Sum’:Once again trouble fall upon the peaceful coven, spreading its darkness on each Hook. Only this time only one will remain and with the help of the Savior, will decide the fate of the rest of their secret family…
Note:HOLLYCRAPPYSHIT. Only One, chapter left and I’m not prepared to stop posting new chapters :( Well, all good things must end one day so… A little soft and funny chapter before the conclusion of that adventure! Got to thanks @thesschesthair for the fantastic idea of the voicemail ;)
On that, happy reading mates!
——————————–
Emma was happy when Killian told her he had resolved his problem with the cricket’s help. Or at least, that he now knew what needed to be done in order to put everything behind him and start again. His part-time work prescription ended at the end of the week, leaving Killian just enough time to sort things out with the coven. But first, he needed to see Rogers and make sure everything would go smoothly if he showed up at the huge mansion the next day. Unfortunately, all the calls he had made to the detective ended up on his voicemail, leaving Killian uneasy.
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)!
In this exact chair, this oppressive waiting lounge with its dusty fake plants and decades-old magazines, a nearly empty water cooler in the corner, a vending machine down the hall that always jammed when you tried to get a pack of Cheez-Its. How many lifetimes had Emma spent here, always anxiously awaiting news on her gravely injured husband, fearing the worst as the minutes and hours ticked by, as people came and went and doctors brought tidings of good or ill?
Had her turn finally come to be on the receiving end of the ‘We Did All We Could’ speech?
Nearly midnight. It had been at least eight hours already. The hospital was thrumming, jam-packed with the influx of newly liberated slaves, all of whom were desperately ill, shell-shocked by the loss of that guiding voice in their minds, and the majority seriously wounded to boot. The ambulances kept coming; most were on their 7th or 8th trip by now despite having crammed as many casualties in each vehicle as was safe. Emma had not been involved in the discussion of whether some could be transported elsewhere to relieve the burden on the relatively small Storybrooke General, but it was by far the closest facility and more advanced than anything else the United Realms had to offer.
Because she’d been on the first ambulance to arrive, Emma had not endured much of a wait to have her minor forehead wound dressed, once Killian had been whisked back for emergency surgery. That would have been a different story now; even with every available physician, nurse, and allied health provider called in on disaster protocol, the ED was packed and wait times for anything less than a life-threatening condition were astronomical.
Emma’s hand clenched around the paper-flavored cone of water she held as she relived the day’s events. Everything had been such a close call. If anything had gone even slightly differently, she and all the others may not have been in this place at all, never mind Killian.
Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the image of the Vocivore as she’d seen it upon entering that abysmal cathedral. How it had loomed over a broken Killian, how grotesquely ominous her first impression of it had been.
What it had been doing to him, in plain view of her and all the other slaves in the building.
Another tear slipped down her cheek, following the salty trail blazed by countless predecessors. The last gulp of water overflowed out over her hand and onto her lap, the cone squeezed into a bitter crumple, and Emma didn’t give a damn about the wetness on her knees because it was such a minor inconvenience to all that her husband had suffered through in the month gone by. And she was at least 50% culpable, by her reckoning.
“Hey. Save some of that for the fishes,” came a gentle voice from the doorway to her left, and Emma scrubbed at her face before rising to her feet.
“Dad.” Her voice was tremulous, low and husky with emotion, and the prince was quickly at her side and wrapping her in a one-armed hug.
“You still here?” he murmured into her hair.
With a shuddering breath, Emma nodded. “Haven’t heard anything for… at least four hours,” she calculated. “They had to pause the surgery in the middle ‘cuz his blood pressure and temperature both got too low. They plan to resume as soon as he’s stable enough.”
If he ever reaches that point, was the unspoken addition.
David gave her one more squeeze before stepping back. He looked haggard, almost on the verge of collapse, so Emma took a seat in the hopes that he would follow suit. Letting out a low groan, he sank into the chair beside her, settling uncomfortably sideways to avoid touching his injured shoulder blade to the seat back. Rubbing his eyes, he gave a report of his own.
“Well, we just brought in the last of them, near as we could tell. There may still be some out in the woods, but we cleared all the buildings at least. Figure we’ll track down the rest when it gets light.”
“Thanks for taking over back there.”
“Of course.”
He was always so good to her; he and Snow both. Always willing to do whatever she asked, regardless of their own busy schedules. Emma could count on them both for anything at any time. Which made this apology so hard, but also so important. And maybe she should have waited for her mother to be there as well, or for a time when Killian could add his own, but Emma didn’t feel right putting it off any longer.
“Dad, I… I’m so sorry we lied to you.”
David looked as if he were steeling himself, and Emma cringed.
“About Hope?” he asked slowly, expression unreadable. She nodded and watched him massage his temples one-handed.
“How much did Detective Jones tell you?”
“Not much,” he mumbled. “He was in a lot of pain; mostly we just waited quietly.”
That was probably for the best, decided Emma. Jones’ own feelings of betrayal may have colored his retelling of the scheme; better for it to come from one of the bastards who had created it and pulled it off. Still, it might have been easier if David had had a little bit of preparation first…
Emma was still searching for the best place to start when David sniffed, cleared his throat, and gruffly asked,
“Does that mean… did you find… something…?”
A chill skittered up her spine. Her father was reaching for her hand, tears brimming in his eyes, and she realized she had unintentionally led him to draw a horrifically incorrect conclusion.
“Shit, Dad, I… no. Hope is fine, really and truly. That wasn’t the lie. She’s okay.”
As relief warred with confusion on David’s tired face, Emma berated herself for making things so much worse. She squeezed her father’s hand, more to get his attention and assure him that he was awake than anything else.
“Hope’s… okay?” he repeated.
“Yeah. With Belle. I swear to you; she’s fine. I’ll need to go get her, once we know Killian’s gonna…”
Emma trailed off, realizing again that there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t be bringing Hope home only to attend her papa’s funeral.
“Belle?” David pulled back his hand in order to clear the wetness from his cheeks.
“I wanted to tell you so badly!” whined Emma, her voice catching on the emotions constricting her throat. “It was killing me to keep it from you. But it was… it…”
The magnitude of what they had all been through struck her yet again, and suddenly, she was crying too hard for coherent speech. She managed one more strangled, “I’m so sorry” before she found herself enfolded in David’s grasp, her face against his shoulder.
“Emma, shh, it’s okay. We can worry about the rest later; right now, all I care about is knowing that Hope is safe.” David laughed a sob of his own. “Those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.”
Emma could not be sure how much he had worked out on his own; he must still have a million questions crowding his mind, and maybe once the relief wore off, the sting of betrayal would take over. Truthfully, Emma could not think that far ahead, and she was glad for the moment of grace right now. As she took what comfort she could from her father’s embrace, she barely felt the twinge of guilt over his patience. Now that the pressure was off to tell the whole story, her focus had returned squarely on one thing: Killian. And she could only pray that, against all odds, he surprised them all and lived through the night.
*****
Present (Saturday)…
Neither Emma nor David slept much in the padded chairs, as comfortable as they were for sitting. Worry for Killian was at the forefront of Emma’s thoughts, whether awake or dozing, so that any slight noise set her pulse racing in dread of bad news.
If David had managed to reach Snow aboard the Jolly Roger, Emma had missed that moment. His soft snores at her side–when he managed to drift off for a short while–were a small comfort when panic threatened to send her bolting into the depths of the hospital in search of information. She kept reminding herself of that old saying that ‘no news is good news.’ It did seem to apply in this case, for if there were any change in Killian’s condition, especially a turn for the worse, they surely would come and speak with her. If only to give her an opportunity to say goodbye, should they deem it necessary. So when someone burst into the lounge shortly after 6, Emma nearly toppled a lamp in her haste to leap to her feet.
But it wasn’t Whale, nor was it a solemn-faced nurse.
“The monster is dead?” demanded Regina, immaculately groomed as always despite the early hour. “Why am I only now hearing about this?”
“Sorry,” grumbled Emma, rubbing at her burning eyes. “There was a lot going on yesterday.”
“I had to find out about it from Leroy, of all people. Do you know how that makes me look? A queen so out of touch with important developments that she has to get her updates from the town gossip?”
“How did he find out?” Emma asked. She’d been so busy and then distracted that she hadn’t composed a single message after contacting her father.
“Ambulance driver?” suggested David.
Regina stood glaring the wallpaper off the wall behind Emma’s head. “Care to fill me in, Sheriff?”
Emma was so tired. She lacked the mental energy to convince Regina to wait. And maybe it would have been better to share the story individually with David first, so he could react honestly without the queen watching, but tough. Emma was also too exhausted to consider trivialities like that.
She shared the whole story. And then when it was over, she sat staring at the ‘Employees only’ door, unable to meet the eyes of either person watching her as they absorbed the month of falsehoods in stony silence. Finally, Regina spoke up.
”All those search parties… you’re telling me they were for nothing?”
Emma wilted slightly. “Not… nothing, no… they were to help the monster believe in Killian’s motive. And… well… it worked.”
Regina scoffed, then turned to David. “Were you in on this?”
“No. I wasn’t.”
Emma’s heart twisted just a little bit more at the careful control in his tone.
“And Detective Jones? You mentioned that he helped you yesterday?”
“He helped me get in, yeah. Took a stun projectile to the shoulder at close range but was conscious last I saw him.”
“I’m sure he’s still here,” added David. “I saw him off in the ambulance.”
After a beat of silence, Regina began,
“This is serious business, you know; the sheriff misleading the whole town like this–”
At that moment, Dr. Whale came marching through the door, and Emma truly could not care less about what Regina was saying. The blood drained from her face, seeming to concentrate in her ears as she got slowly to her feet.
“He was touch and go for most of the night,” reported the physician without a word of greeting to anyone, which Emma very much appreciated. “He’s still not out of the woods, to be frank. I’d like to see several numbers come up before we attempt surgery again. But… there has been a slight improvement since we were forced to halt the procedure last night.”
Dizzy and overcome with equal parts relief and fear, Emma nodded and collapsed back into her seat. She had a hundred questions but could not think of a single one.
“Right now, I’d say his odds are about 50/50, and even if he does pull through, he’s got a long and difficult recovery ahead of him. But we’ll do our best for him.
“Now. I’m off to try to get some rest,” Whale told them while the bleak outlook sank in. “Day shift has their orders and will contact me if anything changes. I suggest you try and do the same: you won’t be allowed back there to see him for at least the rest of the day. You may as well go home where you’ll be more comfortable.”
Emma just stared at him as if the very idea were offensive. Whale shrugged and moved toward the exit, and if anyone had felt the urge to thank him, they would have been drowned out by Regina, who was hot on his heels.
“Victor? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Detective Jones, would you?”
Their conversation faded down the hallway, and Emma sniffed. She’d retained a fairly good handle on her guilt where Jones was concerned. True, she felt terrible that he’d been injured in the rescue mission, but at least he’d gone in fully aware and of his own volition. Emma had enough other misdemeanors to regret.
One victim of which sat silent beside her while she tried to shake off Whale’s pessimism. It was the physician’s responsibility to be brutally honest, to prepare everyone for the possible worst-case scenario. Maybe the odds were 50/50 from a purely medical standpoint, but Emma knew Killian. Surely, his stubborn resilience had to stack things more in his favor?
Cringing, Emma cast a sidelong glance at her father, who had not directly addressed her since finding out the extent of their deception. Again, and certainly not for the last time, she squeaked,
“I’m so sorry.”
Not yet meeting her eyes, David slowly asked,
“This whole plan… All of this… you and Killian did it entirely of your own free will?”
“We’re insane. I know.”
“Hope was never in any danger.”
“Right…”
“But you went through with it anyway. Killian…”
He trailed off into silence and Emma braced herself for the inevitable rebuke. And for a moment, it appeared as if David would oblige. But then he shook his head, quiet resolve on his features.
“Nope. Not gonna do it; not yet.”
“W… what do you…”
He turned to her then, and though she could make out the traces of hurt and anger in his eyes, she also saw love and understanding.
“Later. I promised.” He reached out for her hand, wearing a tearful smile. “Today, you need a supportive dad way more than a stern lecture filled with fatherly wisdom. Right?”
As Emma returned the expression with a similarly watery one of gratitude, David added,
“But we’re going to have to repeat everything when your mother gets back.”
Suddenly too exhausted for words, Emma leaned against his shoulder and murmured,
“You said it best just a minute ago. Later.”
*****
Detective Jones hurt everywhere, but strangely enough, what was bothering him the most at present was the donor blood being pumped into him as he lay waiting for something to happen. The blood had been stored frozen, and while it had thawed enough for transfusion, it remained chilled well below body temperature, causing his arm to ache fiercely and highlighting the swollen tunnel from which several inches of coat hanger had previously been removed. A hazy sort of fog seemed to be collecting around the periphery of his room, and though the clock indicated 7:15, he would not be able to hazard a guess whether that was AM or PM.
The whole encounter with the monster had warped into what felt like an abstract nightmare; were it not for the physical proof on his body, he very well could have mistaken his current predicament to be a continuation of the sword battle’s aftermath. He had vague memories of waiting with David inside the church, bleeding and in pain, then treacherous transport by ambulance over unpaved, bumpy roads for the majority of the trip to Storybrooke General. After that, massive doses of narcotics blocked out most of his time spent in the emergency department, although he did remember more pain as the staff worked to assess and stabilize his condition.
Jones closed his eyes, determined to ignore his discomfort in favor of drifting into one of the short naps that were all he’d managed to do since arriving in his room. Inevitably, a nurse would come in to check for transfusion reaction, or a loud cart would rumble by, or he’d be awakened by a jolt of pain or for no reason at all. Given his total exhaustion, it was all very irritating indeed.
Right on cue, the moment he felt himself beginning to relax, brisk footsteps approached his door, then continued inside with hardly a pause. Probably a nurse, then. With a sigh, Jones dragged reluctant eyelids open. Maybe he would inquire about some method of warming the blood so he could get some real rest for once…
It was Regina. The concern on her face gave way to obvious relief when she saw that he was awake, but she covered it up with a dramatic scowl.
“Those idiots!” she ranted, coming to a stop at his side. Jones blinked up at her, already lost. She continued regardless. “What kind of utter imbecile gives himself up to a scream-eating monster on the off-chance it will reveal a weakness to him? And all on the advice of none other than the Dark One, who just so happens to be that idiot’s mortal enemy?”
“You’ve spoken to Emma, I take it.” Jones’ voice sounded like the baleful call of a territorial raven, gravelly and hoarse. Regina gave him a look, spending half a second to glance around for a glass of water for him, which was nowhere to be seen.
“I might expect something like this from that damn pirate–no offense–but Emma? No one will ever trust another word coming out of the mouths of either one of them!” She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. “You didn’t know anything about their asinine plan, did you?”
“Not until… whatever day that was.” Jones waved his hand vaguely to indicate his complete loss of orientation, then winced as pain shot up his forearm and out through his chest.
“You’re no less of an moron for going in the way you did,” scolded the queen, though her tone now had much less bite to it. “You should have brought backup.”
Jones lacked the energy to explain his reasoning just then. He settled for a gruff,
“Bad idea.”
Regina just rolled her eyes, annoyed. “And yours was such a good one, I see.”
Rather than arguing the point–an exercise he’d surely lose, even on a good day–Jones rested his head back and closed his eyes. “How is Killian?”
“Not good,” she replied bluntly as she pulled a chair near his bedside. “They’re having trouble getting him stable enough for the surgery needed to even startfixing him. And Whale said that the neurological deterioration compared to how it was even three days ago is very troubling. You know they still haven’t been able to keep one single former slave alive, right?”
“Suppose I should begin planning my funeral then, too,” murmured Jones, half asleep. He wasn’t too concerned; they’d performed an MRI at some point before sticking him in this bed, and while the official results had yet to come back, Dr. Whale had not seemed troubled by his reading of the images. If there were changes, they would be extremely minor considering how short a time he’d been in the Vocivore’s presence.
“You are going to be fine,” commanded Regina, leaving no room for argument. Hurriedly, she moved on. “So what exactly happened out there? The monster is dead, for sure?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” answered the detective, wishing again for a drink of water to soothe his parched throat. “One moment I was under the creature’s thrall; the next, I was flat on the floor and feeling like I’d been shot in the heart instead of merely the shoulder.”
“Emma mentioned seeing a green glow.”
“Did she?” Uneasily, Jones reached for his chest.
“It sounds an awful lot like the effects of your poisoned heart.”
Jones stared at her as dread got a chokehold on his throat. Finally, he slowly admitted,
“That’s what it felt like, too.” He took a breath, shuddered slightly at the necessity of admitting it out loud at last, and winced. “But I’m completely cured and have been for nearly three years. I’ve even got a new heart to ensure it.”
“Well…” Regina looked to be deep in contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about that. Rumplestiltskin gave you his heart and that’s what’s been keeping you alive. Performing all of the duties of your old heart, unaffected by the poison. But… your old heart is still in there, kind of… wrapped around the new one. You don’t feel any effects of the poison because the good heart is there, functioning for you. But I think the poison was still inside, and has been all along, only you were no longer cursed.”
Jones felt dizzy, and not just from his physical maladies. “Bloody hell. Are you sure about this, Regina?”
“Of course not; there’s no way to be sure until magic is restored, and we’re still working on that.”
The nightmare had just gotten ten times worse. Jones imagined he could feel the poison coursing through each chamber of his inherited heart, growing stronger the closer Captain Smee sailed the Jolly Roger Kiddie Cruise to Storybrooke. And he could not stop tears from forming at the injustice of it all.
“What would have reactivated it, do you think?” Even he could hear the helpless exhaustion and sorrow in his tone; there was no way Regina would have missed it. She looked stricken for a second and rushed to reassure him.
“No, no; not reactivated, Killian. Transferred. From you to the Vocivore.”
The wave of relief was so strong that for a full minute, Jones felt nothing else: no pain, no weariness or confusion, only sheer gratitude that his happy ending with Alice had not been so suddenly taken away. “Transferred?”
Regina reached for his hand and pulled it away from where it had been clutching the gown over his breast. “That’s what makes sense to me.”
“But how?”
“Again, this is all conjecture at this point. Emma was certainly too distracted to give all of the details I would have liked. But from what I gathered… am I correct in believing that you went in trying to suppress any positive emotions that may have alerted the monster to your approach?”
Jones nodded.
“And I assume you accomplished that by recalling painful memories of your separation from Alice.”
When the detective did not correct her, Regina continued as if her conclusions were the most simple connection she had ever made.
“Well, those memories and emotions are inextricably linked to the curse on your heart. They dwell, in part, within the poisoned shell still residing in your chest. So when the Vocivore started literally feeding on those emotions, it drew the poison into itself along with the energy. It could not get one without the other.”
Before Jones could express surprise or amazement at the queen’s revelation, the dryness in his throat caught up to him and he started to cough. This had the unfortunate effect of jolting the wound in his shoulder as well as aggravating the marked soreness in his chest, and he spent the next several heartbeats in excruciating anguish. Regina leapt to her feet, radiating frustration.
“Can’t anybody get a cup of water in this place?” She made as if to go out into the hallway and throttle the next nurse she saw until they retrieved the requested water, but Jones reached out to stop her. He cleared his throat several times and finally managed to growl,
“Not allowed. Slated for surgery soon.”
Regina somehow managed to look even more impatient than she already had. “What’s taking them so damn long? Haven’t you been here for something like 14 hours already?”
Jones gingerly massaged his aching chest. “I couldn’t begin to tell you, love. Feels like a lot longer, yet also no time at all.”
He swallowed, winced, and cleared his throat. Regina still looked peeved.
“Let me see what I can do to light a fire under Whale’s team.” She reached for his hand, gave a brief squeeze, and assured him, “Then I’ll be back.”
As she made her way to the door, she tossed out over her shoulder,
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
(what the heck happened to the horizontal line, tumblr??)
Present (Friday, continued)…
The first siren was the most beautiful sound Jones had heard in a very long time. His sense of time had been growing increasingly fuzzy, but his estimate would have leaned toward a wait of at least an hour. Likely a gross exaggeration, but with Killian in such dire straits, and the attention-seeking behavior of his own dizzying pain, every moment had stretched to an interminable age.
Thankfully, Emma had resumed the duty of applying pressure to her husband’s wounds, and Jones could take advantage of the respite to recline back against the bloodied altar. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a suspicion that fragments of the stun projectile remained in his throbbing shoulder. Emma had graciously wrapped a second bandage around the first, which seemed to be containing the bleeding for the most part, but didn’t do much for the agony. All adrenaline now long gone, Jones could feel each heartbeat through the wound, and an overwhelming exhaustion pressed down upon him. More than once, he had caught himself beginning to topple sideways, close to passing out. Dizziness bordered on nausea. He could only imagine how Killian must be feeling. As far as Jones could tell, his counterpart drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently coming back with sobs of terror as he relived tortures endured, and Emma could not always soothe him easily.
Now, as the first scream of a siren echoed up to the rafters, Jones forced himself alert and struggled closer to Killian’s side, knowing that Emma would want to direct the help where it was needed most. She met his gaze gratefully, squeezed Killian’s knee with a murmured word of encouragement, then rose. As she jogged toward the front door, Jones listened to the labored breathing beside him and prayed that the medics weren’t too late.
“In here,” called Emma, one foot still inside the church. Evidently she was reluctant to leave her husband for too long. “Hurry!”
Killian whimpered and Jones lay a gentle hand on his forearm.
“Still with us, mate?”
Uniformed paramedics trooped inside, following Emma’s urging, and Killian shivered, seemingly only half-aware of his surroundings. The detective managed one more reassuring squeeze before shuffling aside. He watched with hooded eyes the efficient dance of emergency medical assessment, waving off attention for his own injuries in favor of faster intervention for Killian.
The medics were quick to administer supplemental oxygen as they measured vitals and made a preliminary examination of his wounds. Emma managed level-headed answers to their questions, keeping out of their way but determined to stay by Killian’s side. He seemed confused and afraid, struggling against every touch despite Emma’s pleas for him to remain calm. The medic at his left side was already on her third cannula as she tried to hit a moving target. Pouches of blood and saline awaited only a reliable access to Killian’s compromised circulatory system.
Emma’s phone buzzed. After reading the message and typing a quick reply, she reported to no one in particular,
“Second ambulance is close. My dad’s following in his truck. He’s gonna direct them in here.”
One of Killian’s medics seemed to be getting ready to activate a power drill into his upper arm. Jones wondered if he might be starting to hallucinate, but in response to Emma’s look of confusion, the medic explained how the long bones can be just as effective at transporting drugs and fluids as peripheral veins are. “It’s not overly painful,” yeah right. Already woozy, Jones couldn’t watch, and even Emma had to look away as the battery-powered device buzzed a stylet through skin and muscle and into the humerus. Perhaps the woman was correct; Killian didn’t seem excessively bothered. He’d grown quiet and mostly still, focused on the effort of breathing. Under the mask, he almost looked like a fish out of water, gulping at air too thin to metabolize. The impression was only strengthened by the bluish-gray tinge to his skin.
This was evidently cause for concern. The activity around him doubled in calm intensity, and even Emma backpedaled to allow them more space to work. Jones was just gathering the fortitude to stretch out a comforting hand when the church door scraped open again. He had missed hearing the new ambulance come wailing up, but he could see a doubling of the whirling flashes outside.
David still had his arm in a sling, but that didn’t stop him from being the first one inside.
“Emma!”
Fixated on her husband’s struggles to breathe, Emma didn’t seem to even hear her father’s call. David urgently beckoned the new arrivals inside and started up the aisle himself. He did an impressive double take at the monstrous corpse on the floor, watching it warily as he skirted an unnecessary circle around it, then hurried to the foot of the stairs. He faced a moment of indecision when catching a glimpse of his son-in-law in the midst of the crowd of medical professionals, eventually deciding to creep up in between Emma and Jones in order to provide his daughter with moral support. Kneeling behind Emma and pulling her close against his chest, he cast a worried glance at Jones.
“Hey, partner. You okay?” he murmured, making sure to keep his voice at a level that would not disrupt critical communications elsewhere.
“Glad you could j-join us, mate,” Jones gritted out, shivering painfully. The sackcloth tunic he wore certainly did not provide much warmth. He was beginning to regret having insisted Emma lay all of the blankets she’d found over Killian, especially considering that most of them were now strewn carelessly in a heap after the medics had desired better access to their patient.
David read his thoughts and reached gingerly around Emma, grasping at one of the discarded blankets nearby. Absently, Emma helped him to drag it back out of the way. The prince tore his eyes away from the frantic scene in front of him, gave Emma a comforting squeeze, then pulled away. As he spread the blanket over his quaking partner, David hissed,
“What the hell happened? What were you two even doing here?”
“Saving the world, naturally,” grimaced Jones. The second band of EMTs had finally arrived, and they were trotting toward the altar, though to Jones it appeared as if they were moving in slow motion. David finished tucking the corner behind his good shoulder, leaving the fabric loose beneath the saturated bandage on the other side.
One uniformed man started to set up shop at Jones’ right just as Emma turned and reached for David, her strong façade crumbling. David was forced to adjust his position in order to accommodate his wounded shoulder blade. As the prince gathered his weeping daughter in his arms, Jones could hear him whispering words of hope. He’s going to be ok. They’ll get him home; Whale will fix him up. People could survive a collapsed lung. And they were talking about Killian, here.
Jones heard all of this despite the other portion of his attention devoted to responding to the questions being put to him by the two EMTs assessing him. Turning his face away from the blood pressure cuff that was currently magnifying the throb in his coat-hanger-pierced forearm, Jones caught sight of what had so deeply upset Emma. Not only were the medics inserting some sort of drain in Killian’s chest below the still-protruding dagger, but they were also preparing to intubate and take over his respirations with mechanical ventilation. It all looked serious and scary, but was obviously for the best, if his own efforts were ineffective.
True professionals, Jones’ medics kept their focus solely on him despite the commotion nearby. Their attempts to start an IV were barely distinguishable from the squeezing, pulsing anguish lower down his punctured forearm; Jones was just grateful they hadn’t yet pulled out their bone drill to use on him. As he looked past the gurney that was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Jones spotted the massive corpse of the Master slumped where they’d left it. And surrounding it…
“Bloody hell,” muttered the detective. Still in the dark about the situation and extremely on edge, David’s head snapped up and he looked around wildly, fumbling for his gun.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“They’re over there.” Jones gave a stiff nod to indicate the direction in which he was looking.
The slaves were gathering around their Master. Forming a mournful and eerie circle tribute. Or maybe it was panicked directionlessness. Even those too weak, stunned, or injured to walk were compelled to slither along the ground, inch by agonizing inch, all to be closer to the commanding presence they could no longer feel or hear. If anything were to remind the detective of a zombie horror film, the sight before him now would have been a top contender. Even more were staggering their way into the bustling church, clogging up the doorway through which additional paramedics were attempting to enter.
“Wow,” grunted David, still slightly alarmed. “That’s disturbing.” He glanced warily back at Jones. “You’re not… feeling the urge to join them, are you?”
The detective’s attempt at a laugh came out more like a groan. “Not yet, mate; thank the gods. I’ll let you know if I do.”
“Well,” said David thoughtfully, “at least it will make it easier to round them all up.”
A sudden frenzy of activity distracted both men from the sight. Emma scrambled to her feet as Killian’s backboard was hauled up in preparation for transport to the ambulance. She shot the briefest of glances at her father, but was already making as if to follow even before he had a chance to say,
“You go. I’ll handle things here.”
Just as the front doors had ground to a close behind Killian’s gurney, one of Jones’ medics rose to her feet. She found a place on the altar’s façade on which to hang his bag of saline, saying,
“Okay, Mr. Jones. I know you’re probably anxious to get to the hospital where you’ll be more comfortable, but since you’re stable for now, we are obligated to triage the rest of the scene before deciding who gets priority.”
“Understood,” Jones assured her. “I can wait.”
As she collected her remaining equipment, her partner turned to David.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on him? I’ll tell you what to watch out for.”
David hesitated, looking torn. “I…” He turned stricken eyes upon Jones. “Killian, I didn’t want to give Emma one more thing to worry about, but in her message she said that Hope was… safe? I didn’t see her… and who’s taking care of her right now?”
The detective gave him the best impression of a reassuring grin that he could manage under the circumstances.
“She isn’t here, mate,” replied Jones with a definite slur to his words. He could feel some kind of narcotic beginning to take effect, blurring pain and mental acuity alike. “But she is safe and being looked after; I give you my word.”
David’s teary smile was laced with confusion. “She… but then where…?”
With a deep sigh, the detective closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard surface behind him. “I don’t believe that’s my story to tell, David. Sorry.”
He heard the medic begin to relay quiet instructions to the prince and slitted one bleary eye open to interrupt.
“If you’d rather assist with the injured slaves, I should be okay here. This thing has an alarm, doesn’t it?” Jones indicated the portable EKG currently monitoring his heart rate. David winked at him, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled in next to Jones.
“Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I left you here all alone?” He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get comfortable. “Besides, I wouldn’t be much help anyway with one arm out of commission. Bossing the medics around, I guess, but I get the feeling they don’t need my input.”
Jones gave him the barest hint of a smile before closing heavy eyelids again. “Thank you.”
For the second time in three days, Detective Jones was reminded of that lonely Seattle night, when the poison in his heart had nearly killed him. He even had the aching soreness in his chest as an additional parallel.
How much nicer it was to have a caring friend by his side while he waited!
***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.
***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.
arf this is a bonus for @hookaroo ♥ to boost your muse and all and well bc i thought you would have liked seeing him being whumped lol also tada! here just how messy it is when I draw XD
This is just so mesmerizing; I could watch all day! SOOOO COOL to be allowed to watch it take shape, and see how you do the coloring and shading and all that. A TRUE ARTIST AT WORK HERE!!!!! Thank you for the bonus!!!!
Love that bruise >:D That one can be real! AND FRIEND YOU ARE SO CLEVER TO HAVE DRAWN IT FROM THIS SIDE SO YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO SHOW THE INJURED CHEEK ON THE OTHER SIDE!!! HEH HEH
