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:Oh dear. That’s it, that’s the last chapter! What a ride my friends, it has been an amazing journey to write but also by reading all your reactions. I know I haven’t answered to all of them but know that every words, tag or “!!” got me smiling ♥ So I hope you enjoyed that story and on that I will let your read another small view of the coven..(that might come in visual one day ;)) Again, a hell of a thanks to @hookaroo for her amazing beta and reactions
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The place in front of him was peaceful, almost heaven-like, smelling of home. The big house proudly standing in the middle of the clearing, emitting a welcoming warmth. A gentle breeze blowing through the tall trees surrounding the coven. Killian took the time to enjoy the familiar view, inhaling each scent the wind was carrying.
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: Silly me miscounted the chapters, so there’s actually One more left! So enjoy the little CS fluff before we can all discover how’s the other Killians are doing inside their house…
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Killian waited another full week after giving Rogers enough time to put things back in order inside the coven before he felt the time was right to broach the subject with Emma. Rogers had texted him Wednesday to let him know he could come back this weekend if he wanted.
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:HOLLYCRAPPYSHIT. Only One, chapter left and I’m not prepared to stop posting new chapters :( Well, all good things must end one day so… A little soft and funny chapter before the conclusion of that adventure! Got to thanks @thesschesthair for the fantastic idea of the voicemail ;)
On that, happy reading mates!
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Emma was happy when Killian told her he had resolved his problem with the cricket’s help. Or at least, that he now knew what needed to be done in order to put everything behind him and start again. His part-time work prescription ended at the end of the week, leaving Killian just enough time to sort things out with the coven. But first, he needed to see Rogers and make sure everything would go smoothly if he showed up at the huge mansion the next day. Unfortunately, all the calls he had made to the detective ended up on his voicemail, leaving Killian uneasy.
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: Man, I’m getting emo at the fact there’s only 2 chapters left!! It was so fast yet it’s been such a long time since the start of that fic! Thank you all for staying and I hope you’ll like that one! I really enjoyed writing the part with Killian and Archie so I hope I did good ^^’ .
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Three days had passed, and Killian was still trapped in the tiny, horribly uncomfortable hospital bed. All because Dr. bloody Whale insisted that he stay for further exams. Hell, Killian knew he was fine; he knew Emma had made sure of it! But no. He was stuck inside his damn room until Whale decided there was no more trace of repercussion on his heath from his misadventure inside the cave. Killian really tried to behave for the duration of his stay in the hospital, but it was starting to be impossible, and if it weren’t for Emma’s daily visit, he would have at least attempted to escape the damn place and give Whale his right hook.
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:Shorty chapter but after all the emotion our heroes had, it was time for a short break before things get tense once again…
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When Killian could finally open his eyes, he was met with the same white wall. Same annoying beeping echoing inside the room, seeping into his skull. Same antiseptic smell mixed with ether, same coldness, same cumbersome wires around his arms and glued to his chest, same… Killian froze in his bed, holding his breath, realizing where he was and what it meant: had everything just been a dream?
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: You’re still alive? Good! You’ll just have to cross fingers the rest of the Joneses will. Because We’re reaching the end of the journey but stuff can still happens in 4 chapters…
I also wanted to thank you SO MUCH guys for sticking on that boat and reacting to each new chapters and well I hope in the end some of you won’t have died too many times….*snort* alright i’m sorry for killing you that many times @kmomof4. And again, I’d like to bloody thanx @hookaroo for sharing her free time to beta/read the last HC stories I’ve made. You da best mate ♥
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Once DarkHook had made sure Emma would have enough magic to heal Killian, he quickly jogged to the remaining light circle, hoping she would be alright on her own. Honestly, he would have preferred to stay by her side and be sure Killian was out of danger himself, but alas, the rest of the coven needed him more. The runes were keeping them stable, but it wouldn’t be long until it faded away like the one under Killian, and with it, the loss of the others.
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: While our little koala!Emma is holding tight to Killian, it’s finally time to take huge step in the story…
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When Emma came back to her senses, she quickly noticed she was missing Killian’s warmth against her front from where she had been holding on. Did something happen- hold on. She’d been dreaming just a few seconds ago, hadn’t she?
Snapping her eyes open, Emma looked around her and was taken aback by the landscape.
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.
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: here we are in the middle! But there’s still a LOT of fun ahead! Things are going to move and soon Killian will finally see the end of the new hell he has found himself trapped in…
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Emma had waited a whole day before she was allowed to be at Killian’s side again. A whole new day to think about everything she’d done, everything he’d said, everything she’d seen or heard, everything she had fucked up.
Note: It’s been more than a year and I’ve come to update this fic lololol Anyways, this chapter was supposed to be the continuation of the plot that started in the previous ones, you know, with Killian realizing Rumpelstiltskin had first assaulted him long before the first Curse happened… but inspiration struck differently! *shrugs* In any case I know most of y'all are here for the non-con stuff so like, ignore the plot that’s been set up and just focus on this current chapter, hope you enjoy, bye
@killian-whump’s original piece is here, and you can read my additions from the beginning here.
Warnings: Rape, memory wipe, humiliation. Make sure to read all the tags on AO3 in case I’ve forgotten to mention anything.
Killian had to admit, though he’d been cautious with Emma making changes in the Jolly Roger, the magically installed bathroom did wonders, giving him the luxury of a modern shower in the comfort of his ship.
It would be very useful, he thought, for their honeymoon. They could sail for days and visit any place they wanted without any worries.
He smiled, entering his captain’s quarters and looking at his new suit. He was finally marrying Emma Swan, their officially shared life would start in just a couple of hours. He was only with a towel around his hips, but he thought propriety could take a break - it was his wedding day after all - so he threw himself on the bed, sighing happily and letting himself daydream for a bit.
He’d been considering Emma’s family his as well for some time now, and papers wouldn’t mean as much to him as the fact that her family was now reciprocating that feeling. Henry, and David, and Snow, even Regina… he could be part of it all, family dinners and gatherings and everything, without feeling an outsider ever again.
He welcomed the probably really stupid grin on his face and jumped up from the bed, looking at his suit. Then suddenly, he was looking at the form of Rumpelstiltskin, having transported himself into the cabin, right in front of Killian.
Killian simply huffed; he wasn’t minding being seen naked, even by Gold, but it was a vulnerability he’d rather avoid in his presence.
“If you wanted a sight of that, Crocodile, all you had to do was ask,” Killian mocked him.
Gold didn’t reply, though a small smile appeared on his lips. He just stood there, casually holding his hands together.
“You’re just gonna stand there and watch me get dressed?”
“A wedding. What a special moment in someone’s life,” Gold said, turning slightly to look at Killian’s suit.
“How would you know? You mistreated both your wives,” Killian said, setting his shoulders straight.
Gold’s exhale was audible as he scowled back at him. Killian knew this wasn’t a good time to provoke the Dark One, but he just couldn’t care less. Gold had every opportunity to kill him all this time he’d been plotting against them, why would he wait until now to do it?
Instead, Gold simply looked him up and down.
“What do you want?” Killian said.
“I want you to take that thing off.”
Killian blinked in surprise. “What?”
“I want you to take off that towel. Didn’t you say that if I wanted a sight of you, I just had to ask?”
“Get the hell out of here. Now.” He took two steps toward him, balling his fist on his side. “Get out!”
Gold simply scrunched his eyebrows, his smile not falling. “You’re not giving clear messages, captain.” He tsked. “Am I allowed to ask for it or not?”
“I said, get out!”
“Calm down, now. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life.”
Killian chuckled. “Nothing you could do would sully this day.”
Gold moved fast, wrapping his hand around Killian’s neck, just barely making his breathing harder. Killian grabbed his arm, to no avail.
“You of all people should know better than to say things like that. I could just kill you, right now.”
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…
Emma was still looking at the machine in front of her while the nurse was still taking in the situation. A cardiac arrest. The green line on the black monitor would go flat in the next seconds. Meaning his heart had stopped beating. Killian was fucking dying in front of her eyes and she was paralysed.
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: Some DadyCharming feels planned, and well a terrible ending…*fly away*
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Everyone had been trying to reach her for the rest of the day, but they didn’t know her phone was still scattered on the floor while she was sitting on the bed, her leg folded against her as she hugged herself. Every now and then, she could hear Killian’s voice, and each time she thought back to what Whale had told her and she cursed herself more than the crazy bitches that had first harmed Killian.
Killian had only to close his eyes to be transported back there. That dreadful hovel with its table of pain. Those callous hands dragging a dull-edged blade along his jaw. And nothing ahead of him but more suffering. No hope.
Focus on the differences. Warm, soft bed, no splintered, uncomfortable wood. Blankets and a gown instead of cold nudity. The din of automation replacing the scratchy ring of imprecise steel. Similar pungent disinfectant but less decay, less blood and pain and fear. And, most important, gentle touch. No intent to hurt or degrade. Only meticulous, loving care from the one person on Earth he trusted without reservation.
“Holy crap,” teased Emma, “I think we need to get Whale to put a sign on your door warning that there’s a handsome pirate inside.”
Knowing that he still looked like a wreck despite a neatly trimmed beard, he played along for her sake. “And what would its purpose be, to entice eligible nurses inside, or warn them away from his jealous bride?”
“I don’t mind them looking,” smiled Emma. “What’s the point of having a gorgeous husband if a girl doesn’t show him off every once in awhile?”
Killian clenched his teeth as a wave of violent shivering overtook him; to a casual observer it would have appeared as if he were suddenly chilled to the bone despite climate-controlled surroundings and the layer of blankets draped atop him. Through nauseating pain, he heard Emma lay aside the razor and felt her grip his elbow in solidarity.
Whale remained hesitant to classify them as seizures, stating that the corresponding brain activity did not match any known convulsive disorder and responded to none of the anticonvulsant drugs they’d tried. Of course, that didn’t rule out the possibility of eventual development into actual seizures, as most of the slave fatalities had experienced just before their deaths.
Killian had managed to catch snippets of conversations, grave tones and sobering words that betrayed what they seemed to be trying to hide from him. He would probably have guessed on his own, anyway, with his worsening state mirroring the course of the slaves who had preceded him in death. Sometimes he was able to comprehend what a shame it was, for him to have survived so long only to succumb now, when peace had returned to his home. In those moments he tried to take solace in the thought that he’d been granted more cherished memories with his wife and daughter, without a threat hanging over them, when he could focus on lavishing them both with the fierce love he felt for them. Emma would remember. Hope… he liked to think she would.
None of that mattered in the moment, though, as quivering muscles shocked every single inflamed nerve ending into high gear, enveloping him in a fog of inescapable agony.
Emma met his watery gaze with a sad, stiffly calm smile, and he read the desolate grief in her forged reassurance even as he realized that the attack was finally subsiding.
“Morphine?” she asked quietly, but he shook his head. Hope would be coming by for a visit soon, and he wanted a clear mind for her.
Her grip on him relaxed by degrees as some of the tension drained away from his body.
“I’m so sorry, Killian,” she whispered. “If only we could somehow bring magic back. I might not be able to stop these attacks, but I could at least heal your wounds and prevent some of this pain.”
She sniffled and before Killian could summon the breath to respond, she continued,
“It doesn’t make any sense; I mean, we thought it was related to the Vocivore, but maybe we’re wrong, ‘cuz it seems like we should have found something by now…”
“I have something to report about that,” came Regina’s voice from the doorway. “But you’re not going to like it.”
Emma turned with a weary expectancy, and Regina stepped inside. She was the very picture of classic irritated aloofness, but she did glance at Killian and say,
“Sorry for barging in like this.”
“You found something?” demanded Emma, and Regina stopped at the foot of the bed. Her scowl could whither the blossoms off an apple tree.
“It’s those damn pigeons.”
“The… pigeons,” repeated Emma slowly. In his mind’s eye, Killian saw a ragged pink feather coated in slime; white, powdery droppings splattered on chancel cobbles; black and amber irises reflecting nothing but pure animal instinct. He heard the trilling cooing that had been the quiet backdrop for many a scream, memories as clear as if the blasted birds were right there in the room with him.
“Those ridiculous pink pigeons, Sheriff Swan,” Regina confirmed, completely oblivious to Killian’s uneasiness. “I cannot fathom how, but they’re the ones responsible for the magical shielding. Pesky vermin.”
Emma looked unconvinced, and Killian wanted to agree, but considering how the birds seemed inextricably linked to the Vocivore’s presence, perhaps the idea wasn’t so farfetched.
“Regina, are you sure? They’re just dumb birds. How can they possibly block magic?”
“I’m… still working on that,” admitted the queen. “But I know I’m right. Did you hear about those hooligans who set off the fireworks in front of City Hall this morning? Right in the middle of an inter-realm council meeting?”
“David filled me in, yeah; said he thought it was some Lost Boys from the Wish Realm.”
“Well, as disruptive as it was to the meeting, it was a hundred times worse for our feathered friends. They took off like their tails were on fire and made for the Enchanted Forest or… Madagascar or somewhere; trouble was, they’re too stupid to remember that for long, and they were back within 10 minutes. But in that time, there was a brief window in which I could almost access my power; it was there, just on the edge of awareness, just out of reach.” She made a growl of frustration, both hands tightly fisted. “I thought for a second that the shield was collapsing for good, without us having to do anything about it, but wouldn’t you know, we’re stuck with our usual luck again.”
Regina looked like she’d rinsed her mouth with lemon juice as she continued ranting. “The first bird to come back, while we were still searching the area for any unexploded fireworks? A pigeon. A fat, iridescent pink pigeon. And that’s when I made the connection.”
“Well, I’ve been saying we needed to get an exterminator, but just because you saw one doesn’t necessarily prove that they’re the culprits.”
“I think she may be right,” Killian said with another shiver. “They were… fairly strongly bonded with the Master. Sometimes would even ride on its shoulders.” He cringed as the haunting outline of the beast filled his imagination, complete with winged companions, its tentacles pulsating as they reached toward him….
“And we have only recently started noticing them around Storybrooke,” added Regina. “Just about the same time as magic failed. They’re remarkably distinctive, and I remember being surprised the first time I saw one.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Emma began, still doubtful. “But it can’t hurt to check it out. So say it is the pigeons. What’s the next step?”
“That’s the bad news.” Regina glanced at Killian in apology. “It won’t be a quick fix. Short of poisoning them, or making the town somehow inhospitable to birds in general–both of which are options that I can’t see our critter-loving neighbors approving of–we’re down to trapping and relocating each one individually, or trying to figure out what exactly gives them the ability to block magic. And either way, it’s going to take time.” She folded her arms, waiting for questions, but Emma and Killian were quiet, mulling over the situation. “I’ve tasked Robin with the job of bringing one to me for study. Don’t tell your mother.”
Killian was only half listening as a whole movie’s worth of scenes replayed in his head. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere. He felt foolish for not noticing their conspicuousness before, but, of course, he did have other things to worry about at the time.
He felt his spirits sinking impossibly lower as the consequences of the news took shape. No quick solution would mean no magical healing. He’d be stuck in this infernal hospital, recuperating in the conventional way, spending whatever time he had left uncomfortable and in pain. Somehow, the Master had managed to orchestrate continued torture for him; even in death, it was having the last laugh at his expense.
“Pigeons,” scoffed Emma. “Pigeons and a crab. Who would have guessed?” Seeming to sense Killian’s dark musings, she stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Sorry, Killian. This sucks.”
“They must have evolved together,” muttered Regina absently. “Developed some kind of symbiosis; they shield the Vocivore, and it gives them, what, shelter? Protection from predators?”
“Blood,” realized Killian suddenly. The inspiration had come out of nowhere, a thought buried deep within his subconscious that had burst unbidden into full awareness. He’d only ever seen it out of the corner of his eye, with no attention to spare, his own misery and how long he’d been given before the next Session at the forefront, always. But there they were. Pink bodies fluttering to earth, a writhing mass behind him as he left the church, squabbling among sticky smears and warm pools, dipping dainty beaks, plunging belly-first in some macabre bathing ritual…
Then outside. They would be strutting through the gutters, congregating near fresh corpses while his tunnel vision kept him limping in the direction of Z’s cottage, never truly seeing how beady little eyes sized him up even as blood-crusted heads burrowed into decaying flesh in search of more nourishment.
“Um… what?!”
Killian returned to reality to find Emma and Regina staring at him with matching expressions of revulsion.
“The pigeons, they… they seemed to fear the noise and, f-for the most part, remained in the rafters… during…” He hesitated, winced, then carried on with great effort. “But afterward… the Master didn’t care about the stains on the floor, yet I never saw fresh blood when I first arrived. I… I think the pigeons… consumed it.”
Killian thought he might vomit. Both of his visitors seemed to share the feeling.
“Okay, that’s… disgusting.”
Regina gulped and plastered on a weak smirk. “So. ‘Carrion’ pigeons. I wonder if their feathers are just stained, then, or if they turn pink from some substance in the blood they eat, similar to flamingos.”
“Gross,” moaned Emma. She took a sip of her bottled water. “But hold on a sec. If they’re so fond of… that… then why did they make their way all the way to Storybrooke? There’s way less… that… around here.”
“Guess they can do without it. Or maybe they live off roadkill out here.”
“Overcrowding?” suggested Emma, answering her own question. “Better nesting sites?”
“Would have made an intriguing Exchanges topic.” Killian cringed at the thought. “Had I known to ask.”
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the trio, until finally, Regina grunted her irritation at the whole thing.
“Well, I can try to confirm all of this once I get my hands on one of those little pests. Guess it’s good to finally be getting some answ-”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hook, get your Thank-You cards ready; I’ve just-” Dr. Whale paused when he noticed Regina in the room. “Oh. Your Highness.”
“Victor.”
Whale caught Killian’s glower and smirked. “What’s that look for?”
“I’d explain but I’m still recovering from that utter shipwreck of a salutation.”
“Sounds like you’re feeling better. Guess I’m wasting my time, then, working around the clock?”
“Did you have something to tell us, Whale?” Emma’s feigned irritation fooled no one–it was obvious she anticipated more important news.
“We’ve had a bit of a breakthrough, thanks to the data gleaned from you and Detective Jones.” The physician held up a cautionary hand. “Results look promising, but this is by no means a sure thing, and there’s no guarantee of long-term success. We’ll of course continue to tweak it as we go along, but for now I think Killian could benefit from an initial dose as soon as possible.”
“You think you’ve found a cure, then?” clarified Regina.
“A therapy,” he corrected. “To slow the degeneration and maybe, eventually, reverse it. Tested on some lab animals, then this morning on two rescued slaves who were near death. They seem to be doing better.” He pulled a hand-labeled vial from his pocket and set it on a table with a flourish. “The FDA would burn my license and probably toss me into prison for this. Good thing none of us officially exist.”
As Killian stared at the little container of clear fluid onto which, suddenly, all of their hopes were pinned, he was struck with unexpected anxiety. It was all well and good when there was nothing that could be done, his fate seemingly sealed. Now that there was a reported chance, he wanted nothing more than for it to work. He wanted to live, to be a husband and father, to watch Hope grow and be there for her. The vial represented that future… and what if it didn’t work?
Whale took Killian’s silence as reluctance, and he sighed. “Yeah, I can’t guarantee its safety either, or provide you with a list of possible side effects. Just that for you, with your weird, extra barrier that we still don’t entirely understand, I’d like at least the first few doses to be administered directly into the CSF, and we do know the risks and side effects of lumbar puncture. But, well… listen, if it were me or a loved one in your position, I would still say that we need to try something, because the risks don’t matter once the condition becomes terminal. Make sense?”
“None of that is in question,” said Killian slowly. Then he flashed a short, tired smile at the physician, radiating self-deprecation. “Believe it or not, I actually do trust your medical expertise. I was only… praying for its success, I suppose.”
Whale looked genuinely touched, for a fleeting instant. But soon enough his cocky demeanor was back. “You’re right: I’m not sure I do believe it. I’m gonna take that admission as another symptom and then we can just carry on the way we always do.”
He tossed some forms at Emma, ordering,
“Read and sign for him. Assuming you want to go through with it, we’ll be back shortly to perform the procedure.”
He left in a swirl of white lapels, muttering a polite farewell to Regina on his way. The queen turned back to Killian and Emma, wearing a slightly uncomfortable grin.
“Well. Good news, then. Or, a seed of hope, at least.” She brushed invisible dust off her jacket and made other I’m-about-to-leavecues.
“Yeah. Thanks for filling us in about the pigeons.” Emma glanced down at her phone, and a tiny frown creased her forehead. “Although you could have just called me.”
Squirming, Regina blustered,
“I… thought the news would be better delivered in person. And… well… maybe there’s a… small part of me that wanted to see how Killian was doing.”
“That’s most appreciated,” said Killian. “Thank you.”
Regina nodded stiffly, shot an, “I’ll keep you informed,” then exited.
Killian gritted his teeth through another bout of shivers–thankfully shorter this time–and when he could open his eyes again it was to find Emma watching in sympathy.
“Hope that’s over with for now. You don’t wanna be doing that while they’re trying to stick a needle into your spine.”
Throbbing and aching, Killian grimaced. He needed a distraction. “Everything okay, love?” he growled. “You were rather tight-lipped toward the end there.”
It was then that he noticed the tear tracks staining her face.
“Emma?”
She lay aside the consent forms and wiped at her cheeks. “I’ve been so scared, Killian. Starting a month ago, but it hasn’t stopped even with your rescue. I… well, Whale’s been pretty pragmatic about your condition, and… truth is… I was starting to prepare myself to lose you.” She caught two droplets before they had a chance to fall. “I mean, how horrible is that? You aren’t even gone yet and I’m coaching myself to start saying goodbye.”
She started to reach for his hand but stopped and gripped his wrist instead.
“That’s human nature,” he pointed out. “I’ve been doing it, too.”
Her eyes glistened with sad questions. “We didn’t… I mean, Whale thought that…”
“No, no one’s told me anything; not before now at any rate. No one had to.”
Emma leaned forward to kiss his cheek gently, brushing back some stray hair as she murmured,
“I’m sorry, Killian. Shoulda known better than to give up so soon.”
His eyes found the vial, which Dr. Whale had left on the table. “Do you think it will work?”
“It has to,” she said simply. “If nothing else, to give us more time. And you know… Whale’s kinda the expert at this sort of thing, even if his attitude leaves something to be desired.”
Killian was tiring rapidly; it had been one hell of an afternoon, and this was the most he’d participated in a conversation since his rescue, if not longer. But he still had one final question before hopefully catching a nap between interruptions.
“Whale mentioned ‘data,’ gleaned from you and Jones. Did I hear that correctly?”
Emma waved a dismissive hand. “Just a couple of tests he did on us; no big deal.”
“You subjected yourselves to becoming his laboratory animals, all on my account?”
“And to help the other rescued slaves.” She flashed him a twinkling grin, which softened into loving fondness. “But… yeah, mostly for you.”
“Thank you, Emma, truly.”
She graced him with a quick kiss, saying,
“You’re welcome, and like I said, no big deal, and that’s all we’re gonna say about that.” Noticing his heavy eyelids, she smoothed an eyebrow and then sat back. “We better do that paperwork before you fall asleep. Want me to hold it up so you can read it, or I could read it aloud to you…”
“Don’t bother about it, love,” he murmured. “You can read them yourself if you’d like, but I think we both know that there isn’t much they could say that would change our views on the matter.”
Killian cast his eyes on Hope’s artwork once more before succumbing to his weariness. Perhaps it would guard his dreams and bring positive thoughts from here on out. Because now that he had a fighting chance at survival, healing his psyche had suddenly become that much more important, and it would most definitely be a longer road than the not-insignificant path to physical health.
AN: Well, obviously I failed to get this posted quickly enough. Blame @cocohook38 and @lillpon for killing me in their own wonderful ways :) Less than 36 hours til I’m on the plane to Ireland!!! Sorry to make you wait for the conclusion! It’s really not that long of a trip, though. I should be back to somewhat functional by July 10 :D
I’m looking for some milestone that gives me an excuse for “Winter Whump” to have lasted this long… XD The closest I’ve come is that I probably had the first inklings of what the premise would be sometime last summer, as sign-ups for the event closed June 30, 2018. So the final chapter will be released approximately 1 year later. *Shrug* Best I can do.
Notes: Hey @hookaroo. I did it. This is for you, darling.
~
If Hope thinks far back on it, it started when she was young. Like, reallyyoung.
She remembers enjoying a scene from a cartoon, where a boy had been hurt by one of the monsters he and his team would usually fight. It was nothing serious, of course, just a couple of bruises, but she still remembers fondly back at it… and she doesn’t even remember the cartoon’s name anymore.
But she was still little back then. She didn’t give it much thought for years, until Papa had needed to go to the hospital after being seriously injured and there had been no-one immediately available that could heal him. He survived it, of course, as he does, but seeing him in the hospital bed, all patched up and connected to a heart monitor, while hours before she’d imagined her favourite character going through a similar “adventure”, well, it hit her hard.
Is there something wrong with her?
Papa always overcomes his troubles, though at her current age of fifteen, she knows there’s emotional residue every time. She got used to his frequent visits to Archie long ago. But she thinks he wouldn’t take it well if she admitted what she liked to imagine for her favourite characters… since those imaginings tend to go closer and closer to things Papa has experienced himself.
But at the end of the day, she never wishes him any harm. Never did, never will. The only reason she doesn’t jump at the chance to heal him herself is because her healing magic is still raw and unpredictable, so unless it’s a true emergency she lets the experts take control. However… she’s seen how hard he hugs her after he’s been healed from something or saved from somewhere really dangerous. Usually, he’s not clingy at all. But in such cases, she always sees how much in need of comfort he is… and that’s what she wishes both for him, and her favourite characters.
She may want to put them through Hell, but only so they can receive a ton of comfort afterwards. Well, as long as there issome focus on their pain first.
And she’s actually proud about her knowledge around injuries and the such. Growing up in Storybrooke, surrounded by the United Realms, can give a small child such experience from the start. And with such a… honestly, danger-seeking father as hers, well, it only adds to her list. Burns, scratches, stab wounds (of any depth), dislocated limbs, needles, hospital care in general…
She once overheard her parents talking about how they’re worried those experiences might traumatize her. She barely held herself back from laughing out loud. If only they knew that as soon as she saw it happen to anyone *cough*her father*cough* her mind immediately made scenarios of her favourite characters going through that stuff. Heck, her list is so big there’s more than enough for each character to go through!
Really, what is wrong with her?
She’s kept it vehemently a secret for years, not even typing those scenarios into her private computer. It’s not that she needed them written down to remember them, either. With Alice’s help she found a spell to preserve the stories in her mind - and even fully dramatize them, as if they were real films playing before her eyes. She can always count on her half-sister for such imaginative spells.
But at the end, curiosity gets the best of her. She sits at her computer, so nervous she’s nearly shaking, and uses the other magic she knows of; Google.
At first, she’s so mortified she plugs her computer completely off and nearly sets it on fire. Might as well destroy all evidence, she thinks. No-one can know.
It consumes her so much her parents ask her the very next day what’s wrong. She shrugs, eyes stuck to her cereal bowl.
Until she researches again the same night. And the next. And the next. And the next.
Until she finds herself fifty thousand words deep into a fanfiction that, as the author called it, is a “whumpy” one.
It’s the day her life changes. She talks with other people, like her, from all across the world, and suddenly she realizes she’s not weird. She’s not dangerous, not a psycho, not anything that needs to be “fixed”.
Holy shit, she can finally like this stuff and not feel ashamed.
Before she knows it, she’s written something herself. It’s something small, and short. But it draws other fans’ attention. And they like it.
With a huge smile on her face as she reads the feedback on her story, she pulls her wild red hair into a ponytail, cracks her knuckles and starts typing furiously.
~
Many hours and typed words later, she finally checks the time.
It’s 5 am.
On a Wednesday.
Shit, she had homework to do.
BLING!
New comment on her story: “OMG I loved this so much!! Poor little guy, how is he gonna get out of this mess? :D”
Hope fist-bumps the air.
Fuckin’ worth it.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH YOU DID THE THING!!!!!!! :D
I LOVE IT SO MUCH YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW!!!!!!
:DDDDD
“He survived it, of course, as he does“ LOLLLL!!!!! BABY!!
Awwwww that’s so cute, his visits with Archie, and, and like, Hope feeling guilty about liking things so close to what her Papa has suffered through a;lksjdf;lakjsdflkj AND THAT HE ALWAYS HUGS HER HARDER AFTER I LOVE THIS SOOO MUUUUCHH!!!!!! (Do you know how many typos I’ve had to fix already writing this because I just can’t type fast enough to keep up with my explosion of feels!!!!)
HER DANGER-SEEKING FATHER!!!!! XD that about sums it up! (And I love that she’s learned so much about injuries/healing from that!)
AND I AM SO JEALOUS OF ALICE’S SPELL I SO WANT TO SEE MY SCENARIOS COME TO LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAHHH!!! That is super creative and so Alice too! :D
Thank you for this lovely and realistic depiction of a whumper’s self-discovery I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!! <3
Detective Jones’ first impression, as Regina pushed his wheelchair into Killian’s room, was that his twin looked markedly worse than when he’d last seen him. Not that he’d expected a miraculous recovery–magic was still being suppressed somehow, so any healing would have to be done in a conventional manner–but Jones would have thought that a few days of intensive medical care might afford him some measure of regained strength. Instead, he appeared even more gaunt then before, and very little color could be seen on his skin, apart from the purplish black where bruising still had a gruesome foothold. His eyes were closed, lids brushed with dusky shadows, and he wore a barely discernible frown, as if suffering from pain even in sleep. Emma was at his bedside, of course, resting one hand over his bandaged arm where it lay atop his blanket. Henry was there too, sitting in a chair in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. He was the first to notice the new arrivals, and he greeted them with a wan smile.
Jones had a fairly good poker face and thus could be confident his shock would not be apparent to Emma. Which, upon reflection, served little purpose anyway; she knew how bad her husband looked, no doubt about that. Jones nodded a somber hello as Regina rolled him to a stop near the foot of the bed.
“Hey. You outta here?” murmured Emma, setting her phone on the table so she could have both hands free.
“At last,” he replied, matching her volume. “Just thought we’d stop by first and see how things are coming along.”
Emma looked slightly evasive as she said,
“Improving, slowly… his visit with Hope seems to have really made a difference.”
“I imagine so,” Jones said with a grin. He saw the framed artwork on the table and thought fondly of similar creations by his own daughter. If that didn’t help Killian to feel better, then nothing would.
Emma ran a finger gently along Killian’s cheek. “Hey. Want to say hello to Killian and Regina?”
“It’s okay,” Jones assured her quickly, “you can let him sleep.” But Emma persisted with her caresses.
“No, I think he’ll want to see you.”
Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Killian opened his eyes, struggling to focus; first on the frame at his bedside, then on his wife. Finally, he looked in Jones’ direction. An unnerving, dull sort of vacancy colored his stare, which Jones uneasily attributed to whatever strong pain medications were keeping him somewhat comfortable.
“Ahoy, mate. You’re looking significantly more chipper then the last time I saw you,” Jones lied. “Guess that git Whale has his uses, after all.”
Killian might have been trying to smile; Jones couldn’t be sure. His lips were quivering, their movements jerky and barely controlled, mirroring other small but noticeable tremors disturbing his person.
“I’m glad you came,” said Killian in a voice tremulous and feeble enough to be a perfect match for his outward appearance. He took a moment to catch his breath and then added, “I wanted to thank you for coming after me.”
He did not elaborate, but Jones knew the words were heartfelt.
“I only did what I felt I must,” responded the detective humbly. “Just as you did.”
The following moment of awkward silence was eventually broken by Emma.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“On the mend. I’ve been assured I’ll make a full recovery.”
“And… your heart?”
Jones glanced in Regina’s direction; had she explained her theory to Emma? “Back to normal. Alice and the second Jolly Roger cruise are scheduled to return to port this afternoon; with any luck, I’ll be capable of meeting her there.”
“You’ll be able to meet her there and give her a one-armed hug hello,” Regina told him impatiently.
“So you really think the monster absorbed the curse, and that’s what weakened it enough for Mom to blow its brains out?” Henry asked of Regina, confirming that she’d at least shared the idea with those currently in attendance.
“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”
“Even with the shield against magic, though?”
That was a valid point, though Jones was certain he’d felt the same symptoms as the too-familiar curse, and Emma had mentioned seeing the telltale green light. He’d been too preoccupied to notice that detail himself.
“There had to have been some magic allowed,” reasoned Emma. “Unless you’re telling me the Vocivore could convert…” She paused abruptly as if realizing at the last second what she had been about to say so casually in Killian’s presence. “Well…” she stammered, “get its energy the way it did and… have the control it did… all with purely natural processes.”
Killian was staring resolutely at Hope’s artwork as if it were a lifeline cast into a roiling sea. In apology, Emma began running her fingers through his scalp, gently massaging the tension away.
“It very well could have been,” shrugged Regina. “We might know more once the necropsy is completed. The other possibility is that the shield isn’t 100% effective, or allows certain types of magic through, or something. The bottom line is, yes, I believe that’s what happened, and yes, I think the poison is gone for good now.”
Jones felt a stab of uneasiness as he pictured the unlikely chance that Regina was mistaken. Alice would appear on the gangplank, all smiles at the news of the monster’s defeat, but before she could take a second step toward him, a wrenching pain in his chest would throw him backwards, out of her reach, forever…
“It was all for nothing, then,” came Killian’s halting voice, breaking into the terrifying daydream, and it took Jones a moment to connect back to the previous conversation.
Emma’s “Oh, Killian…” mingled with Regina’s, “What was?” and Jones’ double winced as he clarified,
“All we needed was for Jones to get close, and we could have slaughtered that demon months ago.”
On the one hand, it was heartening to hear Killian following the train of thought with such lucidity. But the audible bitterness in the words tempered any possible lifting of spirits.
“We… we couldn’t have known that,” murmured Emma as she stroked him for all she was worth, desperate to soothe. “Of all the ideas, the infinite number of things we could have thrown at it, how could we have expected that to be the one thing, even if we had known about the residual poison…”
Killian did not appear mollified in the slightest, and Jones could easily sympathize. It wasn’t that Killian would begrudge anyone their collateral freedom or safety after his hard-won victory, or even expect gratitude for his sacrifice. But to think that there had been an easier way would have made anyone a little bit resentful that they’d been subjected to such torture for no reason. There were limits to what a person would willingly suffer, after all, even in the name of love…
Jones was voicing his objection even before it had taken solid form in his mind. “Actually, mate, I’m not so sure about that.”
All eyes were upon him now. He offered an apologetic smile before continuing.
“That curse… it didn’t work on just anyone. Or I would have been cut off from any human contact for the span of decades. But that isn’t the way it happened.” He drew a breath, considering. It wouldn’t be a comfortable truth, what he was about to share, and there was no guarantee it would help Killian feel any better about the whole thing. But it would justify the struggle, and as far as Jones knew, it was accurate.
“The poison was enacted to separate me from the one I loved. It only affected me in proximity to Alice. And from the admittedly brief impression I got of the monster… there wasn’t a lot that it truly loved.”
Killian looked away as the words sank in, a flash of nauseated loathing crossing his face, followed by humiliated shame. Emma swore under her breath and rubbed one hand across her eyes. But Regina appeared taken by the idea.
“Huh. And Killian’s immunity, granted by way of being a former Dark One, meant that he was in the Master’s presence for far longer than the rest, making it possible for it to grow fonder of him than usual. It makes sense.”
Though she seemed reluctant to cause her husband further distress, Emma added her own evidence in a low, almost angry tone. “Those last few minutes… It did seem to get weaker the closer it got to… to Killian.”
“So really,” concluded Regina, “everything had to happen the way that it did. We’ve learned that it did not care for female voices, so that rules out Emma as a possibility. You were the only one who could have done this. Or, at least, the only one who would have been successful. Sounds like a one-in-a-million chance, everything lined up the way it needed to: your resistance, the way you were able to hide your true purpose from the monster, even the length of time you spent there. A week earlier, and maybe the Vocivore would not have had the time to develop a strong enough bond to be affected by the curse. We got lucky.”
Silence reigned in the room for several long moments as everyone thought of countless ways the scenario could have fallen apart and led to a more dire outcome. Killian lay with his eyes closed, but Jones knew he was not asleep. His forehead creased in an uncomfortable scowl, and every so often, his jaw muscles would jump as he clenched his teeth. Emma continued to play with his hair, probably hoping that the gesture would keep him grounded in reality.
Rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway, bringing with them a sense of purpose as they drew closer. Then Dr. Whale rounded the corner, wearing a grim expression. He hesitated for an instant when he noticed the somber crowd in the room, then focused on Jones, of all people.
“Detective, good; I’m glad I caught you. Care to join me out in the hall for a minute?”
Somewhat nonplussed, Jones glanced at Regina, then said,
“Aye, of course.” He turned his attention back to Killian, who was listlessly watching the exchange. “Take care.” He smirked as he added, “Don’t let this bully drive you too hard.”
Killian answered with a weary nod of acknowledgement but did not seem to derive much humor from the jibe. Regina once again took over escort duty, and Henry got up to exit with them both.
“I’ll be back to see you again soon,” promised Henry.
Just before following the rest out the door, Whale held up an admonishing finger toward his patient.
“Stay put, Hook,” he commanded, as if Killian could do anything else. “I’ll be right back in to take a look at you.”
Regina paused outside of the exit but Whale gestured toward a window further down the hall.
“Over there.”
When they reached the desired rendezvous, Whale positioned himself in front of Jones so that he could look him squarely in the face. Without any need to be prompted, the physician made a blunt statement.
“Hook isn’t doing well; I’m sure I don’t really need to tell you that.”
Jones couldn’t see Regina’s face, but Henry was in view, and his closed off expression mirrored the wary anticipation with which Jones awaited further explanation.
“We performed another MRI this morning, and the neural deterioration is continuing at an alarming rate despite his being away from whatever caused it in the first place. I’ve got people searching the compound for clues, and we’re awaiting any information the dissection of the monster might provide, but if something doesn’t change soon, I wouldn’t expect him to last another week.”
Their little corner of the hospital seemed to go deathly silent for a moment, as if even the plumbing within the walls had paused out of respect. Jones’ heart went out to Emma, keeping vigil over her weakening husband and unable to provide much more in the way of assistance. To lose him now, after what they’d both been through…
“Bloody hell.”
“What about the treatments you were working on with the other slaves?” Henry sounded slightly panicked, and rightfully so.
“And I thought he had better protection then the others,” added Regina, icy cold in her own way of dealing with emotion.
“What was a benefit to him before is now a definite disadvantage. For whatever reason, the protection also is making him more resistant to all attempts to slow the progression. Like some extra blood-brain barrier or something, but nothing that we can obviously see from his scans. That’s where you come in, Detective.”
Whale’s eyes bored into Jones’ as the physician attempted to drill into him the seriousness of his next words. “Emma has already agreed to allow us to study her, the only other example of a former Dark One that we have easy access to. But we’d like to run a few tests on you, too, as a sort of control subject, since your biology is basically the same as his except for the Dark One-ness. Would you be willing?”
“No question,” Jones agreed without hesitation. “Whatever I can do to help.”
Whale looked relieved, as if he had truly doubted whether Jones would agree. “Great. Thank you.” He drew a big breath, clapped Jones on the uninjured shoulder–which still wasn’t the most comfortable gesture he could have made–and added, “I’ll take a look at tomorrow’s schedule and give you a call with instructions later this afternoon.”
With that, he whisked away, headed for Killian’s room.
Henry ran a hand through his hair, looking shell-shocked. “Man, I… I mean, I knew it was pretty bad, but… not thatbad.”
Regina briskly aimed the wheelchair toward the elevator, practically marching down the hall. “He’ll be all right, Henry. Whale’s pretty smart, despite his looks, and don’t forget, we’re still working on getting magic back, too. We’ll figure something out.”
No one brought up the fact that magic had been unable to help the victims brought in before its disappearance. The prognosis was grim enough as it was.
AN: HUGE thank you to @justsomewhump, who unknowingly helped to make the resolution to this story so much better! The original thought was to have the poison defeat the Master no matter how it tried to escape, because it only loved itself. But justsomewhump’s amazing (and detailed!) comments helped highlight how it felt about Killian. One of the weaknesses of the original plot line was exactly what Killian brought up in this chapter: all of the suffering could have been avoided if only Jones had gone into the Vocivore’s presence earlier. But having its love focused on Killian gave his sacrifice a deeper meaning and meant that no one else could have done what he did. Which is much more satisfying, in my opinion :) So THANK YOU, friend (and happy belated birthday)!
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
Being startled by argumentative voices at his bedside was not the most pleasant way to wake up… but it was better than the nightmares.
“Regina, I’m telling you, that’s how Gold said to interpret it.” At least Emma was trying to keep her tone quiet. “The darker the colors, the stronger the shielding.”
“It started at the compound and spread to Storybrooke. How is it suddenly concentrated here?”
Killian slitted his eyes open, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was they were bickering over. Emma sighed.
“How would I know? We all thought it would dissipate once the monster was dead, but if anything, it’s still getting stronger.”
Wearing her coldest scowl, Regina resumed studying the tablet device in her hands. Finally, she relented, somewhat bitterly if the drugs weren’t messing with Killian’s interpretation.
“Fine. We’ll pull people from the cleanup of the compound to take a look around the park. But this had better not be another waste of town resources.”
Emma did not flinch, at least not outwardly. But she did reach for the tablet, appearing confused. “Park? I thought it was strongest near City Hall.”
Impatiently, Regina tilted the screen in her direction. “That’s clearly the park, Sheriff Swan.”
Emma’s only response was a thoughtful, “Huh.”
Slamming the protective case closed, Regina noted Killian watching with tired eyes, but simply shot him an icy glare before turning and marching toward the door.
“I’ll call you,” she told Emma. And then she was gone.
Emma moved closer to Killian’s bedside.
“Sorry. I would have met her outside, but there’s a surgeon coming to take a look at your hand any minute.” She gently caressed his cheek. “Think you want them to knock you out for that?”
Grimacing, Killian shook his head once. The thought of more surgery was a lot to stomach just then–although the alternative was the possibility of permanent reduction in function, which was obviously worse–and he didn’t want to add post-anesthesia effects into the mix if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, it couldn’t be much worse than the multiple daily nursing visits he’d been enduring, where they forced him through breathing exercises and coughing, leaving him nauseated with pain by the time they were finished.
“Shielding?” he croaked. His voice still sounded like the warm-up grunts of a wall-eyed seagull just before it let loose with a full-on cackle. Whether that was due to vocal strain or the breathing tube he’d had down his throat was not something he wanted to dwell on. At least the claustrophobic oxygen mask had been traded for the somewhat-less-annoying nasal prongs during the day, which helped the communication issue.
Emma fished an ice chip from the cup on the bedside table and popped it into his mouth. They never helped much but were better than nothing.
“Yeah. Whatever is preventing the use of magic,” Emma explained. “Rumplestiltskin helped figure out a way to show it on a map. We were hoping to pinpoint its source so we can shut it off.”
“Croc…?” he managed around the soothing ice shard. Emma made a face.
“When I went to go punch him in the… I mean, went to go get Hope, remember?”
Hope dead.
His eyes were open. All the details of the hospital room, his wife at his side, all plainly visible. Yet all he could see was the gruesome conjured figure of a corpse. A tiny, bloodied body. Meant as protection, intended to haunt him for only a fleeting, temporary span of time, yet necessary for so much longer and now much too close to the surface. Too detailed. Too real. Tainting all of his memories from before.
On instinct, Killian began to reach for his face, as if by digging his fingers into his eyes or even gouging them out could erase that image, but he was thwarted by tandem, grating pains in shoulder joint and daggered ribs. Momentarily overwhelmed, he squeezed his eyes shut, but that only served to bring the nightmare images back into full focus. Emma saw his torment and placed a gentle hand on his forearm.
“Killian?”
“I need… to see her…” he gritted out, one growling word at a time.
“I know you do,” soothed Emma. Hope kidnapped. “I just wasn’t sure about having her see you like this…” Hope tortured. “And I don’t think she’s allowed in here, anyway.” Hope dead.
Hope dead.
Hope DEAD.
Killian hiccuped a sob and again started to reach for his eyes, despite his damaged shoulder, despite the torn hand and shattered, spiked wrist. Hope dead. SCREAM FOR ME, TRIPOD. Dead… I REQUIRE YOUR SCREAMS.
Emma had a firm grip on both of Killian’s arms, but he was struggling to free himself, compelled to scrabble the graphic pictures from his mind, welcoming the pain as a desperate alternative to the voices persecuting him.
“Killian! Killian!” Emma was shouting. She probably only had trouble containing his flailing limbs due to not wanting to squeeze him too hard, but a part of him craved that. The machines monitoring his condition began chiming their various alarms as his vitals went haywire, responding to the struggle taking place.
“She’s fine, Killian; I swear to you! She got to spend a single exciting day with Belle and now is getting spoiled rotten by her grandparents. Look, I’ll show you, but you’ve gotta stop this! You’re hurting yourself!”
With difficulty, Killian reigned in the impulses driving the thrashing, pressing both arms hard into the mattress underneath him as his fisted hand pulsed with blazing fire. Shuddering, he panted through clenched teeth and tried to focus on his wife. Seeing him settling, Emma fumbled her phone from a pocket and trembled her way through the process of unlocking the screen and navigating to the photo gallery.
“Here, see?” She sounded frantic, her voice thin and high. “This was this morning, while you were down in Radiology.” She thrust the phone at him, too close to properly see even if her hands weren’t shaking and his eyes blurred with tears. Before Killian had time to try and focus on the image, Emma was swiping to the next picture.
There was a small form, dressed in familiar colors and radiating an apparent happiness as she was enfolded tightly in strong, masculine arms. The next blur was zoomed out to show a man’s face, a hand cradling soft curls against his chest. Killian blinked, tears running freely now, and caught a quick glimpse of an emotional David before the obscuring haze was back. Emma flipped through more images, sniffling as well at the memory of her parents’ reunion with Hope. Killian’s pulse and blood pressure had calmed slightly as his mind focused on the sight in front of him.
“They were happy to see her,” she said softly, then laughed once. “And Hope was totally oblivious to how much they had missed her. She would only tolerate so much cuddling before it was time to play.”
Killian’s tearful grimace was almost a smile, picturing the scene as Emma had described it. Little Hope was only ever snuggly when tired; at all other times it was go, go, go.
A stark contrast to the motionless corpse of his visions.
Hope kidnapped, Hope–
Killian scowled at the phone, trying to drive false images away with the truth. This morning, Emma had said. This morning, Hope had been swept up in her grandfather’s arms, had planted a sticky kiss on her grandmother’s cheek, had run off to play with uncle Neal, every moment captured in loving detail by her mother’s phone and laid out plain for him to see…
A single glint of red wormed its way among the blur. Perhaps a ribbon, perhaps a sports ball, a cardinal’s wing or even Swan’s leather jacket caught somehow in frame. Whatever the culprit, it was enough.
Crimson spread from that single point, blending with his tears to engulf happy, innocent pictures in vivid blood. Blood, on the grass, in the sky, blood on David’s hands and on Snow’s cheek, in Wilby’s fur. Blood. Hope was bathed in blood, drowning in it, tortured, cold and dead, her loved ones grieving and painted with her blood.
With a horrified cry, Killian grabbed at his face, and this time, Emma was too slow. Over-stretched tendons groaned within his shoulder, severed flesh inside his hand combusting along the way, but Killian ignored it all. The pointed end of the wrist ring left a shallow gouge beneath his eye, even through the layers of gauze surrounding it, and as Emma dropped her phone, Killian moaned,
“It’s not enough. Not…” A sob caught in his throat. He heard Emma pleading with him, felt her hands on his wrists, but all he could see was the blood. “Swan… please…!”
“You’ll see her!” Emma cried, near hysteria. “I’ll bring her, sneak her past the nurses and Whale; to hell with their rules! But I need you to calm down!”
Whimpering, Killian continued digging both wrists into his eye sockets, shaking with horror and anguish. Emma managed to yank his now-bleeding hand away, but it took both of her own to do it. Practically kneeling on the pinioned arm, she cursed and hit the nurse call button.
NO HOPE, TRIPOD.
Maybe his Master was right, thought Killian as twisting, cramping pain invaded his fragile lung. Maybe he would never be free of the horrific images. Maybe all hope really was lost.
Perhaps he should have never stopped praying for death to claim him.
No immunity, not in the end. He had resisted as long as he could. But now, he no longer had any control over his body. He could do nothing but lie helpless, paralyzed and at the mercy of the creature endlessly circling. Tapping that eerie cadence around and around, stopping only to prod at him, squeeze and pinch and crush. His ankle. His hand. His ribs.
Killian could not even scream anymore. Sometimes he felt on the verge of knowing why. The tentacle snaking down his throat did not truly hurt, though on occasion it inspired such panic that he would rather be dead than endure its presence any longer. Then the moment would pass, he would lose concentration and forget the invader, and try to beg an instant’s peace, and wonder why even the smallest hint of his pathetic pleas would not come forth.
YOU CAN NEVER BE FREE OF ME. I SHALL HAVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Yes, Master.
Had there truly been a time when that commanding voice held no sway? The mantra scripted, the despair half-pretend?
NO MATTER. SAY IT FOR ME AGAIN. FEED ME YOUR MISERY.
No hope.
IT IS REAL THIS TIME.
No hope.
THE BATTLE IS LOST.
No hope.
NO HOPE. NO HOPE, TRIPOD. NO HOPE FOR ANY OF YOU. KILLIAN.
Killian?
*****
Emma burst into the waiting lounge, cursing, her heart pounding as if she’d just sprinted up to the top of the clock tower. Of course they would page her as soon as she ran down to the cafeteria for five minutes; she should never have let her dad talk her into taking a snack break.
“Whale?” she called urgently even as she spotted the physician’s distinctive shock of bleached hair across the room. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked even more haggard than before; apparently, the past 30 hours had been rough on him, as well. He did not get up when he heard his name, opting to merely wait until Emma had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Dr. Whale gave her a reserved smile before speaking.
“He’s out of surgery.”
For an instant, Emma thought she might black out from the relief. Whale rubbed at bloodshot eyes, continuing,
“We did everything we could for him, for now. His lung has been repaired, his shoulder reduced, and temporary closures provided for his other injuries; they’ll have to be addressed at a later date, when he’s stronger. He’s had probably a dozen units of blood and may require more over the coming days.”
Emma felt a hand on her shoulder and realized that her father must have cleared up quickly downstairs in order to be able to be with her, and then snuck in while her attention had been riveted on the physician’s words.
Whale sighed and stretched his neck.
“I’m not going to lie, Emma; he’s not out of the woods yet. He’ll need constant supervision in the Intensive Care Unit until we’re sure he won’t crash on us at any second. The biggest complication that we’re dealing with right now is the neurological condition which, I can’t even remember if I told you, has gotten exponentially worse since Wednesday.”
“The brain shriveling?” clarified David, and Whale nodded.
“The best thing for thatwould have been to keep him sedated while we work on a therapy, like we did for the others, but for some unknown reason, every sedative we’ve tried has only made everything worse. His blood pressure will fall, or he’ll develop an arrhythmia or respiratory depression or something else equally as dangerous. It’s totally bizarre, and none of the other slaves have reacted this way. Bottom line is, I don’t think it’s safe to keep throwing different sedatives at him and hoping one will stick. We’ll allow him to wake up and just try to keep him comfortable with painkillers.”
Around a lump in her throat, Emma managed to ask,
“But didn’t you say the brain condition is slowed down when they’re sedated?”
“I did,” shrugged Whale. “But faster brain deterioration will kill him slower than a clot caused by low BP would.”
Emma nodded slowly, the long list of threats to her husband’s life squeezing at her heart until she could not speak. Behind her, David quietly asked,
“What about something like total anesthesia? Would that slow the condition?”
“That would be even more risky than sedation,” explained Whale. “With general anesthesia, you always want to use the smallest dose for the shortest amount of time, otherwise all sorts of bad things can happen, from respiratory arrest to brain damage.”
A moment of heavy silence filled the room, uninterrupted by the background noises of the busy hospital. Then Emma squared her shoulders.
“So when can I see him?”
With great reluctance, Whale stood up, unfolding slowly like a man many years his senior.
“Let’s go,” he groaned. “He’s going to be disoriented at first; hopefully you can help with that.” He glanced at David, then back at Emma as he added,
“Only you, though. For the time being, at least.”
David caught Emma’s hand in a quick squeeze. “Give him our best.”
*****
His Master had its clawed hand around his arm, squeezing without involving any of its nails. It hurt the stake driven through his wrist. But that was, after all, its privilege.
Harder, Master. Take what you will. I am yours.
“Killian.”
Bloody hell. Swan was in the church. He could hear her. He could almost see her, if he tried hard enough to open his eyes and focus. Impossible!
I SHALL HAVE HER TOO.
No!
A piercing pinch. A whimper without sound.
Yes… Master…
*****
It could only be an extension of his Master’s recording experiment, but how it was supposed to succeed was utterly mystifying. Any little sound stalled before it even started, not just the screams he wanted to unleash. So how would his Master glean any sort of energy from him this way?
THAT IS NOT YOUR CONCERN.
Killian’s elbow twitched and he felt an immediate jolt of stiff pain in his shoulder. He could not say when he’d been torn loose from his imprisonment, what almost certainly should have been the structure against which he’d breathed his last and surrendered his soul. The figment Emma was back, or perhaps had never left, though their Master had yet to make good on its threats against her. It must wish to drain the last remaining drops of scream energy from him first, wringing him out like a filthy, useless rag, scraping him down to the rind and then beyond.
She called to him. He could not acknowledge.
I AM HERE, insisted his Master. He felt it. Its marks of possession carved into his flesh. Unyielding limbs pinning him, holding him still.
Which of its appendages was slender enough to slip inside a nostril? Killian had no recollection of that particular trick.
“Hold still–”
DO NOT MOVE, TRIPOD.
Something twitched deep down inside his chest, sparking a powerful urge to retch. The Master’s device between his teeth confirmed itself as not-tentacle by its texture and flaccid presence, no roiling, pulsating muscle beneath its rubbery exterior, and yet it began moving again, this time sliding up his throat and exiting in one long, slippery slither, its tip scraping irritated muscle as it went.
Gagging hurt, but coughing was worse.
“Breathe,” urged many voices, Emma’s and at least one other. Z, if she weren’t dead and could speak. Or maybe it was only after death that she would.
FILL THOSE LUNGS WITH SCREAMS.
*****
When Dr. Whale had first led Emma inside, she would have sworn it was the wrong room. Her emaciated husband was simply unrecognizable, even compared to what she’d seen of him the day before. Discolored, withered, and limp, taped and wrapped, sickly pale skin free of dirt but painted with a sheen of sweat. After so many situations just like this, she probably should be at least somewhat accustomed to all of the gadgets necessary for life support, but they shocked her every time. Whale’s team had at least traded the I/O line for a more long-term central line, which she knew would cut down on the number of needle sticks necessary for blood sampling and the like.
Emma sighed. He was going to hate this. He always did, but now the parallels to his time as the Vocivore’s slave–not in control of much of anything, feeling trapped and helpless–would make it that much worse. Not to mention the damage to his hand that would take away all autonomy.
Well, she told herself, it was a miracle he was even around to hate it. And besides, it would be different this time. Magic would return soon; it had to. And then, even if she couldn’t heal everything completely, she might be able to shorten his length of stay in his least favorite place.
No, she realized. She now knew of several places that would rank lower than this.
“Killian?” she called again, tenderly stroking his bony arm. In the 15 minutes she had been with him, he had showed some brief flashes of near-awareness: slight limb movements, fluttering of his eyelids, minute grimaces eliciting pangs of sympathy within her. In response to her voice, his heart rate would pick up momentarily, though it was difficult to tell whether that was from glad recognition or startled anxiety. In between, however, he would settle back into a frightening stillness that only the monitors proved could not be death.
A few minutes ago, a couple of nurses had removed the endotracheal tube from his throat after Whale had declared him stable enough to breathe on his own. The bout of choking that followed was painful to watch, but Killian still seemed mostly out of it as they attached an oxygen mask to his battered face. His eyes fluttered briefly open but did not focus before slipping closed. Since then, it was back to nothing again.
Whale appeared beside her and leaned over Killian in order to have a listen to both lungs.
“He’ll come around in his own time,” he assured Emma. “This is not unusual after such extensive surgery.”
*****
Something had changed.
The paving stone had warmed, softening into something almost comfortable, a concept so unfamiliar as to be suspicious. The persistent cooing from up above mingled with an utter cacophony of bewildering sounds, none of which belonged to any reality within the horribly familiar confines of the sanctuary. And the light touch on his arm, the gentle stroking along intact flesh… for the first time, it was not altogether unpleasant. Which would only confirm what he no longer feared: total, unreserved surrender.
Does it please you, my Master?
The end of the deception and the fight.
IT IS GOOD.
He could feel it prodding at his chest with its cold, unyielding legs. He did not pull away. No horror stirred his heart, though he knew it wanted something of him.
WAKE UP.
More places were being petted, encircled, or invaded than his Master had limbs to account for; nothing made sense. And why was it insisting he wake up when he was already awake? Perhaps he could appease it with a groan.
Killian coughed. His whole throat felt raw as if acid slime had eroded all the tissue away.
I may no longer have any screams to give.
His ankle spasmed. Stabbing, burning cramps spread up his wrist from an oddly immobile hand. But his Master seemed unfazed by the revelation and continued its touching.
“Please–OPEN YOUR EYES–Killian. It’s time–YOU MUST WAKE–wake up now.”
The babbling had returned, voices on top of voices, all begging to be heard amidst the rolling of whitecaps pitching the floor into sudden, violent motion, squashing him down as though he weighed a thousand pounds, and in an instant, Killian was retching like the greenest of new recruits on their first day at sea.
If he’d thought coughing hurt, his stomach trying to eject what wasn’t there took that pain and magnified it a hundredfold.
“…Pretty common, too, after anesthesia…”
Shut the hell up, Whale, and let a man die in agonized peace.
HE WON’T ASPIRATE WITH THE NG TUBE CLEARING HIS STOMACH.
“Trust me.”
His Master’s suit had turned white.
The bucking slowed, gravity returning to normal from his feet upwards. Killian’s eyes were watering in lights far too bright and colorless, lacking any hint of refracted hue.
It wasn’t a white suit. A white coat.
“Killian?”
Tilting his neck even the slightest degree seemed to drive iron stakes all around its perimeter. Killian blinked away the tears into which his Master’s image had dissolved, leaving behind only smeared shapes and hazy colors as it bellowed a whisper,
I REMAIN.
His first in-focus sight had to be of bloody Whale, leaning over him in professional study. But the physician’s voice hadn’t been the only one to blend with the Vocivore’s menace.
“Swan?” he mumbled, almost noiseless, and promptly gagged. What he’d taken for a tentacle tightened on his arm in trembling reassurance.
“I’m here, Killian.” She moved into his field of vision and his weary eyes looked into her face, desperate for the calm that only she could provide. “You’re safe; you’re at the hospital. You made it.”
Though his vision remained blurred and unsteady, there was no mistaking the relief on her face, nor the steady stream of tears coursing down her cheeks as she tried to smile.
Sudden, paralyzing panic overtook him; he could not remember… his Master, it was there, always there, but beyond its looming presence… only fragments. A life. Such a precious life… and a corpse…
“Wh…” he tried, then, “H…”
“Don’t try to talk just yet,” interjected the bothersome physician. “You had a tube down your throat to help you breathe, and there still a smaller one going down into your stomach to help with nausea and for feeding later.”
The majority of Whale’s words got lost in the storm clouds of confusion and worry, and Killian chose to ignore the rest. But moving to keep Emma in view brought a wave of such intense pain that the room lights went out and a high-pitched, pressurized buzzing filled his ears.
“For the love of God, Hook,” Dr. Whale was saying, muffled at first but slowly clearer as Killian’s senses returned. “Hold still; there’s about 101 places you could tear open and we just finished putting you back together.”
Killian could only gulp unsatisfying breaths under the weight of the several cannonballs that seemed to be piled on his chest. In a much more patient tone, Emma pleaded,
“Try and relax, Killian; everything is fine. Hope is fine. The monster is dead. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
Hope. It was Hope, the corpse. Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead. Emma was saying one thing, but he saw another. Hope dead. Maybe Emma didn’t know. So many terrifying scenes jumbled in his head. So much screaming and pain and despair. And Hope’s corpse, there among the flashes. The wounds were real. The Master was real. But Hope dead was not?
How would he ever be certain?
Emma’s touch; that felt real. Whale and his lackeys, as they performed their checks and asked questions he could not possibly comprehend… less so, but then again, their knowledge struck him as far beyond anything he could ever conjure.
Whence came the corpses?
I HAVE CONSUMED THEIR SCREAMS. THEY ARE DEPLETED.
His Master once again circled his bed. And Killian closed his eyes. Resigned to the torture.
*****
Emma watched her husband slip back into a troubled slumber and scrubbed at her face. The brief moment of clarity had been equally as encouraging as heartbreaking. He knew her; that was certain, and momentarily seemed to soothe at her touch, but the long periods of terrified delirium before and after had been difficult to stomach. Not to mention the apparent anguish that any small movement caused him.
Whale finished scribbling a progress note and pursed his lips. “Well, that went about as well as could have been expected. His neuro scores are encouraging, so we don’t have to be as concerned about hypoxic brain injury.”
Clearing her throat, Emma resumed resting her hand on Killian’s arm. Whether or not he consciously felt her presence, subconsciously she had to believe that she could provide a bit of a buffer between him and his nightmares. “Sure didn’t last long.”
“Combination of post-anesthesia and his pain meds. Really, sleep is the best thing for him, as long as it stays peaceful like this.” He checked a readout on the complicated IV pump and made a quick adjustment. “It’ll probably be like this the first few times. You may have to keep reminding him where he is and all that; he might not remember each time he wakes up. By tomorrow morning, I’d expect him to seem more alert and possibly stay awake for longer periods of time.”
The physician yawned and did not even seem sorry. “It’s going to be another long night, Emma. People in and out frequently. You’re welcome to stay, but no one would be surprised if you decided to go home for a couple hours’ sleep.”
Emma shook her head. “I need to be here for him.”
“Your choice.” He headed for the door. “Don’t hesitate to call someone if you have any questions or concerns.”
After he left, Emma watched Killian breathe, reassured by the small cloud of condensation that formed on the inside of his mask each time he exhaled. Then she composed a quick update to her father; she knew he would take care of spreading the word to everyone else waiting for news. That accomplished, she settled in for her lonely vigil.
Killian had endured a month’s worth of little to no rest, and low-quality sleep when he could get it. Compared to that, three or four nights of watching at his bedside was nothing.
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,
