#vocivore ltd

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

Present (Thursday)…

Zzzzzzzz…

Shave day.

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.

Would he be up to the challenge?

________________________________________________________________

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.

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

Present (Tuesday)…

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)!

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Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

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 

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Present (Monday, continued)…

“Deeeeeep inna hundred acre wood…”

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. 

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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

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

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Present (Monday)…

“Wellthat doesn’t make any sense.”

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.

________________________________________________________________

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***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

Present (Saturday)…

In the presence of his Master, Killian lay inert.

There was no escape. Not ever.

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. 

________________________________________________________________

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

Present (Friday, continued)…

How many times now?

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,

“Glad you’re in one piece. For the most part.”

________________________________________________________________

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***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

                 (what the heck happened to the horizontal line, tumblr??)

Present (Friday, continued)…

The first siren was the most beautiful sound Jones had heard in a very long time. His sense of time had been growing increasingly fuzzy, but his estimate would have leaned toward a wait of at least an hour. Likely a gross exaggeration, but with Killian in such dire straits, and the attention-seeking behavior of his own dizzying pain, every moment had stretched to an interminable age.

Thankfully, Emma had resumed the duty of applying pressure to her husband’s wounds, and Jones could take advantage of the respite to recline back against the bloodied altar. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a suspicion that fragments of the stun projectile remained in his throbbing shoulder. Emma had graciously wrapped a second bandage around the first, which seemed to be containing the bleeding for the most part, but didn’t do much for the agony. All adrenaline now long gone, Jones could feel each heartbeat through the wound, and an overwhelming exhaustion pressed down upon him. More than once, he had caught himself beginning to topple sideways, close to passing out. Dizziness bordered on nausea. He could only imagine how Killian must be feeling. As far as Jones could tell, his counterpart drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently coming back with sobs of terror as he relived tortures endured, and Emma could not always soothe him easily.

Now, as the first scream of a siren echoed up to the rafters, Jones forced himself alert and struggled closer to Killian’s side, knowing that Emma would want to direct the help where it was needed most. She met his gaze gratefully, squeezed Killian’s knee with a murmured word of encouragement, then rose. As she jogged toward the front door, Jones listened to the labored breathing beside him and prayed that the medics weren’t too late.

“In here,” called Emma, one foot still inside the church. Evidently she was reluctant to leave her husband for too long. “Hurry!”

Killian whimpered and Jones lay a gentle hand on his forearm.

“Still with us, mate?”

Uniformed paramedics trooped inside, following Emma’s urging, and Killian shivered, seemingly only half-aware of his surroundings. The detective managed one more reassuring squeeze before shuffling aside. He watched with hooded eyes the efficient dance of emergency medical assessment, waving off attention for his own injuries in favor of faster intervention for Killian.

The medics were quick to administer supplemental oxygen as they measured vitals and made a preliminary examination of his wounds. Emma managed level-headed answers to their questions, keeping out of their way but determined to stay by Killian’s side. He seemed confused and afraid, struggling against every touch despite Emma’s pleas for him to remain calm. The medic at his left side was already on her third cannula as she tried to hit a moving target. Pouches of blood and saline awaited only a reliable access to Killian’s compromised circulatory system.

Emma’s phone buzzed. After reading the message and typing a quick reply, she reported to no one in particular,

“Second ambulance is close. My dad’s following in his truck. He’s gonna direct them in here.”

One of Killian’s medics seemed to be getting ready to activate a power drill into his upper arm. Jones wondered if he might be starting to hallucinate, but in response to Emma’s look of confusion, the medic explained how the long bones can be just as effective at transporting drugs and fluids as peripheral veins are. “It’s not overly painful,” yeah right. Already woozy, Jones couldn’t watch, and even Emma had to look away as the battery-powered device buzzed a stylet through skin and muscle and into the humerus. Perhaps the woman was correct; Killian didn’t seem excessively bothered. He’d grown quiet and mostly still, focused on the effort of breathing. Under the mask, he almost looked like a fish out of water, gulping at air too thin to metabolize. The impression was only strengthened by the bluish-gray tinge to his skin.

This was evidently cause for concern. The activity around him doubled in calm intensity, and even Emma backpedaled to allow them more space to work. Jones was just gathering the fortitude to stretch out a comforting hand when the church door scraped open again. He had missed hearing the new ambulance come wailing up, but he could see a doubling of the whirling flashes outside.

David still had his arm in a sling, but that didn’t stop him from being the first one inside.

“Emma!”

Fixated on her husband’s struggles to breathe, Emma didn’t seem to even hear her father’s call. David urgently beckoned the new arrivals inside and started up the aisle himself. He did an impressive double take at the monstrous corpse on the floor, watching it warily as he skirted an unnecessary circle around it, then hurried to the foot of the stairs. He faced a moment of indecision when catching a glimpse of his son-in-law in the midst of the crowd of medical professionals, eventually deciding to creep up in between Emma and Jones in order to provide his daughter with moral support. Kneeling behind Emma and pulling her close against his chest, he cast a worried glance at Jones.

“Hey, partner. You okay?” he murmured, making sure to keep his voice at a level that would not disrupt critical communications elsewhere.

“Glad you could j-join us, mate,” Jones gritted out, shivering painfully. The sackcloth tunic he wore certainly did not provide much warmth. He was beginning to regret having insisted Emma lay all of the blankets she’d found over Killian, especially considering that most of them were now strewn carelessly in a heap after the medics had desired better access to their patient.

David read his thoughts and reached gingerly around Emma, grasping at one of the discarded blankets nearby. Absently, Emma helped him to drag it back out of the way. The prince tore his eyes away from the frantic scene in front of him, gave Emma a comforting squeeze, then pulled away. As he spread the blanket over his quaking partner, David hissed,

“What the hell happened? What were you two even doing here?”

“Saving the world, naturally,” grimaced Jones. The second band of EMTs had finally arrived, and they were trotting toward the altar, though to Jones it appeared as if they were moving in slow motion. David finished tucking the corner behind his good shoulder, leaving the fabric loose beneath the saturated bandage on the other side.

One uniformed man started to set up shop at Jones’ right just as Emma turned and reached for David, her strong façade crumbling. David was forced to adjust his position in order to accommodate his wounded shoulder blade. As the prince gathered his weeping daughter in his arms, Jones could hear him whispering words of hope. He’s going to be ok. They’ll get him home; Whale will fix him up. People could survive a collapsed lung. And they were talking about Killian, here.

Jones heard all of this despite the other portion of his attention devoted to responding to the questions being put to him by the two EMTs assessing him. Turning his face away from the blood pressure cuff that was currently magnifying the throb in his coat-hanger-pierced forearm, Jones caught sight of what had so deeply upset Emma. Not only were the medics inserting some sort of drain in Killian’s chest below the still-protruding dagger, but they were also preparing to intubate and take over his respirations with mechanical ventilation. It all looked serious and scary, but was obviously for the best, if his own efforts were ineffective.

True professionals, Jones’ medics kept their focus solely on him despite the commotion nearby. Their attempts to start an IV were barely distinguishable from the squeezing, pulsing anguish lower down his punctured forearm; Jones was just grateful they hadn’t yet pulled out their bone drill to use on him. As he looked past the gurney that was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Jones spotted the massive corpse of the Master slumped where they’d left it. And surrounding it…

“Bloody hell,” muttered the detective. Still in the dark about the situation and extremely on edge, David’s head snapped up and he looked around wildly, fumbling for his gun.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“They’re over there.” Jones gave a stiff nod to indicate the direction in which he was looking.

The slaves were gathering around their Master. Forming a mournful and eerie circle tribute. Or maybe it was panicked directionlessness. Even those too weak, stunned, or injured to walk were compelled to slither along the ground, inch by agonizing inch, all to be closer to the commanding presence they could no longer feel or hear. If anything were to remind the detective of a zombie horror film, the sight before him now would have been a top contender. Even more were staggering their way into the bustling church, clogging up the doorway through which additional paramedics were attempting to enter.

“Wow,” grunted David, still slightly alarmed. “That’s disturbing.” He glanced warily back at Jones. “You’re not… feeling the urge to join them, are you?”

The detective’s attempt at a laugh came out more like a groan. “Not yet, mate; thank the gods. I’ll let you know if I do.”

“Well,” said David thoughtfully, “at least it will make it easier to round them all up.”

A sudden frenzy of activity distracted both men from the sight. Emma scrambled to her feet as Killian’s backboard was hauled up in preparation for transport to the ambulance. She shot the briefest of glances at her father, but was already making as if to follow even before he had a chance to say,

“You go. I’ll handle things here.”

Just as the front doors had ground to a close behind Killian’s gurney, one of Jones’ medics rose to her feet. She found a place on the altar’s façade on which to hang his bag of saline, saying,

“Okay, Mr. Jones. I know you’re probably anxious to get to the hospital where you’ll be more comfortable, but since you’re stable for now, we are obligated to triage the rest of the scene before deciding who gets priority.”

“Understood,” Jones assured her. “I can wait.”

As she collected her remaining equipment, her partner turned to David.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on him? I’ll tell you what to watch out for.”

David hesitated, looking torn. “I…” He turned stricken eyes upon Jones. “Killian, I didn’t want to give Emma one more thing to worry about, but in her message she said that Hope was… safe? I didn’t see her… and who’s taking care of her right now?”

The detective gave him the best impression of a reassuring grin that he could manage under the circumstances.

“She isn’t here, mate,” replied Jones with a definite slur to his words. He could feel some kind of narcotic beginning to take effect, blurring pain and mental acuity alike. “But she is safe and being looked after; I give you my word.”

David’s teary smile was laced with confusion. “She… but then where…?”

With a deep sigh, the detective closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard surface behind him. “I don’t believe that’s my story to tell, David. Sorry.”

He heard the medic begin to relay quiet instructions to the prince and slitted one bleary eye open to interrupt.

“If you’d rather assist with the injured slaves, I should be okay here. This thing has an alarm, doesn’t it?” Jones indicated the portable EKG currently monitoring his heart rate. David winked at him, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled in next to Jones.

“Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I left you here all alone?” He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get comfortable. “Besides, I wouldn’t be much help anyway with one arm out of commission. Bossing the medics around, I guess, but I get the feeling they don’t need my input.”

Jones gave him the barest hint of a smile before closing heavy eyelids again. “Thank you.”

For the second time in three days, Detective Jones was reminded of that lonely Seattle night, when the poison in his heart had nearly killed him. He even had the aching soreness in his chest as an additional parallel.

How much nicer it was to have a caring friend by his side while he waited!

                                (horizontal line goes here angry face)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

Present (Friday, continued)…

Emma couldn’t hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He’d been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.

She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive… for the moment.

Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.

Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn’t change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian’s arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.

“Killian, hey,” she soothed. “It’s just me.” She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. “You’re gonna be okay.”

She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.

In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.

“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.

“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.

His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I’m here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”

He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to… go…” he groaned. “The monster…”

A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.

Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh… calm down. The monster’s dead; it can’t hurt you anymore.”

Every muscle in her husband’s body stood taut as he fought for air.

“He’s having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.

“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn’t even define the word.

“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.

Killian finally managed to focus on Emma’s face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.

“You’re hurt.”

He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.

“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I’m fine. And you’re ridiculous.”

He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn’t know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position?

She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.

Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.

She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,

“Please, love… get me free of this… bloody thing…”

His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. “I don’t know, Killian… that may not be such a good idea.”

“Please,” he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. “It’ll have to happen… eventually. And I think… it may make it… easier to breathe.”

“It will hurt a lot less after you’ve had some morphine,” she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better…

“Please, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Just do it.”

The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger’s handle and Killian’s palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn’t know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.

As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn’t stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.

“Ahoy there, mate,” said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, “You know, I haven’t forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours.”

Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian’s lips, Jones turned to address Emma. “Suppose I should offer my help anyway.”

Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re up to it?“

Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband’s injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,

“What the hell happened back there?”

“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks.

The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.

Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.

"Think you can help stabilize his hand?” she murmured, and Jones’ gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.

“Yeah, of course.”

Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband’s legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger’s handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian’s wrist.

In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian’s cheek. “You sure?”

Her husband’s eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. “On three, then. One…” She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. “Two…”

On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian’s hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.

“It’s done; it’s out,” Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian’s muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.

Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian’s head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,

“Any better?”

Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.

“Not touching that shoulder. Sorry.” She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.

“Do you want to lie down?”

At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.

Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian’s head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she’d been hoping weren’t actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she’d granted that villain far too easy of a death.   

Killian didn’t look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.

“It’s dead?”

Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian’s eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.

“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.”

As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel.

“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don’t think we need to worry about it.”

“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian’s had been. “They’re lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”

Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.

“He’s right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come.”

Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise.

She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.

“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z’s and would you be able to tell me how to get there?”

Her husband didn’t respond.

“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies.

Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer,

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”

The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn’t have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.

“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.

*****

His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue… all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on?

Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn’t do it. Not again.

A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. “Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it’s only me.”

Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.

“Killian, mate; I promise I’m not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you’re fully recovered. And then… well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker.”

Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.

Detective Jones sat beside Killian’s knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.

“That’s it. See? Nothing to fear now.”

Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn’t a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn’t make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.

“If you’re looking for Emma, she’s just stepped out for a bit,” Jones told him. “In search of bandages and a blanket.”

“Emma…” croaked Killian.

“She’ll be back soon,” soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. “And not much longer until other help arrives as well.”

Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. “How…?”

Jones gave a wry grin. “Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?”

“Can’t murder… a corpse… mate…”

“No, no… you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. “You’re obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?”

Killian’s eyes fluttered closed against his will. “The Crocodile… it was his gadget… made this possible.”

Jones laughed once. “Okay, I’m not averse to that idea… but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party.”

Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,

“I understand, mate. I do. And I can’t say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had.”

Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.

It wasn’t. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,

“How’s he doing?”

“Still with us,” reported Jones, similarly remote. “I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in.”

Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma’s calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.

“Almost,” she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, “I’m pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over.”

Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump​,@killian-whump​,@sancocnutclub​,@killianjonesownsmyheart1​,@courtorderedcake​,@facesiousbutton82​ <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***NEW!! NOW YOU HAVE A VISUAL TO GO INTO THIS CHAPTER WITH!!!!! DETECTIVE JONES GETS IN ON THE WHUMP ACTION AS HE BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!! CHECK IT OUT BEFORE READING!!!!!!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

Present (Friday, continued)…

Jones’ piercing cry throbbed in the new bruises scattered across Emma’s face, arms, and gut, but her own pain was the least of her concerns.

She’d heard the stun gun go off and watched her friend fall, transfixed by the very device meant to protect him. But not even the close-range shooting could account for his pure agony right now, not if her own Killian’s pain threshold was anything to go by.

In a panic and out of her mind with worry for both Joneses, she once again yanked fruitlessly against the slaves holding her captive. Despite apparent signs of their terminal neurological condition, they had no trouble, between the three of them, keeping her contained. She could only watch as Jones’ thrashing weakened, his cries turning to piteous moans. The Master had its back turned to her, but she could only assume it was reveling in the energy flowing all around it, probably healing its wounds and giving it even greater control over all of its helpless followers.

This rescue plan had been doomed from the start, and they were fools for having gone through with it. She’d told Jones. She’d given him clear warning: he had no protection, no Dark One residue or whatever the heck it was that granted her and Killian immunity. Two steps into the church, and Jones had been groveling, submitting to the vile thing currently soaking up his screams. And now they would die, all three of them. Storybrooke, the United Realms: all doomed. And Hope would grow up without a family, just as Emma had done. Okay, Belle would do her best, and the toddler seemed to like Gideon, so she would be okay… until Belle’s death. Followed by Rumple’s sacrifice, in whatever messed-up timeline it occurred. Where would she be then?

As always, Emma tried to squash her feelings into a rage-box. She was mad at Rumple for helping them with the plot. She was mad at Killian for undertaking it, for talking her into it, for making her suffer this month past, all for nothing. She was mad at herself, for not putting her foot down and demanding a better plan. But most of all, she was furious with this hideous monstrosity before her. This bloody bastard that had taken so much from her, from her friends, hell, from all the countless people she didn’t even know. And it was going to win?!

But then, inexplicably, the Vocivore took a step back, then another, and all of its upper limbs curled in toward its chest. Its low groan seemed to shake the very foundations of the shabby sanctuary as it turned toward the altar. Emma read desperation in its eyes, and fear, and confusion. It reached a trembling claw in her direction, and the guards readied themselves for a command that never came. Emma saw with shocked bemusement that a sickly green glow emanated from the center of the creature’s heaving chest. And then the crab legs gave way.

The scream-eater crashed to the paving stones, its pointed legs folded awkwardly beneath its bulk. Emma could only gape as it tore the bow tie from around its neck in an attempt to get more oxygen. In obvious excruciating pain, it wheezed to no one in particular,

“What… is… this?”

The green light in the middle of its chest doubled in intensity, and the monster hunched forward, howling in pain.    

The slave to Emma’s left abruptly stumbled backward, clutching his head. His partners soon followed suit. Whatever the reason–whatever confusion and fear they were facing–Emma didn’t care. She had her freedom: time to destroy this monster once and for all. Emma snatched her pistol from a sobbing slave’s hand, and he made no move to stop her. Whirling, she stalked straight up to the writhing spider-crab, whose eyes reflected a mute, baffled panic.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Krabs? Choke on a sound wave? Two Killians more than you can handle?”

The thing looked deflated somehow; certainly it no longer towered in presence and appearance. On wobbly legs, it pushed itself up and scrabbled backwards, clumsy, suddenly unable to find purchase on the stones over which, just moments before, it had been so self-possessed.

Emma leveled her gun at the beast. She was going to enjoy this. She knew she should really deal a fatal blow up front, while she had the advantage and the creature was distracted by whatever currently affected it. But after all Killian had been through at its claws… after all she had endured, helplessly listening to him suffer… it deserved a little pain, and she deserved a chance to inflict it.

“I don’t know where you came from,” she growled, ruthlessly firing one bullet into a churning leg, “or how you got here.” A second bullet tore into a tentacle coiled in agony. One left. “Your reign ends today. And you will not be causing anyone any more pain… ever… again.”

Flecks of spittle flew from the Vocivore’s mouth as it gasped for breath. Each soulless black eye leaked copious tears, which rained down on its now-filthy waistcoat. The green light radiating from its thorax grew brighter with each backwards step toward the altar. Despite its other wounds, the monster’s upper limbs were all pressed over the pulsing light as if trying to massage away excruciating pain. The damaged leg buckled, the massive bulk wobbled, nearly tipping sideways, and Emma took aim at its repulsive, desperate face.

The monster performed a clumsy half-turn, its right hand reaching pathetically toward its favorite slave. “Tri…pod…”

An especially intense strobe of verdant light shone between its spasming fingers. A horrible, keening sigh groaned from its lungs, half whimper, half growl. Emma stepped closer, the barrel of her pistol pointed straight at the beast’s temple.

“That’s Killian, you bastard.”

Then she pulled the trigger.

Immediately, while the echoes of the shot still rang in the rafters, the Vocivore’s legs gave out and it crashed to the floor. Still upright, balanced on girth and a low center of gravity, but quiet and motionless. A trail of violet raindrops led all the way to the stone wall, where a yellowed parchment advertised a long-done charity drive. Or used to, before it was splattered with monster brains.

The green glow faded from view. Emma held her breath, half expecting the cursed thing to surge back to its feet with a roar of rage, ready to take out its anger on an unresisting Killian. But it stayed down. 10 seconds. 20. Emma slowly expelled a breath. Creeping forward, she boldly prodded the nearest armored leg; as expected, there was no response.

“Hope you like brimstone,” she muttered, all the acid in her voice 100% genuine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jones struggling to sit up. She holstered her weapon and hurried to offer support, noticing as she crouched that the green light had also vanished from his chest. Wincing, Jones clapped a trembling hand over the blood staining the tunic covering his shoulder. He nodded weary thanks for her assistance.

“I’m okay.” He sounded dazed and in pain, but otherwise lucid. He studied the inert form a few yards in front of him, shuddered, then focused farther away, to the other end of the room. “Go to him.”

Emma steeled herself and stood. In the whole time since entering the church, she had not seen one sign of life from her husband; she fully expected to reach out and touch a cooling corpse, yet also clung to the tiny chance that he could still be alive, and as long as she didn’t know for sure one way or the other, she could entertain hope. But she was out of excuses now. If he was alive, he needed urgent help. So she had to be brave now, and face the moment of truth.

Lately, my preferred method of writing is to dictate into my phone’s Memo app while dog walking. Below are some of the resulting speech-to-text errors from “Vocivore, Ltd.” I apparently fail at enunciation!

(Part 1, for those who missed it)

Killian:Killeen, Gillian, Canadian, Ancient Alien(!), Julian

Emma:Noosa, Amazon, unlock

Vocivore:Voice of War, Civil War, Host of Lures, Wilsonville or, post-Civil war, Voiceover, House of or

Rumplestiltskin: Maple Stiltskin XD

“This had the unfortunate effect of jolting the wound in his shoulder” = “This unfortunate effect jolting dog food in his shoulder”

Who was = Hulu Plus

The Wish Realm captain = the mushroom captain

Filling = ceiling fan

Pain in shoulder, chest, and… = pain in Soulja boy chest and golf

The grinning toddler = the granny toddler

Jones assured her quickly = chunks of short hair quickly

Ahoy, mate = Holy meat

To exit with them both = to except with some golf (Guess my phone really likes golf! haha)

Instead of cold nudity = instead of cold ninja tea

He played along for her sake = He Play-Doh long for parasitic

She spotted the physician’s = she Sparta Pizza Physicians

That meant more pain = that meant warpaint

His Swan’s face = his cement face

The physician remarked = the physician flea market

A throbbing ache = a starving egg

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging@ouatwinterwhump​,@killian-whump​,@sancocnutclub​,@killianjonesownsmyheart1​,@courtorderedcake​,@facesiousbutton82​ <3

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE AT THE END!!!!!!

Special thanks again to @sherlockianwhovian​ for organizing the event that started it all :)

A million thanks to @cocohook38​ for the incredible art that I will never ever recover from! LET’S ALL TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT PERFECTION!!! 

COVER ART 1~~~COVER ART 2~~~CHAPTER 1~~~CHAPTER 7~~~CHAPTER 12 (ART)~~~CHAPTER 12 (ANIMATION)~~~CHAPTER 19~~~CHAPTER 34~~~CHAPTER 36~~~@sancocnutclub​ WE ARE SO BLESSED BY YOU!!!!!!!!! (**APPLAUSE AND FLOWERS AT YOUR FEET**)

Thanks to everyone who stuck with it to the end and left such amazing and supportive comments!!! I love you all!

I have an idea or two for new stories, but it will be a while before anything is near ready for sharing. In the meantime, may I humbly direct you to my previous works on FFN? 

“Or Sleep with the Fishes,” “They Never Bury Your Bones,” and “A Captain’s Heart” are all whumpy multichapter tales which I may someday also post to AO3. They can be read in any order but the latter two make small references to their predecessors so may as well read in date order.

Also@killian-whump has a wonderful collection of fics (and art!) by other amazing creators of whump so do check all of them out as well!!

________________________________________________________________

One month later…

Emma took her eyes off of the road for a brief moment to glance over at Killian, who was currently reclined in the passenger seat of the Bug. Just as she had suspected: fast asleep. She let him be, knowing that with the rough road coming up, his nap would not last much longer.

He had only been released from the hospital two days ago, Whale having declared that further recuperation could be managed on an outpatient basis, as long as he remained on bed rest and followed the prescribed regimen of medications to support his physical and mental well-being. Uncharacteristically, Killian was submitting to all of it without complaint, even though the drugs battling the brain deterioration, in particular, left him feeling wiped out and frequently sick. He had hardly been out of bed beyond scheduled short trips down the hall to stretch leg muscles and a stiff ankle, to prevent blood clots, and build strength in his recovering lungs. Apart from that, he had mostly been sleeping, although he never turned away the opportunity to have Hope nearby. Even when she was there against her mother’s wishes. Killian would fix her with a tired smile, hold out a brace-encased hand, and invite her onto the bed next to him. Oreo-Eeyore usually joined them and, more than once, was left behind to keep Killian company after Hope had scampered away.

Today, Hope was attending a half-day Kiddie Cruise hosted by Captain Smee; the first two had been so popular that the Wish Realm captain of the Jolly Roger had been talked into arranging some shorter sailing excursions without the dire motivation behind it. Emma knew that Killian would have liked to attend as well, had he been a bit stronger, but they both trusted Smee and his crew, and Hope’s Auntie Alice was specifically in charge of the three-year-old this time. 

Of course, there was still a small part of both of them loathe to let her out of their sight for any length of time. Emma was getting better about it; Killian still had major difficulty, as his perverse images of her tortured little body were quick to resurface when he didn’t have her physically present to counteract them. But they couldn’t be near her all the time, and their errand today was not an appropriate one to include a toddler in.

Just as anticipated, as the pavement gave way to mud and potholes, Killian’s breathing indicated his return to wakefulness. He did not stir or even open his eyes, but Emma saw the telltale signs of pain and tension in the way he held himself and the very controlled manner with which he drew breath.

“You okay?” she asked quietly. “We can still turn back; you don’t have to do this.”

Killian merely tightened his jaw and nodded once. And really, she had not expected anything different, but she’d had to try. 

*****

There had been much speculation over the origin of the ruined village which had become the Vocivore’s base of operations. Emma’s personal opinion was that it looked like a long-dead World War II village, and being within the borders of the Land of Untold Stories, it was likely the setting of some sort of war romance or similar BS. The bigger mystery was the origin of the monster itself, and how it had come to reside in the United Realms. She was convinced that they would never find a satisfactory explanation of that question.

Thanks to knowledge gleaned from three weeks’ worth of Exchanges, both Killian and Emma knew that they wouldn’t find another Vocivore lurking anywhere nearby, and that it hadn’t… laid eggs or whatever. But that possibility would have been a mere fraction of the rationale behind the village’s eventual condemnation, anyway. None of the buildings were structurally sound, and only a few could have been considered salvageable if someone had the motivation. No one did, of course. Suffering leached into every wall, broken window, and rotting ceiling, like blood stains that could never be scrubbed away. So they would be demolished, the materials repurposed when possible, and the land converted somehow; those details had yet to be determined. But today was day one of the destruction. And the church would be the first building to fall.

Killian shifted in his seat, and though his eyes were still closed, Emma could tell by the quickening of his breaths that he sensed their impending arrival.

She had almost decided not to tell him, fearing that it would upset him too much to think about that place, even in the knowledge of its demolition. But an impulse had caused her to murmur the information in a casual, gentle way the night before he’d been discharged from the hospital. He hadn’t said much at first; Emma had thought that maybe her initial instinct was correct and he didn’t want to even think about it. But then, later, out of the blue and in a tremulous but determined voice, he had surprised her by saying that he wanted to watch. Once out of earshot, she had discussed the idea with Dr. Whale and Dr. Hopper, who had both given a cautious green light, thinking it could serve as therapeutic. But both men had also warned that revisiting the site of so much trauma could be more than Killian could handle so soon, and thus had extracted a promise that she would keep a very close watch on him the whole time. As if she would ever do any different.

Rounding the final bend, the trees began to give way to flashes of bright yellow construction equipment. And even though she was sure she hadn’t given any hint, she could see signs of increased tension from Killian, as if he could sense their proximity without having to open his eyes. The ragged shape of the church’s bell tower loomed above the village, looking even more unstable than when she’d first laid eyes on it. She shuddered with an unexpected chill. This was also her first time back; she had not anticipated that it might be difficult on her as well.

The Bug bumped up onto the beginning of the cobblestone road that paved the village streets. Newer model cars lined both sides, indicating the number of United Realms citizens in attendance that day. The liberal application of yellow caution tape blocking doors and windows gave a cheery, bumblebee mask over the pall of death still present in the doomed community. Emma glanced at Killian and found him quietly observing their progress, working visibly to keep his breaths slow and even.

A rose-dusted pigeon strutted its arrogant little way along the gutter, and Emma battled a brief but powerful temptation to swerve in that direction. A few new scratches to add to the car’s nose would be a small price to pay for the satisfaction of flattening the feathered pest. But it wouldn’t make a difference to the problem as a whole, and Emma didn’t want to cause Killian any additional pain, so she contented herself with casting mental curses in its direction as they passed.

The pigeon quandary persisted, no easy solution to be found. Current suggestions included rounding them all up and transporting them to their natural habitat in New York City, trying to get them to interbreed with regular pigeons to hopefully dilute their ability to block magic, or create a strain of avian flu that would target them specifically and wipe them all out. That last one sounded like the premise of an apocalypse movie to Emma, but with the proven-but-painfully-slow success of his treatment for Vocivore-Slave-Brain, Dr. Whale now considered himself even more of an invincible Scientist! than he had before. 

Meanwhile, the shield expanded, and Killian’s ability to survive a longer trek was worthless because even the furthest reaches of the United Realms were now stripped of their magic as well. A visit to another realm altogether was not out of the picture, but everyone, including Killian, had reservations about the effects of portal travel on his hard-earned progress, so that remained a task for the future. To be honest, at this point, not much benefit would be gleaned from exposure to healing magic anyway, though Emma would have liked to spare him the residual pain, and possibly reduce the visibility of some of his more gruesome new scars.

Later, she promised herself. When they were sure the forces of a portal would not disrupt the fragile healing within his brain and cause a relapse of the condition. Today was about his psychological well-being. She pulled into the village square and came to a halt directly in the center, a front-row seat for the crumbling of remembered demons. Maybe it was absurd to feel resentful towards a building for not falling on its evil occupant when it had the chance, but Emma knew she would feel a vindictive pleasure watching its destruction nonetheless.

*****

The car had stopped, but it was as if the church had continued moving, sliding near, swelling in dimension and darkness until it filled the entirety of Killian’s view out the windshield. In fact, it seemed to fill the car itself, almost as if the car were inside the church and the church inside the car. Or maybe the car didn’t exist at all. Maybe Killian didn’t exist at all; perhaps it was his spirit hovering just beyond the crooked door, just out of sight of the cooling corpse it had recently vacated, now on its way to the place of white light and columns where screams no longer rent the cool morning air. 

AT LONG LAST. MY TRIPOD HAS RETURNED.

The voice was not real. Logically, Killian knew that, had drilled the facts of the monster’s defeat over and over into his mind. The words were of his own creation, filling the space where harsh dominion once dwelt. Whale and Hopper had both confirmed that enough exposure to anything and the brain could replicate sensations even in their absence.

That knowledge did nothing to combat the feelings of despair taking root within Killian now.

I EAGERLY AWAIT YOUR PRESENCE, TRIPOD, his Master seemed to say. COME INSIDE AND YOU SHALL SCREAM AS YOU’VE NEVER SCREAMED BEFORE.

Emma placed an understanding hand on his forearm, which pulsed with residual and remembered pain. A muscular, slithery tentacle; Z’s leather strap, pulling on a ring that was no longer present, dragging him where he did not wish to go, restraining him with a shattering ache that had not truly subsided even after initial reconstructive surgery. The stake was gone; its oppression remained.

“Should I tell them to get started?” Emma’s gentle voice was way out of place, startlingly jarring among the torture of memories. Killian winced, filling tight lungs with shaky resolve.

“I need to go inside,” he whispered, and Emma’s expression of patient understanding crumbled into doubt.

“I… Are you sure?”

Killian felt his tentative nod wobble side to side nearly as much as it bobbed up and down. This, apparently, did not do too much to convince her of his confidence. Suppressing a shudder, he reached for the door handle.

“Okay, just… Hold on,” urged Emma as she hastily unbuckled her seatbelt. “Let me get it.”

Even the flash of resentment at his temporary helplessness was not enough to fully drive away the monstrous voice.

YES, it confirmed, HELPLESS. YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO DEFEND YOURSELF OR YOUR FAITHFUL MATE SHOULD YOU ENTER. BUT YOU WILL COME ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU CANNOT RESIST MY COMMAND.

Killian allowed Emma to unbuckle his seatbelt and assist him to his feet, but his eyes never left the imposing scene of nightmares before him. Though so much had changed since his last time crossing that threshold, the ingrained feelings of reluctant terror still clawed at his being as he took a wobbly step forward.

There were strangers in hard hats gathered on the stoop. Their clothing bore little resemblance to sackcloth, yet their presence hearkened back to the revolving groups of dull-eyed guards endlessly cluttering the entrance. The ones who had listened to Killian’s screams, watched the tortures, suffered some themselves. And the majority of whom were now dead.

Emma waved a cordial greeting to the relaxed construction workers, who nodded back casually, their posture normal, an ordinary, calm light in their eyes. No duress. No fatalistic numbness. Killian thought he may recognize one or two, but the blurred tentacles crawling across his vision prevented a positive identification. With the hand not currently helping to support her husband’s weight, Emma flashed her badge and murmured some sort of explanation, to which one of them replied something about still clearing out the interior. Occupied with fighting oppressive memory, Killian focused on remaining upright, allowing Emma to do the talking.

And then the door was screeching open in a mockery of human suffering. And then he was walking through, joining a procession of his previous selves from the first to the last, each slightly more hunched than the one before, curling inward in anticipation of the pain, less and less able to face the scene ahead. Bowing, body and soul, to the dark of despair.

A blood-tinged shaft of light illuminated a patch of paving stone at the bottom of the stairs, as if highlighting the spot he had fallen so often, had lain in utter torment, visualizing his daughter’s corpse while it was he himself who cried and bled.

The altar was gone. Dismantled, decorative facing and heavy broken surface nowhere to be seen. A few scuff marks and differently colored concrete were the only signs of its once-looming presence at the top of the steps. Other stains marred the empty floor; Killian did not have to work very hard to guess their origin.

He did not wish to get any closer, but his unsteady legs took him forward anyway while dust particles and flashes of nothing became heavy, lurking pincer and wriggling tentacle in the corners of his vision. Each time he blinked, the instant of darkness filled with ghastly mental images: sometimes the Vocivore returned, sometimes the fictional Hope which he’d been working so hard to banish from his memory. He could hardly even feel Emma’s supporting hand under his elbow, or even her presence at his side; he’d always come into this room alone, come to face its worst alone, and his subconscious mind could not reconcile the change in paradigm.

Oddly enough, though, the remembered voice remained as silent as the empty cathedral. Fragments of disjointed scenes continue to play behind his eyes, their haunting soundtrack present but muffled, all firmly in the realm of past torments and absent any current threat. Could it be that the visual evidence of the Master’s lair, empty, had shut up its voice once and for all? Killian scarcely dared imagine the possibility.

Only steps away from the scuffed stairs, Killian’s weakened foot caught on an uneven stone and he staggered into Emma, who silently braced him up, throwing her arm around him and squeezing in a comforting manner. With a couple of one-legged hops, he managed to regain his balance, though he remained reluctant to put his full weight back on the tender ankle. Emma glanced around and spotted an upended pew in the periphery of the space.

“Can you manage on your own for a sec?” she murmured. At Killian’s unconvincing nod, she carefully ducked out from under his arm and hurried toward the pew.

If Killian had felt alone before, the feeling tripled as Emma’s presence vanished. The ghost outline of the altar shimmered into view. His arm resting atop with a spike driving into the bone. His savaged body pounding against the wood while he screamed. His bloodied hand, impaled amongst tarnished depictions of wheat stalks and grapevines, shuddering as the last vestiges of life drained away.

And then, again, the image and the words, louder than ever. The old mantra. Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead, no hope no hopenohope…

Quickly back at his side, dragging the long wooden bench along with her, Emma recognized his distress and gently eased him down onto its surface, pulling his aching fist away from his face, quietly urging him to relax, to breathe, reminding him that she was there and that he was safe. Tears dripped onto Killian’s lap as he struggled to contain his sobs. Emma knelt before his hunched form, squeezing his wrist and stroking his cheek, shedding tears of her own in response to his emotional turmoil.

After several minutes, Killian managed to drive away the demons and settled into a quivery rhythm of intentional breathing; it was the only way he would escape an eternal spiral into overwhelming hopelessness. His chest ached from the strain, his hand throbbed with the effort of holding his emotions in his fist. The volume of the wrong mantra decreased but did not abate. Still stroking his cheek, Emma murmured, 

“Are you okay?”

Killian gave a tentative nod, and he could feel the remnants of the involuntary tremors that still appeared whenever he was tired or stressed. “Just… Tell me it will get better.”

“It will,” she promised softly. “I really believe that.”

She delicately threaded the fingers of one hand inside his, gently but persistently nudging his fist to relax. When his fingers were finally uncoiled and his palm flat, facing upward, she began a careful massage of the tender flesh beneath the brace.

“We did a good thing, Killian. It’s hard for us to say it was worth it. Hell, if we had known all the details, and how long it would take, I don’t know that I would have been able to go through with it. But…” She leaned back on her haunches in order to look up into his face. “I’ve been thinking about what you said to Archie the other day, about how the scars will make it hard to forget everything. And I think… maybe that’s the way it should be.”

Killian just looked at her through red-rimmed eyes. Continuing on, she explained,

“Each one represents a wound you bore so that someone else wouldn’t have to. And, frankly… we’d all be dead if you hadn’t done what you did. Sooner or later, in all likelihood, most of Storybrooke would be dead. So instead of looking at the scars and remembering the awful, I think you should give each one a meaning. A person whose life you saved by enduring all that pain, whom you can think about instead of the torture itself.”

Killian studied her, eyes slightly brighter as he turned the idea over in his mind, and Emma flashed an encouraging smile. 

“Need an example?”

Seeing his nod of agreement, Emma ran her finger along his palm, where she knew, underneath the stretchy fabric of the brace, a pinkish-white line marked the entry wound from the dagger stabbed through and into the altar. 

“I can think of two people you’ve called your right-hand man in different situations. For a long while, that position was filled by Mister Smee.” She turned his hand over and traced an approximation of the exit wound on the back. “These days, when you go sailing, it’s always Henry who takes over the duties of first mate. So… you got this scar so Henry could live. And this one is for Smee.” With each person named, she touched the corresponding line on his skin, so gently that there was barely a whisper of sensation in response.

A tear dripped off the tip of Killian’s nose as, with head bowed, he watched his wife’s fingers brush his hand. 

Quietly, Emma asked, 

“What do you think? Helpful?”

Killian gave a hesitant, indecipherable movement of his head.

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

The word was faint, hollow with ache but also a dash of hope. Emma clambered to her feet, her hand trailing along his jawline and down until it came to rest with fingers splayed over the twin lines on his shoulder which marked the transmitter’s brutal removal.

“Side by side,” she remarked. “Sounds like Mom and Dad; what do you think?”

Killian winced a tiny smile, and she took that as his approval. Emma sat gingerly on the pew next to him and held his blunted wrist in both hands, massaging the sides once skewered by cruel metal and asking,

“Detective Jones?”

“And Alice,” he added hoarsely. Emma smiled fondly. Then she sobered and laid her hand against his chest, approximating the site of the near-fatal stabbing. It had not fully knitted into a solid scar yet, the outer layers still supported by strips of water-resistant tape beneath padded bandaging. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes as her free hand came up to tangle absently in his hair.

“And this one,” she choked out, pausing to clear her throat before continuing, “nearest your heart… this one’s for Hope, I think.”

Killian’s vision blurred, and a sob jolted his chest, but instead of the corpse of his nightmares, he saw the charmingly misshapen sketch of the Papa bear, cradling the lump that represented his baby bear as he protected her from a frowning monster that only the mind of a 3-year-old could conjure. He sniffed, wiped his eyes with a careful knuckle, and breathed, 

“Aye. For Hope.”

A long moment’s silence filled the sanctuary as tortures relived began to take on additional significance and gruesome mental images grew new outlines. Emma continued to make her presence known through comforting touch, and finally, over tense neck muscles, her tender fingers found two dime-sized pink discs which had only recently lost their scabs. The matching pair on the other side would be out of her view, but it was clear she referred to all four when she mused,

“I was going to say something about naming everyone in your life who could be described as a pain in the neck, but would that be too flippant?”

Surprising both of them with a quick-witted response, Killian deadpanned, 

“Well, you’ve already assigned both Jones and Dave, so I’m not certain that leaves anyone else who fits that description.”

The moment of levity clashed so strikingly with everything the building had to come to represent, yet it felt improbably cathartic as well. Picking up on the mood, Emma leaned in to place a kiss on one of the scars, muttering in between pecks,

“Regina?”

 Killian almost smirked. She kissed the other, saying,

“Doctor Whale?”

With a groan, he conceded that point. 

“Most assuredly.” Then he added, “S'pose we can’t list Regina without the inclusion of her sister.”

“Zelena. Right. And the fourth?”

“That only leaves one, Swan. Let’s see if you can name him.”

Emma truly did not have to think very hard to come up with that one. The uncontested champion of showing up at the worst possible time with tidings of woe. “Oooh! I know! It’s Grumpy, isn’t it?”

“Unlikely as it is,” said Killian, “this one is for Grumpy.”

Thrilled that he was taking to her idea so positively, she was about to try and make the dubious connection of “ankle biter” to Neal and Robin, neither of whom were anywhere near that category anymore, but at least he’d known them when they were… But before she could go down that path, Killian abruptly straightened and shifted positions so that he faced her a little more squarely.

“Distant friends and relations are all well and good,” he said as he reached for her hand. “But there’s one person immensely important to me whom we’ve not yet mentioned.”

Emma took a slow breath. She really hoped he wouldn’t be upset by what she was about to share. Placing a hand above his ear, she stroked his temple with her thumb for several heartbeats.

“Some scars you can’t see,” she finally began. “But are no less painful or important. So… the ones you carry in here…” Her fingers stilled, her hand an almost weightless representation of the burden he bore within his mind. “Those are for me. Because I have some, too. And mine are for you. They’re the price I’m so willing to pay to have you here with me.” Emma snuggled closer, dropping her hand to his back and resting her forehead against his. “It’s a burden we’ll carry together,” she continued softly. “And that’s why I believe it’ll get better, Killian: we’ll help each other.”

Killian felt a new sort of pain at the thought of Emma’s own trauma, and how she’d been dealing with it mostly on her own as he endured the grueling process of recovery. But he could not deny drawing a small measure of comfort from her words, her expression of empathy and promise of support. He leaned into her and they shared a moment of silent communication, where emotions and vulnerabilities and fears intermingled in an easy acceptance, where it was okay to have doubts and dark thoughts as long as they both clung to the shared hope of brighter days ahead. And in that moment of quiet, Killian mentally reached for the images that might one day replace, or at least live alongside, all the scenes of torture. He watched the brand scalding his palm, then thought of Granny, her false prickliness covering such warmth and generosity. That one was for her. He felt the pincer tearing at his ear and pictured Archie, patiently absorbing as much of the story as Killian was ready to tell, giving advice and professional support as needed; that one was for him. He saw himself pinned to the altar and struggling to breathe, and instead of succumbing to the imagined fire in his lungs, he clung to his tangible Hope, the ability to see her again in just a few hours, the proof of how she viewed her papa and what he had done for all of them. For Hope, he thought. Always and forever, for her.

“Which one are you hearing now?” Emma whispered into the silence, and Killian worked to direct the inner mantra as he’d been taught.

Hope, free. Hope, safe. Hope, loved.

“The good one.”

Hope, free. Hope, safe. Hope, loved.

“I’m glad. What say we get out of here; let ‘em finish their work so they can smash this place to smithereens and we can go home?”

Hope, free. Hope, safe. Hope, loved.

Vocivore, defeated.

Hope, free.

Killian, free.

Free.

“I’m ready.”

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