they thought he was a goner

Like a black bird flying through the skies, walking through the doors of the Trip Trap feels like sending a message, feels like she is made of feathers and bone and she has flown so far from herself that she can’t recognize who she is anymore. There are so many other bars she favors, so many other places in Fabletown that don’t make her feel so much… well, like a fable. There are places where she goes to forget herself, places where she goes to feel free, and places where she goes to embrace this new life of hers, but here in the Trip Trap there’s nowhere to hide. Here she is surrounded by Fables commiserating and drinking and it feels like something dangerous, like a place where who she is and who she is not is going to be made public, and that’s not something she’ll ever be ready for. 

But Théo is here, sipping at a nearly empty drink and talking to the woman behind the bar, and it is Théo that she wants to talk to, Theo that she needs to talk to. If Wolf won’t find out what happened to Goldi, then she’ll do it herself. "Tequila, please,” she says, sliding onto the empty stool next to him. She makes no hesitations, no play acting at just noticing him there, and turns to him immediately. “Can I buy you another?”

 Before he could settle into that, though, company arrived. Not unwelcome, but a surprise. The offer, too. “By all means,” Théo’s head tilted, more than a little bemusement there. No need to point out that this wasn’t one of Marie’s usual haunts; they were both well aware. What on earth had brought her by Trip Trap, of all places? And on such a mission, too. The fresh shots hit the bar between them, followed, almost begrudgingly, by a couple slices of lime and a tarnished shaker of salt. His dark eyes flicked from the tequila to Marie, a slow, curious smile slinking across his face. “Are we drinking to anything in particular, then?”

Wolf knew he had brought up a topic that neither of them enjoyed. Much to anyone’s disbelief if anything about it came up about it, Wolf didn’t actually enjoy sending other Fables to the Farm. They had come to Fabletown to escape the damnation that their Homelands had met and it was beyond their control if they looked like a human or not; Wolf had been lucky enough to have a witch, working for King Cole, give him a special something. Others? They didn’t have that luck. Wolf couldn’t do much about it other than enforcing the law and turn a blind eye a couple of times, as long as no Fable without a glamour for a few days didn’t threaten to expose this safe haven of theirs to mundanes that would never understand. Wolf nodded, “Good,” was all that he said, knowing that both of them wanting that topic to be over and done with. 

“I don’t.” Wolf agreed, nodding his head —- he was there about something far more important. Running a hand on his beard, a habit of his that stemmed from who knows, the Fable took a few steps more and stood in front of Théo. “I’m here to talk about Goldilocks. The missing girl.” Wolf started, he knows there was no point in dancing around the subject when it was all that ran through his head and he knew many other Fable’s minds. 

If he could avoid talking as if everything was lost —- Wolf didn’t like the sound of even saying her name —-, he couldn’t stop thinking that maybe he was too late. That she was lost and her friends would never find the closure that came with knowing what the hell happened. “She used to come here, right? What can you tell me about her?”

I don’t. Comforting. Though Théo had no reason to worry, absolutely not. Mollified, he settled in for whatever else the Sheriff could possibly be here for. He wasn’t terribly concerned; most, most, of his work was entirely legitimate. The rest? Easy enough to hide. Or distance himself from. Lacing his fingers, he took a comfortable lean, readying a believable jolt of shock or confusion at whatever allegations or queries might be coming up. 

The sentiment wound up being rather more real than he’d expected. Goldilocks? Missing? They were still pretending that she was missing? Holding back the news of her obviously hideous murder was some kind of sensible. Didn’t want a panic. But, how stupid did the Mayor think they all were? Théo blinked, the surprise at least a little genuine. He nodded, seriously, as Wolf continued. As if he hadn’t been whispering around what he’d seen that morning, the sensational horror of it. A head in a bowl of porridge, blood in the oats and cream. Théo wasn’t fool enough to attach himself to a rumor; he always shared his gossip around as something I heard. Somebody told me. That’s just what they said. Seemed to have served him well, again. 

“She did. Often.” Théo shrugged, making nothing of it. “Every other week, maybe.” What could he say about her, the poor missing/dead girl? “She never sold. Only bought. Not cheaply, either, she’s always been choosy. Kept an eye on the stock, tended to pick from the newest items on display.” The ones other Fables simply couldn’t buy back before the deadline. The freshly lost, in other words. Sore spots. “Seemed especially fond of jewelry, bags, shoes... even if they didn’t suit her, really. More about the show than style, I think. Being seen. Provocative might be the best word.” That was, indeed, a word for it. A very civil one. 

“I imagine,” he mused, “that she might have made a few enemies, strutting around, wearing their things. But we've always been on fine terms - she's excellent business. I can’t say I know her at all beyond that, though.” Théo unlaced his fingers, tapped a couple on the countertop. “I could certainly let you take a look at my records, and my predecessor’s. If those would be of any assistance. That would be a great deal of reading, though, and I’d have to do some digging about...” he trailed off, not wanting to look suspiciously unhelpful. Not wanting the Sheriff to stick around any longer than he absolutely had to, either.  

Sometimes it was just too easy to needle people. Spend centuries around the same people, and it was impossible not to learn what made them tick, what was most like to bother them before anything else. He bore no ill-will to the cat, but that didn’t mean he got no enjoyment out of a few jabs here and there, just to be sure he still had it. Besides that, it was the nature of their relationship. “Self-pity doesn’t look good on you, really now.” Hook was fairly certain that the only thing worse than insulting what Theo brought, was insulting the way he looked. Again though, it fell into the familiar routine, and James so appreciated routines. 

It took considerable effort not to roll his eyes as Theo’s act went on. There was no point in trying to stop it, that would only make it more dramatic, in Hook’s experience. So he waited, as the cat hemmed and hawed back and forth, drawing out the conclusion of a price that he must have had in mind before he ever stepped in the door of the Crusty Lemon. 

“Eight hundred.” James repeated, rolling the number over his tongue like he was testing it. As if there was any chance that he would refuse it. He knew perfectly well what the tooth was worth, it wasn’t the first one that he had run across, and it was a fairer price than one might expect from anyone that acted as sly as this cat with his purring and slinking about. Besides that, James made it a point not to haggle with certain people, and Theo happened to fall into that slot. It wasn’t as though he had any shortage of money, either. “Cash?” He questioned, merely because he couldn’t agree so easily, even if he didn’t haggle. 

Self-pity. Really? A huff - he had to indulge the Captain that much, at least - and Théo sat back, petting his hair into place. As if it had strayed. Self-pity. Hardly. He sniffed, sipped his rum. “So very right. What was I thinking?” Much more your color, he didn’t add. Théo could keep his claws to himself. “We must allow each other the odd unfashionable mistake. Strangers in a strange land, and all that...” a sigh, half-sincere. Maybe less. Maybe more. Hard to say. But, back to the business at hand. Or hook, as the case may be.

“Perfect. And yes, cash, wonderful.” With a wide grin, Théo raised his glass to the deal. Quite pleased. A little something more to squirrel away for the next glamour. Never could know what the Queen would charge. He tossed the rest of his drink down, pondered the glass. Did he relish the thought of turning home, with a cold walk and a long night ahead? Not terribly. He wasn’t lonely. Of course not. Just - bored. Yes. Bored and bothered, what with all the goings on. The sight of that head, dripping oats. Would have raised his hackles, if he had any. Théo slid his tumbler toward the barkeep. "I don’t suppose you’d... join me for a round?” He asked, slowly. “Regale me with one of your sea stories, perhaps.”

Wolf could feel things slip through his fingers and he had no one to blame but himself. For his lack of control, for his anger, for his choices. He’d tried his best and it still hadn’t been enough, not when it came to earning the trust of those around him. So, instead of keeping part of his focus on that factor, he chose to all-in in the case of the missing Fable, Goldilocks. No one had heard of her going anywhere near The Lucky Pawn but, seeing as everything else seemed to be a dead end, he might as well try asking a few questions to someone that always seemed to know something. Whether it was just the way he spoke or the way he carried himself, Théo always seemed too knowledgeable for Wolf’s liking —- and that was the only reason for his distrust, not buying into the whole… canine and feline rivalry mundanes seem to use to justify everything. They didn’t have the best track record but most of their encounters were Wolf enforcing the laws that had been created for Fabletown, nothing less and nothing more. He was the Sheriff, after all, no matter how confusing his selection had been. 

“Théo,” the Sheriff greeted, looking around the shop. Although his healing abilities, just like any Fable’s, were far better than a mundane’s, there was still some evidence of a fight —- none that the Sheriff would acknowledge, “the shop seems to be holding up.” And that, in itself, was a mystery. Wolf had never been to the shop when there were any costumers around. Then again, he didn’t go there often enough to notice it.

Stopping in front of Théo, Wolf wanted to leave as soon as he had walked in. “Got the glamour situation handled?” The Sheriff asked, knowing that, of all the Fables, Théo was the less problematic one when it comes to keeping himself up to date with the whole glamour situation. That wasn’t the question Wolf wanted to ask but, with how his days had been going, the last thing he wanted was to have another antagonistic interaction to his long collection.

As far as Théo was concerned, one of the wonders of Fabletown was this: how so many of those who’d come to call this place home could manage to recall hundreds of years, and more, of history, life learning, and even arcane understanding, and yet, so few of them had any sense of how to hold a civil conversation. Seems to be holding up. Perhaps the Pawn was somewhat cramped, yes, a bit worn around the edges. But he’d acquired it that way, and done his best. It was... well-aged, all things considered. And business was - there was business. Enough business. Holding up. Rude. Still, as small talk with the Big Bad Wolf went, this could be worse. So Théo simply nodded, and let it pass. “Oh, yes. As ever,” he replied, carefully. There. Well and good. 

Oh, but the Sheriff just had to stick his snout in the glamour issue, didn’t he? The same blasted thing that had brought about their many more unfortunate meetings in the past. That smirk stayed put - like all cats, Théo had a masterful poker face. “Thoroughly.” The answer had some teeth to it. Sharp ones. 

Staring down at his shoes, watching the pavement move under his feet to make sure he doesn’t trip on himself. Backpack full of small things he takes from homes without them being noticed as missing. Arriving at Lucky Pawn within the time frame that he always promised to be when in need of money -not for himself but his friends, lately he left like he was being used by them but hey they’re his friends, right? Pushing the door open, the wood hits the little bell above the door to signal someone was entering the storefront. “Théo, I come bearing gifts.” Slowly taking his backpack off his back and waiting for the cat to come out. @lechatcameback

Or perhaps not. There was that jingle, at the door. Théo swiveled, ears pricked. Who could it be? Ah - Peter. Fast fingered, that one. Full of trouble. And lucrative business opportunities. “Did you, now? How thoughtful.” He licked his fingers clean, washed up in the workshop sink, and circled around to meet the other Fable. Trouble, yes. But only if anyone got caught. They’d both spent a few lifetimes avoiding that sort of thing, and fairly neatly, hadn’t they? Perching his elbows on his side of the counter, Théo wove his fingers together, sat his chin there, and let those dark eyes slide from Peter to the bag. “Consider my curiosity piqued.” 

There was much of Hook’s life that had fallen into routine, mostly a result of his own efforts. Most of those inhabiting the town seemed determined to see change in their life, be different from who they were before, but James had always been the type to be happy with a rut. He found them quite comfortable, and he had settled into one in this particular setting as well. The predictability of the exchange was a comforting reminder that not everything had to be a dramatic mess, but that was mostly thanks to Peter. 

“I’m sure I could call up an occasion or two when it was not.” Doubtful, in all honestly. Theo was excellent at finding the sort of pieces Hook would actually be interested in, things with a touch of nostalgia, or bits that would fit in well with the eclectic clutter of the Crusty Lemon. There were a few priceless things hanging on the walls, only going unnoticed because of the presence of so much worthless shite beside it. In any case, he had gotten the idea fairly quickly that Theo enjoyed their exchanges because of more than just selling something. The cat was drawn to ideas, not just people, and Hook had done his best not to let on that he noticed. 

“I’ve heard the story.” He replied, as stingy with his words as Theo was generous. Hook had never been a many of many words, he felt the gave too much away. With more care than one might expect from a man with one hand, Hook gathered the piece up, using the discarded wrapping to hold it. It was a remarkable piece, the equal of which he had never seen. Someone had taken their time to create it, with a healthy helping of skill. He turned it, carefully, taking his time to inspect every crevice and ignoring a call to refill a drink. “Impressive,” he finally said, setting it back on the bar. His hook tapped against the wooden top beside the piece. “I assume you’ll do your best to clean me out when it comes to the price.” 

An occasion or two? Goodness. “Captain,” Théo protested, mock-wounded, sliding one of those too-many fingers around the lip of his glass. “Well, next time I bore you, do let me know.” Not that he believed Hook, for a moment. The man had never failed to snap at the bait Théo brought around, never shown him the door. Still, for the sake of the Captain’s reputation, and the cash value of his good graces, the cat would play along. 

Impressive. The appreciation, in those keen eyes. The delicacy, as he turned and tilted it. There, yes. The snap. Théo tried not to smirk too broadly, and sighed, as if pained at just the thought of charging him. Such a dear friend. “I do have a business to run, I’m afraid...” There were mundys, enthusiasts, who’d pay plenty for this sort of thing. But they were harder to find. You had to fret about shipping, things being lost, or damaged. Or unearthing some sort of magical quirk, hidden in your merchandise. Which would mean vastly more trouble out there, in mundane hands, than it would right here in Fabletown. Théo might be a gambler, but he was no fool; he weighed (and weighted) the odds, studied the tells, counted the cards. He had Hook, line and sinker, as the saying goes; pushing too hard, now? Not a good bet. The Captain had his own business, after all. They understood each other. So their little story went - and it wasn’t a total fiction. They’d had a few centuries, after all. “Eight hundred would be quite the bargain,” he purred, with a sip of that rum. “Don’t you think?” 

She didn’t have to answer the phones nor sit down to discuss a price unless there was an issue but the Queen ran Allure like she had ruled Wonderland, with both hands on the wheel. Her schedule was always full, if it wasn’t new appointments it was those booked weeks ago for the fables who needed a refill. And then there was the desperate, rushed phone calls from the ones who had gotten a faulty glamour. All were things her employees could deal with but she always had to be in control. Besides, she enjoyed the desperate pleads and sob stories from the room next to her office. Her very own fairytales.

Her eyes flickered to the computer screen, waiting for her next customer. It wasn’t a sob story though she was still deciding on how it would end. It was the beauty of power, wasn’t it? To have the choice, to be the one who decides. She slid out of the chair when she saw the man enter the store and made her way out to the front. “Look what the cat dragged in,” she mused while she made herself comfortable leaning on the door frame. “Well, I suppose you dragged yourself in but where’s the fun in that?”

It was always both a good and bothersome thing to see the cat leaning against his bar. James knew what to expect, which he liked. Theo usually came bearing gifts from the sea of some sort, which he liked. Theo also usually came bearing a smug slyness, which James did not often care for, though it was still better than many of the inhabitants of Fabletown. At least the cat knew enough about when to keep his mouth shut and not tell stories, which he liked. 

Tonight found him behind the bar in an especially sour mood; he didn’t usually work behind it, but the usual help for the night had bailed out, leaving James as the only option. He knew the work, at least, well enough to do a passable job. It was a quiet night at least, leaving him free to pull his focus over to Theo instead of his work, once he fixed up a regular drink. He slid the glass down the bar, leaning slightly on the opposite side and looking every bit as tall and bulky as the cat did lean and graceful. Hook had never really acquired land legs after retiring from the sea, no matter how many centuries he spent on dirt instead of wood and water. 

James eye the package, aware of the type of thing that was likely in it, but unsure of the actual contents. He could be sure that it was something of interest, or it wouldn’t be sitting on his bar, but he would wait and see. Patience had always been one of his greatest strengths; he’d always had all the time in the world. “A few moments, aye, but only that.” It wasn’t that he had much else to do, but his patience did not extend to small talk or drawn out conversations. Besides that, appear to friendly and his reputation might suffer for it. “This had best be something worthwhile.” 

By your leave, Captain. Théo’s smile curled wider as he caught that tumbler and raised his drink. Some things never changed; Hook’s, well, salty facade, and his excellent rum selection. With an appreciative sniff, then a sip, Théo gave his present a loving pet. Worthwhile? “Isn’t it always?” He didn’t wait for an answer; a rhetorical question, of course. Théo could be wonderfully generous with his time, his words - with most things, really. When the situation called for it. Then, and only then. He wasn’t about to waste himself on those people who wouldn’t appreciate it, on projects likely to go nowhere. Hook had proven to be neither. He had a business, money. A name, a feared one. Both served Théo’s interests. So, he wasn’t about to lose the Captain’s. Setting that glass aside he began to unwrap his little gift, rolling out the story as he pulled aside careful layers of paper and cotton.  “Well. This may, or may very well not, have belonged to Il Terribile Pescecane - the Attila of fish and fishermen, so the story goes. At least in his own Homeland, there are so many seas, as you know much better than I... but, I feel a little mystery as to the provenance of the piece does nothing to diminish its charms.”