He does it to get her to smile.
He has no opinion on any of this nonsense. He doesn’t care what sort of flowers are pinned to the lapel of his coat nor the types of sandwiches that are served during the cocktail hour. He doesn’t have a single thought in regards to color schemes or playlists, the type of wine served or if he prefers an outdoor venue. He doesn’t even know what a crudité is and he’s not sure he wants to, especially not when Henry makes a pinched face and discretely spits the snack out in his napkin when Granny proudly presents them.
All he cares is that he’s marrying Emma. That’s all he wants. She could meet him in an alleyway clad only in a spare bit of sailcloth to say their vows and he’d be just as pleased.
But every decision he doesn’t make weighs heavy upon her shoulders. He finds her face down at the kitchen table, an ocean of bridal magazines and color pallettes surrounding her, a defeated sigh heaving her shoulders when he curves his hook along her spine.
He takes the seat opposite, thumbing at a print of what seems to be an invitation. Handwriting, loopy and ornate curves over the thick paper, and he picks up a discarded pen, doodling idly in the corner.
“Yeah, I’m - “ She picks up her head and drops her chin in her hand, eyes sweeping over the mayhem. She sighs again, something she typically saves for the latest villain and not late-nights in their kitchen, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m overwhelmed, I suppose.”
She hasn’t smiled in days, hasn’t come to bed before well past midnight since the last full moon. So when the idea strikes him, he does it to make her smile.
He slides the altered paper carefully across the table to her, fingertips brushing when she reaches for it.
He shrugs, waits for her to see it. When she does, he is not disappointed.
“You are cordially invited to the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Hook,” she looks up to meet his eyes, smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Is this what you want to go with?”
He nods, his own smile pulling wide when hers blossoms into a full-bodied laugh. A long time ago, the name Hook would have made his spine pull straighter, a tendril of self hate and self loathing curling around his heart and filling it with the darkness of his deeds. But with Emma laughing in the light of the moon, blonde hair wild and tossed behind her shoulders, it only fills him with light. She only fills him with light.
“Perfect,” she stands from her seat and presses on her toes until she can brush her lips against his. “This is what we’ll go with.”
They keep it framed, after. It sits happily next to the picture of their wedding day - her dress not a bit of sailcloth and her lips pressed firmly to his, his hand tangled in her hair and his hook pressed tight against the small of her back.
Mr. and Mrs. Hook, indeed.
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