Sum’:Once again trouble fall upon the peaceful coven, spreading its darkness on each Hook. Only this time only one will remain and with the help of the Savior, will decide the fate of the rest of their secret family…
Note: so, is Killian truly gone?Will the rest of the Joneses Package live? Only 6 chapter left to know!
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Two things Killian Jones had always praised himself for were his good looks and the fact that he was a survivor.
And perhaps it was just this fact being true once more, or perhaps they’d just been blessed by a miracle, but either way, the dome where Killian was imprisoned started to crack, and several minutes later, it crumbled to dust.
Sum’:Once again trouble fall upon the peaceful coven, spreading its darkness on each Hook. Only this time only one will remain and with the help of the Savior, will decide the fate of the rest of their secret family…
Notes: That’s it! First big chapter (or at least it looks like that on my google doc haha). And to be honest things gonna get fun now :D And a lot of thing will happens lol but umh first another terrible ending lies ahead…
(PS to @kmomof4, just stay in your grave okay? don’t try to come out, you’ll probablyend up in your cozy hole anyway…)
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After finding all her strength back from her emotional rollercoaster, Emma had been walking down the halls, looking for Whale as she texted her father to meet her by Killian’s chamber as soon as he could. It had been hard, but she’d found her loophole, and Emma was happy to finally have the end in sight with the healing of her pirate. She had almost reached the reception hall when she heard someone running behind her.
“Miss Swan. Miss Swan!!” the voice she recognized as belonging to Dr. Whale called out.
Note: I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m rushing these final updates, but I kind of am :D Now that the story is pretty much complete, I don’t need as much time between chapters. But the real reason is that I’m going on a band trip to Ireland on the 30th (!!!) and was hoping to finish posting before I leave. Both to avoid keeping you in suspense and so that Winter(/Spring/early Summer) Whump doesn’t become Midsummer Whump! XD
A little voice sang, high and sweet, while a tiny body wandered the periphery of the darkened cathedral, perfect miniature fingers trailing sanded oak walls, touching each crack where the boards were joined, sometimes slapping them with a giggle. Killian lay flat on his back, completely immobile, straining to protect his daughter. He needed to get her away from there somehow, before his Master noticed her, before she was caught up in its tortures, her body broken and cast aside like a rag doll.
His words came out silent. And she continued to sing.
“Donkey named Eeyore, little friend… Kanga, Roo, Curious George, tee-hee-hee…”
Killian could feel his heart pounding with the terror of Hope’s imminent discovery and violent death, all of his nightmare scenarios coming true before his eyes. Still, voice and movement remained out of reach. And the waves of pain accompanying the effort only convinced him of the reality of the situation. But then came another voice that did not belong in that sanctuary of horrors.
“Shhh, baby; Papa is trying to sleep, remember?”
Killian’s eyes snapped open and before anything had a chance to register–his surroundings, who was with him, even the throbbing pain in shoulder, chest, and hand–he was scrambling to push himself up to his elbows. Anguish tore through his upper body as he heard Hope squeal,
“Oh! Papa waked up!”
Killian fell back against the mattress, panting a grimace and still in the throes of dream disorientation. There was a commotion, Emma speaking quietly and urgently to someone else nearby, and then he felt her at his side, resting her hand on his upper arm.
“Shh, Killian, settle down. Lemme help you.”
The bed shifted suddenly beneath him, the quiet grumble of a motor sending vibrations through his chest and shoulder as the top half of the mattress slowly elevated. The movement made him dizzy, but his eyes were glued on the angelic face in the corner. She was in the arms of someone, being gazed upon by someone else, but it was like the radiance of her sharp outlines blasted away every other detail and left the rest of the scene in smeared, muted watercolor. Eerie prickles blanketed his face as jagged cracks begin to form in the crystalline layers of falsehood within his mind.
“Breathe, Killian,” pleaded a worried voice beside him. A chiming machine nearby seemed to second the request. But Killian wasn’t sure he even remembered how, until he suddenly realized he wanted nothing more than to greet the daughter the fates had restored to him. His chest expanded, filling him with life and light and longing.
“Hope,” he whispered, the name as much a plea to hold her close as it was an expression of unbridled joy and near-disbelief all rolled into one. The bed stopped moving, and though the change in position had intensified his pain, Killian did not comment; he was too caught up in the moment to pay it much heed. In fact, he even started reaching for the grinning toddler, until his blazing shoulder reminded him why that was a bad idea.
The two observers moved closer, and enough orientation had returned for him to identify them as David and Snow White, yet still, he only had eyes for Hope. Wearing a watery smile, Snow passed her granddaughter to Emma and then stepped back. Seeing the desperate look on her husband’s face, Emma gently spoke to their wriggly daughter.
“I think Papa wants a hug. Do you want to give him a hug?”
“I want a hug too, Mama.”
“Okay, just remember Papa’s owies, okay? You need to be very soft and still by him.”
Hope looked a little bit intimidated at first by her mother’s somber tone, but soon enough she was reaching both arms out toward Killian. After double-checking Killian’s expression for permission, which was unnecessary and they both knew it, Emma settled her carefully against his right side, between flank and forearm, where a toddler’s lack of caution might not result in serious harm. As Emma settled into a nearby chair, keeping a hand on her daughter just in case, Hope hunched over and laid her head on Killian’s chest. Maybe slightly closer to the sore shoulder than would have been comfortable in other circumstances, but the undeniable magic of the moment washed away such petty concerns.
Again rendered breathless, feeling as if he could stop time by remaining completely motionless, Killian’s surge of uncontainable joy triggered the response that had grown so automatic the past month, back when such feelings would lead to certain doom. The vision, and the mantra, both so at odds with what his senses were telling him was true but inescapable nonetheless. Desperate to override the mental reflex, Killian curled a trembling forearm around the tiny body, tentatively resting his splinted, bandaged hand on silken locks as he silently quarreled with his internal voice.
Hope was not kidnapped; she was here, snuggled against him, delicate fingers patting him in imitation of what she’d observed in adult hugs. Tangible, indisputable proof, tapping a sweet, sweet rhythm next to his vulnerable heart.
Nottortured.No. He could hear her even breaths, contented sighs with no trace of pain or fear. Nothing in her tiny wiggles suggested any distress, merely a toddler’s natural restlessness and the drive to remain always on the move.
Hope was alive. So very, very much alive. Not dead. Not dead. As Killian tried to clear blurred vision, he could hear muffled sniffling sounds echoing in every corner of the room, and he was pretty sure that they weren’t all coming from him. Not that it mattered. She was alive, she was safe,NOT DEAD, and his sore shoulder could not stop him from squeezing her tightly against his ribs, long enough that she grew bored and started to squirm. Bursting with energy, with life.
Emma carefully steered miniature knuckles away from the central line tunneled within Killian’s chest. Reluctant to release his hold on his precious child, Killian kept his arm around her lower back as she sat up. Her beaming face could have lit the entire world, and lingering shades of grisly thought fled before the onslaught. Even should he have wanted to do otherwise, for some unfathomable reason, Killian would have been helpless to resist: he grinned back, tears and all, as the ocean reflects the sun’s glory. Sobbing one last time, his expression wobbling only briefly in the direction of pain, he whispered,
“Thank you, love.”
Adorable concern darkened Hope’s features, and she glanced from her father’s face to her mother’s and back again.
“Papa is crying, Mama,” she said, and she touched a faded diamond printed on his gown. Barely able to form words herself, Emma managed,
“He missed you, baby.”
Hope turned unsure eyes on her father, who nodded in earnest agreement. That may have been one of the biggest understatements he’d ever heard, but it was no less true for it.
“Why?”
Emma rested one hand on Killian’s elbow and used the other to rub small circles on Hope’s upper back. “Because he loves you a lot.”
“Why?”
Before Emma could answer–or direct the conversation away from the endless spiral of repetitive questioning–Hope spotted a familiar item lying forgotten on the bedside table. “I want Oreo, Mama!”
She leaned forward, stretching her arms toward the stuffed animal, though she really had no chance of even coming close to retrieving it on her own.
“Please?” prompted Emma, and she waited for Hope to repeat the word before grabbing Eeyore from the table. And Killian was struck by the utter normalcy of the scenario he’d just witnessed. Hope was alive and Emma was still teaching her manners as if she would need them in the future, because she would need them in the future, because she had a future, because she was not dead. Tears filled his eyes yet again.
“Oreooooo!” sang Hope gleefully, oblivious. She’d been unable to pronounce the donkey’s name when first receiving him as a gift. Since then, she had learned the words to the song, sort of, and knew that ‘Eeyore’ referred to her favorite plush toy. But ‘Oreo’ he would forever remain.
“Do you want to show Papa your story?” asked Emma as Hope squeezed the donkey around his fluffy neck.
“Happy Bear!” she cried, nearly leaping to her feet in excitement and causing a definite jolt in Killian’s shoulder. Emma caught her arm and helped her to settle down.
“Okay, but you have to sit quietly, remember?”
David stepped closer and handed Emma a thin stack of papers sandwiched between two pieces of decorated cardstock and tied at one end with colorful yarn. As Emma accepted the homemade storybook, Killian could just make out Belle’s fanciful script gracing the cover, which read, The Happy Bear.
Half in explanation, Emma asked,
“Auntie Belle helped you to make this, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” answered Hope, already entranced by her creation.
Careful not to rip the pages, Emma opened the cover and began to read.
“Once upon a time, there was a very happy bear.”
She held the book up so that both Killian and Hope could see the illustration on the facing page. The crayon sketch was hardly recognizable, least of all as a bear; it was a simple, somewhat circular shape with two eyes of unequal sizes and a wide smile stretching from the corner of one eye to the other. In that moment, Killian would have gladly classified it as the most beautiful art he’d ever seen.
“It’s lovely, darling,” said Killian in a gravelly voice, and Hope smiled and smiled.
Happy Bear went on to have several pages of disjointed adventures, appearing mostly the same on each one. When they came to the part where the wind blew all of the bear’s hair off, and a scribble at the edge of the page represented the wayward pelt, Killian startled himself with a genuine laugh, the first he had uttered in who-knew-how-many weeks. Emma had to stop and wipe away a tear from her cheek before turning to the next page.
It was a different type of paper, and Killian immediately recognized Emma’s handwriting taking the place of Belle’s.
“One day,” read Emma in a quavering voice, “a very naughty bear came and was mean to the Happy Bear and all of her friends.”
More circles filled the page, each wearing a frown, and it was difficult to tell which was the offending Naughty Bear. The next page had one giant, oblong shape towering over another half its size, and the smaller one wore a surprisingly recognizable expression of fear.
“Happy Bear’s papa came and told the Naughty Bear to go away.”
They had reached the final page. Emma’s voice was thick as she read,
“Happy Bear loved her papa very, very much.”
The giant circle was joined by a smaller one with the distinctive, wide smile representing the story’s protagonist. Even without appreciable arms, they were clearly locked in an embrace, celebrating the villain’s defeat. And Killian’s eyes were once again too flooded by tears to determine whether the back cover declaring The End contained an illustration.
Suddenly, what he had been through and accomplished had taken on just a bit more meaning. To think that his three-year-old, with the help of her mother, understood and appreciated the victory, could feel safe under his protection and might one day learn to follow his example was at once humbling and reassuring. Everything had been for her, whether he’d realized it or not. His Papa Bear’s instinct to defend his little one. And she was safe.
“Again, again!” begged Hope. Her excited squirming was causing Killian’s shoulder to throb, but he kept a tight hold on her anyway. The tormenting mental images could not compete with the truth on display, observable by all of his senses. And even the pain was preferable to what lay just beneath the surface of his consciousness.
Emma shut the homemade book, saying
“We can read it again the next time we visit, but right now Papa needs to rest.”
“No!” whined the toddler, but Emma was ready for this reaction. She got to her feet and, in an excited tone, said,
“We need to go meet Henry now, remember? Ice cream time?”
“H'ice cream!!“ Forgetting all about her Happy Bear story, Hope began bouncing in anticipation. Emma quickly lifted her up before she could do Killian any harm, in the same motion snatching up Eeyore, who was lying facedown on Killian’s abdomen. Whispers of panic flooded his mind at the sudden loss of proximity, and he gulped a breath that burned in his chest.
"Give Papa a nice goodnight kiss, okay?” Emma stooped to bring Hope within a cautious distance from Killian’s face. Restricted movement meant he could not reach up to caress her, but he savored the sloppy smooch she placed on his forehead.
“Ni-night, Papa.”
Killian could barely force sound through his throat, and the process was made that much harder by the fact that all he really wanted to do was ask her to stay.
“Good night, my happy bear,” he murmured, sure that the desperation in his smile would frighten or upset her. But she merely giggled, pleased by the nickname, and thrust Eeyore in his face so he could bestow a kiss on a fuzzy ear.
As Hope began to sing loudly about ice cream, Emma straightened, shifted her grasp on the three-year-old, and brushed a gentle hand along his face, promising,
“I’ll be back in maybe half an hour. 50 percent chance I’ll be painted with hot fudge, though.”
Killian nodded with a small wince. He was nowhere near ready for solid food yet; the longing he felt was for the company and, of course, the bliss of watching his little treasure enjoy herself with Henry and his family.
As Emma headed for the door, directing Hope to call out a “Bye-bye, Papa” as they went, David and Snow stepped forward to take her place. Tearing his eyes away from the retreating form of his daughter, Killian was, for the first time, forced into the realization that he had other visitors. That perhaps they had come to see him, not just to tag along with Emma and Hope. And he was suddenly struck with the reminder of what he had done to them both. All words of apology felt inadequate and stuck in his throat, and he was left helplessly staring, wondering if they would ever find it in their hearts to forgive.
Snow White was wearing a gentle, sad smile as she dug in a bag at her side.
“We should be going, too,” she told him. “But… we thought this might be helpful.”
She seemed a bit timid about the suggestion, as if it were in response to some information she was afraid he wouldn’t want her to know. From her bag, she produced a plain, brown frame and rotated it so he could see its contents: a color photocopy of the last page of Hope’s book, the Happy Bear embracing her papa, both of their smiles as wide as could be. In a blank corner, she had pasted a photograph portraying a real life hug between father and daughter, from before any of this had started.
“Emma mentioned that you were having some nightmares,” continued Snow in the same hesitant tone. “I thought, if it happens again, that you could look at this when you wake up and be reminded that she’s okay and that she’s thinking about you.”
She placed it on his bedside table, then adjusted everything so it was within effortless view, and he managed one strangled “thank you” before overpowering shame made him avert his eyes. The room’s outside window had the shades drawn, blocking out the daylight in the same way as the pall of trauma, physical and mental, fogged his thoughts and prevented optimism.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, a bit too loudly, trying to drown out the returning words and images worming their insidious pathways back into the spotlight. “For what we… whatI…”
His lungs seemed to be shrinking, a great weight pressing down in increments, and he shifted his bandaged, useless hand toward the line of sutures between his ribs, all to no avail. He could hear the desperate grief that had colored the words of both of these dear people beside him, saw himself driving the sword point into David’s flesh, remembered the lies and heartache, and then the torture and the helplessness as his control gradually waned. Hope dead, no hope, no hope…
“Killian. It’s okay,” David was saying, his good hand wrapped carefully around Killian’s twitching forearm. “Killian, look at us.”
He sought the framed drawing first. His link to the new reality, a mild balm for his soul, not yet corrupted by doubts. Snow White’s hand joined her husband’s, warm and soft upon his arm.
“We’re just glad you’re back,” she soothed. “It’s all over… and you’ve suffered enough.”
Happy Bear hugged Papa Bear. Hope hugged Killian. Snow’s words, forgiveness implied, blanketed his guilt-ridden heart. He could not understand.
Killian looked up, first at Snow, then at David. Both were watery-eyed but relaxed, wearing honest and compassionate expressions. He could read their sincerity, bewildering as it was. He had perpetuated the worst of all lies, and perhaps they would never trust his word in the same way again… but they were willing to move past it and bestow upon him a mercy he did not deserve. Even if he’d had the breath for thanks, Killian lacked the words.
David must have sensed how overwhelmed he was, for his eyes took on a twinkle of levity as he added,
“You’re even off the hook for this.” He carefully lifted his wrist a fraction to call attention to the sling he still wore, and Killian found himself raising an eyebrow in response, more in bemusement than anything else. David sighed, looking off into the distance as he feigned annoyance. “I sort of… owed you that one.”
Before Killian could protest–that wasn’treal,though, and anyway, ancient history had been the last thing on his mind when he’d been forced to stab David–Snow White interjected,
“And actually, Killian… we wanted to thank you for what you did. You made the Realms safe again, for us, for Neal… I don’t think we can ever truly repay you for that.”
She bent and placed a soft kiss on his tousled hair, then stepped back to allow David access. He took an awkward look at his injured son-in-law, possibly trying to figure out a way to shake hands or pat him on the back without hurting him. Finally settling for a light squeeze of his mostly intact forearm, he smirked,
“Seconded. But I’m not kissing you.”
Killian came perilously close to laughing for the second time that day, and only stopped because of the threat of unbearable pain from the required muscles. He caught himself with a grimace; when he opened his eyes again, David was just hiding a wince of contrition.
“Get better soon.”
Finally finding his voice, Killian met each of their gazes in turn as he breathed,
“Thank you.”
A sudden, overpowering weariness washed over Killian as his visitors took their leave, and though he still feared what his dreams would bring, he was better equipped this time to meet twisted memory in battle. He had his family’s thanks and forgiveness, the promise of future encouragement, and most importantly, the lingering feeling of Hope’s touch, real and solid against the threat of ethereal phantoms. Perhaps it would be enough this time.
AN: Shout-out to my best friend’s little girl, who is a few years older now, but memories of visiting her at that age provided much of the inspiration for toddler Hope. The story book was based on one by baby Hookaroo, though, and I have to wonder if the poor hairless bear was an early stage of my metamorphosis into a whumper! XD
In this exact chair, this oppressive waiting lounge with its dusty fake plants and decades-old magazines, a nearly empty water cooler in the corner, a vending machine down the hall that always jammed when you tried to get a pack of Cheez-Its. How many lifetimes had Emma spent here, always anxiously awaiting news on her gravely injured husband, fearing the worst as the minutes and hours ticked by, as people came and went and doctors brought tidings of good or ill?
Had her turn finally come to be on the receiving end of the ‘We Did All We Could’ speech?
Nearly midnight. It had been at least eight hours already. The hospital was thrumming, jam-packed with the influx of newly liberated slaves, all of whom were desperately ill, shell-shocked by the loss of that guiding voice in their minds, and the majority seriously wounded to boot. The ambulances kept coming; most were on their 7th or 8th trip by now despite having crammed as many casualties in each vehicle as was safe. Emma had not been involved in the discussion of whether some could be transported elsewhere to relieve the burden on the relatively small Storybrooke General, but it was by far the closest facility and more advanced than anything else the United Realms had to offer.
Because she’d been on the first ambulance to arrive, Emma had not endured much of a wait to have her minor forehead wound dressed, once Killian had been whisked back for emergency surgery. That would have been a different story now; even with every available physician, nurse, and allied health provider called in on disaster protocol, the ED was packed and wait times for anything less than a life-threatening condition were astronomical.
Emma’s hand clenched around the paper-flavored cone of water she held as she relived the day’s events. Everything had been such a close call. If anything had gone even slightly differently, she and all the others may not have been in this place at all, never mind Killian.
Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the image of the Vocivore as she’d seen it upon entering that abysmal cathedral. How it had loomed over a broken Killian, how grotesquely ominous her first impression of it had been.
What it had been doing to him, in plain view of her and all the other slaves in the building.
Another tear slipped down her cheek, following the salty trail blazed by countless predecessors. The last gulp of water overflowed out over her hand and onto her lap, the cone squeezed into a bitter crumple, and Emma didn’t give a damn about the wetness on her knees because it was such a minor inconvenience to all that her husband had suffered through in the month gone by. And she was at least 50% culpable, by her reckoning.
“Hey. Save some of that for the fishes,” came a gentle voice from the doorway to her left, and Emma scrubbed at her face before rising to her feet.
“Dad.” Her voice was tremulous, low and husky with emotion, and the prince was quickly at her side and wrapping her in a one-armed hug.
“You still here?” he murmured into her hair.
With a shuddering breath, Emma nodded. “Haven’t heard anything for… at least four hours,” she calculated. “They had to pause the surgery in the middle ‘cuz his blood pressure and temperature both got too low. They plan to resume as soon as he’s stable enough.”
If he ever reaches that point, was the unspoken addition.
David gave her one more squeeze before stepping back. He looked haggard, almost on the verge of collapse, so Emma took a seat in the hopes that he would follow suit. Letting out a low groan, he sank into the chair beside her, settling uncomfortably sideways to avoid touching his injured shoulder blade to the seat back. Rubbing his eyes, he gave a report of his own.
“Well, we just brought in the last of them, near as we could tell. There may still be some out in the woods, but we cleared all the buildings at least. Figure we’ll track down the rest when it gets light.”
“Thanks for taking over back there.”
“Of course.”
He was always so good to her; he and Snow both. Always willing to do whatever she asked, regardless of their own busy schedules. Emma could count on them both for anything at any time. Which made this apology so hard, but also so important. And maybe she should have waited for her mother to be there as well, or for a time when Killian could add his own, but Emma didn’t feel right putting it off any longer.
“Dad, I… I’m so sorry we lied to you.”
David looked as if he were steeling himself, and Emma cringed.
“About Hope?” he asked slowly, expression unreadable. She nodded and watched him massage his temples one-handed.
“How much did Detective Jones tell you?”
“Not much,” he mumbled. “He was in a lot of pain; mostly we just waited quietly.”
That was probably for the best, decided Emma. Jones’ own feelings of betrayal may have colored his retelling of the scheme; better for it to come from one of the bastards who had created it and pulled it off. Still, it might have been easier if David had had a little bit of preparation first…
Emma was still searching for the best place to start when David sniffed, cleared his throat, and gruffly asked,
“Does that mean… did you find… something…?”
A chill skittered up her spine. Her father was reaching for her hand, tears brimming in his eyes, and she realized she had unintentionally led him to draw a horrifically incorrect conclusion.
“Shit, Dad, I… no. Hope is fine, really and truly. That wasn’t the lie. She’s okay.”
As relief warred with confusion on David’s tired face, Emma berated herself for making things so much worse. She squeezed her father’s hand, more to get his attention and assure him that he was awake than anything else.
“Hope’s… okay?” he repeated.
“Yeah. With Belle. I swear to you; she’s fine. I’ll need to go get her, once we know Killian’s gonna…”
Emma trailed off, realizing again that there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t be bringing Hope home only to attend her papa’s funeral.
“Belle?” David pulled back his hand in order to clear the wetness from his cheeks.
“I wanted to tell you so badly!” whined Emma, her voice catching on the emotions constricting her throat. “It was killing me to keep it from you. But it was… it…”
The magnitude of what they had all been through struck her yet again, and suddenly, she was crying too hard for coherent speech. She managed one more strangled, “I’m so sorry” before she found herself enfolded in David’s grasp, her face against his shoulder.
“Emma, shh, it’s okay. We can worry about the rest later; right now, all I care about is knowing that Hope is safe.” David laughed a sob of his own. “Those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.”
Emma could not be sure how much he had worked out on his own; he must still have a million questions crowding his mind, and maybe once the relief wore off, the sting of betrayal would take over. Truthfully, Emma could not think that far ahead, and she was glad for the moment of grace right now. As she took what comfort she could from her father’s embrace, she barely felt the twinge of guilt over his patience. Now that the pressure was off to tell the whole story, her focus had returned squarely on one thing: Killian. And she could only pray that, against all odds, he surprised them all and lived through the night.
*****
Present (Saturday)…
Neither Emma nor David slept much in the padded chairs, as comfortable as they were for sitting. Worry for Killian was at the forefront of Emma’s thoughts, whether awake or dozing, so that any slight noise set her pulse racing in dread of bad news.
If David had managed to reach Snow aboard the Jolly Roger, Emma had missed that moment. His soft snores at her side–when he managed to drift off for a short while–were a small comfort when panic threatened to send her bolting into the depths of the hospital in search of information. She kept reminding herself of that old saying that ‘no news is good news.’ It did seem to apply in this case, for if there were any change in Killian’s condition, especially a turn for the worse, they surely would come and speak with her. If only to give her an opportunity to say goodbye, should they deem it necessary. So when someone burst into the lounge shortly after 6, Emma nearly toppled a lamp in her haste to leap to her feet.
But it wasn’t Whale, nor was it a solemn-faced nurse.
“The monster is dead?” demanded Regina, immaculately groomed as always despite the early hour. “Why am I only now hearing about this?”
“Sorry,” grumbled Emma, rubbing at her burning eyes. “There was a lot going on yesterday.”
“I had to find out about it from Leroy, of all people. Do you know how that makes me look? A queen so out of touch with important developments that she has to get her updates from the town gossip?”
“How did he find out?” Emma asked. She’d been so busy and then distracted that she hadn’t composed a single message after contacting her father.
“Ambulance driver?” suggested David.
Regina stood glaring the wallpaper off the wall behind Emma’s head. “Care to fill me in, Sheriff?”
Emma was so tired. She lacked the mental energy to convince Regina to wait. And maybe it would have been better to share the story individually with David first, so he could react honestly without the queen watching, but tough. Emma was also too exhausted to consider trivialities like that.
She shared the whole story. And then when it was over, she sat staring at the ‘Employees only’ door, unable to meet the eyes of either person watching her as they absorbed the month of falsehoods in stony silence. Finally, Regina spoke up.
”All those search parties… you’re telling me they were for nothing?”
Emma wilted slightly. “Not… nothing, no… they were to help the monster believe in Killian’s motive. And… well… it worked.”
Regina scoffed, then turned to David. “Were you in on this?”
“No. I wasn’t.”
Emma’s heart twisted just a little bit more at the careful control in his tone.
“And Detective Jones? You mentioned that he helped you yesterday?”
“He helped me get in, yeah. Took a stun projectile to the shoulder at close range but was conscious last I saw him.”
“I’m sure he’s still here,” added David. “I saw him off in the ambulance.”
After a beat of silence, Regina began,
“This is serious business, you know; the sheriff misleading the whole town like this–”
At that moment, Dr. Whale came marching through the door, and Emma truly could not care less about what Regina was saying. The blood drained from her face, seeming to concentrate in her ears as she got slowly to her feet.
“He was touch and go for most of the night,” reported the physician without a word of greeting to anyone, which Emma very much appreciated. “He’s still not out of the woods, to be frank. I’d like to see several numbers come up before we attempt surgery again. But… there has been a slight improvement since we were forced to halt the procedure last night.”
Dizzy and overcome with equal parts relief and fear, Emma nodded and collapsed back into her seat. She had a hundred questions but could not think of a single one.
“Right now, I’d say his odds are about 50/50, and even if he does pull through, he’s got a long and difficult recovery ahead of him. But we’ll do our best for him.
“Now. I’m off to try to get some rest,” Whale told them while the bleak outlook sank in. “Day shift has their orders and will contact me if anything changes. I suggest you try and do the same: you won’t be allowed back there to see him for at least the rest of the day. You may as well go home where you’ll be more comfortable.”
Emma just stared at him as if the very idea were offensive. Whale shrugged and moved toward the exit, and if anyone had felt the urge to thank him, they would have been drowned out by Regina, who was hot on his heels.
“Victor? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Detective Jones, would you?”
Their conversation faded down the hallway, and Emma sniffed. She’d retained a fairly good handle on her guilt where Jones was concerned. True, she felt terrible that he’d been injured in the rescue mission, but at least he’d gone in fully aware and of his own volition. Emma had enough other misdemeanors to regret.
One victim of which sat silent beside her while she tried to shake off Whale’s pessimism. It was the physician’s responsibility to be brutally honest, to prepare everyone for the possible worst-case scenario. Maybe the odds were 50/50 from a purely medical standpoint, but Emma knew Killian. Surely, his stubborn resilience had to stack things more in his favor?
Cringing, Emma cast a sidelong glance at her father, who had not directly addressed her since finding out the extent of their deception. Again, and certainly not for the last time, she squeaked,
“I’m so sorry.”
Not yet meeting her eyes, David slowly asked,
“This whole plan… All of this… you and Killian did it entirely of your own free will?”
“We’re insane. I know.”
“Hope was never in any danger.”
“Right…”
“But you went through with it anyway. Killian…”
He trailed off into silence and Emma braced herself for the inevitable rebuke. And for a moment, it appeared as if David would oblige. But then he shook his head, quiet resolve on his features.
“Nope. Not gonna do it; not yet.”
“W… what do you…”
He turned to her then, and though she could make out the traces of hurt and anger in his eyes, she also saw love and understanding.
“Later. I promised.” He reached out for her hand, wearing a tearful smile. “Today, you need a supportive dad way more than a stern lecture filled with fatherly wisdom. Right?”
As Emma returned the expression with a similarly watery one of gratitude, David added,
“But we’re going to have to repeat everything when your mother gets back.”
Suddenly too exhausted for words, Emma leaned against his shoulder and murmured,
“You said it best just a minute ago. Later.”
*****
Detective Jones hurt everywhere, but strangely enough, what was bothering him the most at present was the donor blood being pumped into him as he lay waiting for something to happen. The blood had been stored frozen, and while it had thawed enough for transfusion, it remained chilled well below body temperature, causing his arm to ache fiercely and highlighting the swollen tunnel from which several inches of coat hanger had previously been removed. A hazy sort of fog seemed to be collecting around the periphery of his room, and though the clock indicated 7:15, he would not be able to hazard a guess whether that was AM or PM.
The whole encounter with the monster had warped into what felt like an abstract nightmare; were it not for the physical proof on his body, he very well could have mistaken his current predicament to be a continuation of the sword battle’s aftermath. He had vague memories of waiting with David inside the church, bleeding and in pain, then treacherous transport by ambulance over unpaved, bumpy roads for the majority of the trip to Storybrooke General. After that, massive doses of narcotics blocked out most of his time spent in the emergency department, although he did remember more pain as the staff worked to assess and stabilize his condition.
Jones closed his eyes, determined to ignore his discomfort in favor of drifting into one of the short naps that were all he’d managed to do since arriving in his room. Inevitably, a nurse would come in to check for transfusion reaction, or a loud cart would rumble by, or he’d be awakened by a jolt of pain or for no reason at all. Given his total exhaustion, it was all very irritating indeed.
Right on cue, the moment he felt himself beginning to relax, brisk footsteps approached his door, then continued inside with hardly a pause. Probably a nurse, then. With a sigh, Jones dragged reluctant eyelids open. Maybe he would inquire about some method of warming the blood so he could get some real rest for once…
It was Regina. The concern on her face gave way to obvious relief when she saw that he was awake, but she covered it up with a dramatic scowl.
“Those idiots!” she ranted, coming to a stop at his side. Jones blinked up at her, already lost. She continued regardless. “What kind of utter imbecile gives himself up to a scream-eating monster on the off-chance it will reveal a weakness to him? And all on the advice of none other than the Dark One, who just so happens to be that idiot’s mortal enemy?”
“You’ve spoken to Emma, I take it.” Jones’ voice sounded like the baleful call of a territorial raven, gravelly and hoarse. Regina gave him a look, spending half a second to glance around for a glass of water for him, which was nowhere to be seen.
“I might expect something like this from that damn pirate–no offense–but Emma? No one will ever trust another word coming out of the mouths of either one of them!” She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. “You didn’t know anything about their asinine plan, did you?”
“Not until… whatever day that was.” Jones waved his hand vaguely to indicate his complete loss of orientation, then winced as pain shot up his forearm and out through his chest.
“You’re no less of an moron for going in the way you did,” scolded the queen, though her tone now had much less bite to it. “You should have brought backup.”
Jones lacked the energy to explain his reasoning just then. He settled for a gruff,
“Bad idea.”
Regina just rolled her eyes, annoyed. “And yours was such a good one, I see.”
Rather than arguing the point–an exercise he’d surely lose, even on a good day–Jones rested his head back and closed his eyes. “How is Killian?”
“Not good,” she replied bluntly as she pulled a chair near his bedside. “They’re having trouble getting him stable enough for the surgery needed to even startfixing him. And Whale said that the neurological deterioration compared to how it was even three days ago is very troubling. You know they still haven’t been able to keep one single former slave alive, right?”
“Suppose I should begin planning my funeral then, too,” murmured Jones, half asleep. He wasn’t too concerned; they’d performed an MRI at some point before sticking him in this bed, and while the official results had yet to come back, Dr. Whale had not seemed troubled by his reading of the images. If there were changes, they would be extremely minor considering how short a time he’d been in the Vocivore’s presence.
“You are going to be fine,” commanded Regina, leaving no room for argument. Hurriedly, she moved on. “So what exactly happened out there? The monster is dead, for sure?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” answered the detective, wishing again for a drink of water to soothe his parched throat. “One moment I was under the creature’s thrall; the next, I was flat on the floor and feeling like I’d been shot in the heart instead of merely the shoulder.”
“Emma mentioned seeing a green glow.”
“Did she?” Uneasily, Jones reached for his chest.
“It sounds an awful lot like the effects of your poisoned heart.”
Jones stared at her as dread got a chokehold on his throat. Finally, he slowly admitted,
“That’s what it felt like, too.” He took a breath, shuddered slightly at the necessity of admitting it out loud at last, and winced. “But I’m completely cured and have been for nearly three years. I’ve even got a new heart to ensure it.”
“Well…” Regina looked to be deep in contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about that. Rumplestiltskin gave you his heart and that’s what’s been keeping you alive. Performing all of the duties of your old heart, unaffected by the poison. But… your old heart is still in there, kind of… wrapped around the new one. You don’t feel any effects of the poison because the good heart is there, functioning for you. But I think the poison was still inside, and has been all along, only you were no longer cursed.”
Jones felt dizzy, and not just from his physical maladies. “Bloody hell. Are you sure about this, Regina?”
“Of course not; there’s no way to be sure until magic is restored, and we’re still working on that.”
The nightmare had just gotten ten times worse. Jones imagined he could feel the poison coursing through each chamber of his inherited heart, growing stronger the closer Captain Smee sailed the Jolly Roger Kiddie Cruise to Storybrooke. And he could not stop tears from forming at the injustice of it all.
“What would have reactivated it, do you think?” Even he could hear the helpless exhaustion and sorrow in his tone; there was no way Regina would have missed it. She looked stricken for a second and rushed to reassure him.
“No, no; not reactivated, Killian. Transferred. From you to the Vocivore.”
The wave of relief was so strong that for a full minute, Jones felt nothing else: no pain, no weariness or confusion, only sheer gratitude that his happy ending with Alice had not been so suddenly taken away. “Transferred?”
Regina reached for his hand and pulled it away from where it had been clutching the gown over his breast. “That’s what makes sense to me.”
“But how?”
“Again, this is all conjecture at this point. Emma was certainly too distracted to give all of the details I would have liked. But from what I gathered… am I correct in believing that you went in trying to suppress any positive emotions that may have alerted the monster to your approach?”
Jones nodded.
“And I assume you accomplished that by recalling painful memories of your separation from Alice.”
When the detective did not correct her, Regina continued as if her conclusions were the most simple connection she had ever made.
“Well, those memories and emotions are inextricably linked to the curse on your heart. They dwell, in part, within the poisoned shell still residing in your chest. So when the Vocivore started literally feeding on those emotions, it drew the poison into itself along with the energy. It could not get one without the other.”
Before Jones could express surprise or amazement at the queen’s revelation, the dryness in his throat caught up to him and he started to cough. This had the unfortunate effect of jolting the wound in his shoulder as well as aggravating the marked soreness in his chest, and he spent the next several heartbeats in excruciating anguish. Regina leapt to her feet, radiating frustration.
“Can’t anybody get a cup of water in this place?” She made as if to go out into the hallway and throttle the next nurse she saw until they retrieved the requested water, but Jones reached out to stop her. He cleared his throat several times and finally managed to growl,
“Not allowed. Slated for surgery soon.”
Regina somehow managed to look even more impatient than she already had. “What’s taking them so damn long? Haven’t you been here for something like 14 hours already?”
Jones gingerly massaged his aching chest. “I couldn’t begin to tell you, love. Feels like a lot longer, yet also no time at all.”
He swallowed, winced, and cleared his throat. Regina still looked peeved.
“Let me see what I can do to light a fire under Whale’s team.” She reached for his hand, gave a brief squeeze, and assured him, “Then I’ll be back.”
As she made her way to the door, she tossed out over her shoulder,
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
(what the heck happened to the horizontal line, tumblr??)
Present (Friday, continued)…
The first siren was the most beautiful sound Jones had heard in a very long time. His sense of time had been growing increasingly fuzzy, but his estimate would have leaned toward a wait of at least an hour. Likely a gross exaggeration, but with Killian in such dire straits, and the attention-seeking behavior of his own dizzying pain, every moment had stretched to an interminable age.
Thankfully, Emma had resumed the duty of applying pressure to her husband’s wounds, and Jones could take advantage of the respite to recline back against the bloodied altar. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a suspicion that fragments of the stun projectile remained in his throbbing shoulder. Emma had graciously wrapped a second bandage around the first, which seemed to be containing the bleeding for the most part, but didn’t do much for the agony. All adrenaline now long gone, Jones could feel each heartbeat through the wound, and an overwhelming exhaustion pressed down upon him. More than once, he had caught himself beginning to topple sideways, close to passing out. Dizziness bordered on nausea. He could only imagine how Killian must be feeling. As far as Jones could tell, his counterpart drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently coming back with sobs of terror as he relived tortures endured, and Emma could not always soothe him easily.
Now, as the first scream of a siren echoed up to the rafters, Jones forced himself alert and struggled closer to Killian’s side, knowing that Emma would want to direct the help where it was needed most. She met his gaze gratefully, squeezed Killian’s knee with a murmured word of encouragement, then rose. As she jogged toward the front door, Jones listened to the labored breathing beside him and prayed that the medics weren’t too late.
“In here,” called Emma, one foot still inside the church. Evidently she was reluctant to leave her husband for too long. “Hurry!”
Killian whimpered and Jones lay a gentle hand on his forearm.
“Still with us, mate?”
Uniformed paramedics trooped inside, following Emma’s urging, and Killian shivered, seemingly only half-aware of his surroundings. The detective managed one more reassuring squeeze before shuffling aside. He watched with hooded eyes the efficient dance of emergency medical assessment, waving off attention for his own injuries in favor of faster intervention for Killian.
The medics were quick to administer supplemental oxygen as they measured vitals and made a preliminary examination of his wounds. Emma managed level-headed answers to their questions, keeping out of their way but determined to stay by Killian’s side. He seemed confused and afraid, struggling against every touch despite Emma’s pleas for him to remain calm. The medic at his left side was already on her third cannula as she tried to hit a moving target. Pouches of blood and saline awaited only a reliable access to Killian’s compromised circulatory system.
Emma’s phone buzzed. After reading the message and typing a quick reply, she reported to no one in particular,
“Second ambulance is close. My dad’s following in his truck. He’s gonna direct them in here.”
One of Killian’s medics seemed to be getting ready to activate a power drill into his upper arm. Jones wondered if he might be starting to hallucinate, but in response to Emma’s look of confusion, the medic explained how the long bones can be just as effective at transporting drugs and fluids as peripheral veins are. “It’s not overly painful,” yeah right. Already woozy, Jones couldn’t watch, and even Emma had to look away as the battery-powered device buzzed a stylet through skin and muscle and into the humerus. Perhaps the woman was correct; Killian didn’t seem excessively bothered. He’d grown quiet and mostly still, focused on the effort of breathing. Under the mask, he almost looked like a fish out of water, gulping at air too thin to metabolize. The impression was only strengthened by the bluish-gray tinge to his skin.
This was evidently cause for concern. The activity around him doubled in calm intensity, and even Emma backpedaled to allow them more space to work. Jones was just gathering the fortitude to stretch out a comforting hand when the church door scraped open again. He had missed hearing the new ambulance come wailing up, but he could see a doubling of the whirling flashes outside.
David still had his arm in a sling, but that didn’t stop him from being the first one inside.
“Emma!”
Fixated on her husband’s struggles to breathe, Emma didn’t seem to even hear her father’s call. David urgently beckoned the new arrivals inside and started up the aisle himself. He did an impressive double take at the monstrous corpse on the floor, watching it warily as he skirted an unnecessary circle around it, then hurried to the foot of the stairs. He faced a moment of indecision when catching a glimpse of his son-in-law in the midst of the crowd of medical professionals, eventually deciding to creep up in between Emma and Jones in order to provide his daughter with moral support. Kneeling behind Emma and pulling her close against his chest, he cast a worried glance at Jones.
“Hey, partner. You okay?” he murmured, making sure to keep his voice at a level that would not disrupt critical communications elsewhere.
“Glad you could j-join us, mate,” Jones gritted out, shivering painfully. The sackcloth tunic he wore certainly did not provide much warmth. He was beginning to regret having insisted Emma lay all of the blankets she’d found over Killian, especially considering that most of them were now strewn carelessly in a heap after the medics had desired better access to their patient.
David read his thoughts and reached gingerly around Emma, grasping at one of the discarded blankets nearby. Absently, Emma helped him to drag it back out of the way. The prince tore his eyes away from the frantic scene in front of him, gave Emma a comforting squeeze, then pulled away. As he spread the blanket over his quaking partner, David hissed,
“What the hell happened? What were you two even doing here?”
“Saving the world, naturally,” grimaced Jones. The second band of EMTs had finally arrived, and they were trotting toward the altar, though to Jones it appeared as if they were moving in slow motion. David finished tucking the corner behind his good shoulder, leaving the fabric loose beneath the saturated bandage on the other side.
One uniformed man started to set up shop at Jones’ right just as Emma turned and reached for David, her strong façade crumbling. David was forced to adjust his position in order to accommodate his wounded shoulder blade. As the prince gathered his weeping daughter in his arms, Jones could hear him whispering words of hope. He’s going to be ok. They’ll get him home; Whale will fix him up. People could survive a collapsed lung. And they were talking about Killian, here.
Jones heard all of this despite the other portion of his attention devoted to responding to the questions being put to him by the two EMTs assessing him. Turning his face away from the blood pressure cuff that was currently magnifying the throb in his coat-hanger-pierced forearm, Jones caught sight of what had so deeply upset Emma. Not only were the medics inserting some sort of drain in Killian’s chest below the still-protruding dagger, but they were also preparing to intubate and take over his respirations with mechanical ventilation. It all looked serious and scary, but was obviously for the best, if his own efforts were ineffective.
True professionals, Jones’ medics kept their focus solely on him despite the commotion nearby. Their attempts to start an IV were barely distinguishable from the squeezing, pulsing anguish lower down his punctured forearm; Jones was just grateful they hadn’t yet pulled out their bone drill to use on him. As he looked past the gurney that was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Jones spotted the massive corpse of the Master slumped where they’d left it. And surrounding it…
“Bloody hell,” muttered the detective. Still in the dark about the situation and extremely on edge, David’s head snapped up and he looked around wildly, fumbling for his gun.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“They’re over there.” Jones gave a stiff nod to indicate the direction in which he was looking.
The slaves were gathering around their Master. Forming a mournful and eerie circle tribute. Or maybe it was panicked directionlessness. Even those too weak, stunned, or injured to walk were compelled to slither along the ground, inch by agonizing inch, all to be closer to the commanding presence they could no longer feel or hear. If anything were to remind the detective of a zombie horror film, the sight before him now would have been a top contender. Even more were staggering their way into the bustling church, clogging up the doorway through which additional paramedics were attempting to enter.
“Wow,” grunted David, still slightly alarmed. “That’s disturbing.” He glanced warily back at Jones. “You’re not… feeling the urge to join them, are you?”
The detective’s attempt at a laugh came out more like a groan. “Not yet, mate; thank the gods. I’ll let you know if I do.”
“Well,” said David thoughtfully, “at least it will make it easier to round them all up.”
A sudden frenzy of activity distracted both men from the sight. Emma scrambled to her feet as Killian’s backboard was hauled up in preparation for transport to the ambulance. She shot the briefest of glances at her father, but was already making as if to follow even before he had a chance to say,
“You go. I’ll handle things here.”
Just as the front doors had ground to a close behind Killian’s gurney, one of Jones’ medics rose to her feet. She found a place on the altar’s façade on which to hang his bag of saline, saying,
“Okay, Mr. Jones. I know you’re probably anxious to get to the hospital where you’ll be more comfortable, but since you’re stable for now, we are obligated to triage the rest of the scene before deciding who gets priority.”
“Understood,” Jones assured her. “I can wait.”
As she collected her remaining equipment, her partner turned to David.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on him? I’ll tell you what to watch out for.”
David hesitated, looking torn. “I…” He turned stricken eyes upon Jones. “Killian, I didn’t want to give Emma one more thing to worry about, but in her message she said that Hope was… safe? I didn’t see her… and who’s taking care of her right now?”
The detective gave him the best impression of a reassuring grin that he could manage under the circumstances.
“She isn’t here, mate,” replied Jones with a definite slur to his words. He could feel some kind of narcotic beginning to take effect, blurring pain and mental acuity alike. “But she is safe and being looked after; I give you my word.”
David’s teary smile was laced with confusion. “She… but then where…?”
With a deep sigh, the detective closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard surface behind him. “I don’t believe that’s my story to tell, David. Sorry.”
He heard the medic begin to relay quiet instructions to the prince and slitted one bleary eye open to interrupt.
“If you’d rather assist with the injured slaves, I should be okay here. This thing has an alarm, doesn’t it?” Jones indicated the portable EKG currently monitoring his heart rate. David winked at him, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled in next to Jones.
“Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I left you here all alone?” He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get comfortable. “Besides, I wouldn’t be much help anyway with one arm out of commission. Bossing the medics around, I guess, but I get the feeling they don’t need my input.”
Jones gave him the barest hint of a smile before closing heavy eyelids again. “Thank you.”
For the second time in three days, Detective Jones was reminded of that lonely Seattle night, when the poison in his heart had nearly killed him. He even had the aching soreness in his chest as an additional parallel.
How much nicer it was to have a caring friend by his side while he waited!
