?"

Henry considered his answer for a moment. "Well, he is missing a hand," he reported curtly, as if this was an observation he expected Emma to have made herself. "He also talks like a pirate." The amusement returned to Henry's lips and Emma shuffled awkwardly in her seat again. "He was calling you 'lass' and 'love', wasn't he?" Henry paused thoughtfully. "He's a really important character to everyone's stories."

Emma's silence was the only response Henry seemed to need. She could feel her heart fluttering in her chest and she breathed deeply to calm it. If the curse was real, her roommate would be her mother – and as much as Emma had wanted that to be true, to finally have all of her answers, she couldn't bring herself to believe. It wasn't real. The one-handed barista could not be Captain Hook, and Mary Margaret was not Snow White. She was not some lost princess in a storybook – this was real life, she was a real person. Emma sighed and switched the car's gear. "Let's get you back home before your mom finds out you've disappeared."

Down the blocks they went, Emma trying her best to keep her thoughts grounded; to keep them rooted in reality. They were noiseless and still most the way back until Henry finally spoke up again, startling her. "Do you like pirates?"

Emma cast him a sideways glance. "Pirates steal," she testified. "They also drink a lot. Of course I don't – they're sleazy."

Henry countered with a long 'hmmmm' as the car finally pulled up in front of the house again. "I don't think that's how you really feel, or else you wouldn't have asked to talk, but alright." He unbuckled himself and threw the door open, leaving Emma speechless. "Whatever you say, Emma." The door slammed loudly and she kept her eyes on him as he sprinted to the patio, sneaking his way back into the house. When he was out of her sight, Emma stepped on the gas and drove off into the rainy darkness.

No way in hell.

It was raining again the night Emma made the spontaneous decision to revisit the café. The same warmth hit her as she opened the door, but this time, she never made for the counter. Instead, Emma took a seat near the door in a brown leather armchair facing the window. She gently placed her keys on the table set up in front of her and glimpsed over her shoulder, catching him at the side of her eye – he hadn't taken notice, and if he did, he pretended not to.

She watched the drops ripple against the sidewalk and the roof of her car as it fell, and there was the thrumming of the storm against the building – the sound of thunder could be heard vaguely in the distance.

Emma had to summon the right words before she went up there – the fact that all she saw when she looked up at him was Captain Hook – ridiculous. Her thumbs twiddled together anxiously as she listened, waited. This was stupid. There was no reason to feel as nervous as she did; he's a barista… that was it. Not a pirate, not a captain, not a fairy-tale character.

As Emma crept to her feet, she was stopped by the smell of cologne with a hint of espresso. She paused with her fingers curled on the arms of the chair, the leather slipping between her fingers – much like her words. Reluctant, she took her seat again.

"What are you doing here?" he had asked. James moved around her seat and sat down in the chair beside her, the leather squeaking under him. He glanced at the silver watch around his wrist. "It's almost ten – caffeine round this hour seems a bit out of character for the sheriff, don't you think?" He wore his perfect smirk, and Emma saw his jaw tightening as he eyed her carefully.

"I wanted to pay you back for that mocha the other night," Emma answered sharply. She reached into her jacket pocket and handed a five dollar bill his way – he ignored it. "You don't owe me anything, so I wanted to make sure I compensated." She could feel a heat sneaking its way up from her stomach and the sides of her neck to her face as she pushed the money further at him.

He nudged the bill back at her, laughing peacefully. The smile he gave her was something warm, genuine and interested – it made Emma's heart jump. "How about this," he started; disregarding that she was still holding the folded money in his direction. "As compensation, you let me buy you a drink."

Emma dropped her arm and groaned, her head rolling back against the chair in frustration. "That's not – I'm not taking another drink on the house, alright?" What the hell. The last thing Emma wanted was to take advantage of a free drink when she came in. "I didn't come here to get another free coffee."

James leaned away, looking affronted. "I never once said anything about coffee, lass. You're quick to conclude." James stood up from the chair and held out a ringed hand to her – the rings glistened beautifully in the warm light of the café, and for a moment, all Emma could hear was her own heartbeat, and the ran showering against the window. His outstretched fingers called to her, and Emma took it – although hesitant – and his fingers curled around her hand, warm and soft. "Look, I'm about to close up shop in five, why don't you come wait up at the bar?" He didn't wait for her answer – instead, he dragged her along with him, Emma hastily making a grab for her car keys on the table.

Emma watched him serve his last customers – a couple ordering their hot chocolates for the night – before he emptied out the shop. The last of the remaining tenants vacated and then, they were alone. Emma gulped hard.

"I thought I'd never get out of here tonight," he said, and he nudged her with his hand again as he came around from the counter.

There was a sharp intake of breath as he pulled her to her feet. Hanging on his other wrist was a black umbrella that he'd conjured up from behind the bar, and he led her to the door. Drinking with Captain Hook… Emma contemplated playfully.

The umbrella opened with a whoosh as they exited the shop, the dark and cloudy sky looming over them. A few drops of rain hit Emma's face before James swung the umbrella over their heads, shielding them from the heavy downpour. "Where are we going?" she asked over the rainfall while he locked the door behind them.

James pointed his gloved hand across the street to a familiar, dreary-looking pub. Above the wooden door, hanging against the brick walls was a sign – The Rabbit Hole – with the face of a rabbit below, his black circular eyes watching the street. She had passed this place before, but had never been inside. There was a first for everything, she supposed – and who else with than Captain Hook.

Emma was going to need a lot of whiskey for this.