This is just a one-shot idea I've had in my head for a while now. I wanted to get it posted before the upcoming fourth season begins. I have so many post-Season 3 ideas that I want to explore; there just isn't enough time to write them all! Please, as always, enjoy reading and let me know what you think. The comments – both likes and constructive criticism – are hugely encouraging!
I don't own them. I never have and (sadly) never will. I also do not own the song "Just Give Me a Reason" by Pink, the lyrics of which are sprinkled throughout this story.
"Phantom Pains"
By: TutorGirlml
"I let you see the parts of me that weren't all that pretty,
And with every touch you fixed them…"
They begin not long after her return from the past, stealing Emma's breath and her sleep as she jerks upright in bed, snapping from the vivid horror and still gasping for breath. For all that she has been through in her life, Emma Swan has never been plagued with nightmares, so their presence now puzzles her. Then again – she can't help thinking it – as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, she has never before had so much happiness, so much that she loves which could be lost.
She rolls over and punches the pillow, trying to will her exhausted body and mind into a couple more hours' sleep, already knowing the effort is futile. This has been going on night after night for weeks now; she is surprised no one has noticed the progressively darkening purple bruises under her haunted eyes. Never have things been so good, so right, so complete in her waking life, so she now seems forced to dream of seeing it all taken away the moment she manages to get a bit of rest.
Stubbornly, Emma closes her eyes once more, trying to block these dark visions from her memory. There had been some new threat, and one by one, her parents, her son, her Killian, had all been swallowed up in it. She had been all alone once more. The ache still throbs in her chest cavity, twisting her heart, and she unconsciously rubs her palm over the area. This is even worse than all the loneliness of her first 17 years; the loss in her nightmare is love that she knows the truth of, love that has sacrificed itself to save her. This time she has not been deserted…it is her own fault.
Flinging the sheets back, Emma throws her legs over the side of the bed and stands in abrupt irritation. She clearly is not going to sleep anymore tonight. Padding barefoot over the carpet, she moves to the door silently and looks out into Granny's upstairs hall, making sure that no one is around. Before she loses her nerve completely, she raises her hand to knock on the door across the way – his room – and waits awkwardly not sure what she intends to say, but thinking that he will be awake as well.
She hears the soft shuffle of feet on carpet through the wooden barrier the door presents, and Emma holds her breath, eyes fixing to the floor before Killian even opens his door to find her there. She is nearly holding her breath, hating that she can feel a heated blush creeping up her neck and that she wants to turn and run. Then, his warm, lilting voice draws her back, as undeniably as the calloused hand that wraps delicately around her wrist. "What is it, Love? What's wrong?" he asks, sounding a bit bleary from sleep, but immediately concerned, as attuned to her as ever, even if she won't meet his gaze.
When she doesn't answer, he takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up to meet his. He immediately registers the pain, the worry and fear, and the glaze of unshed tears in her eyes.
"You were gone…" she manages finally, swallowing hard to choke the word out around her ever-narrowing throat. "Henry too. No matter what it is – in my dreams – something takes all of you away. It's just me…like it was before…" She doesn't want to cry, though she can feel her lower lip trembling. Things between them in the past month, since they became a true couple, have been so wonderful – truly one of the happiest spaces of time she can recall – that she doesn't want to risk upsetting him too, to rock the boat. Emma's life has never been a fairy tale, and she finds herself fearing that this goodness will turn to ashes in her hands.
When he sees what is clearly on her face, Killian simply draws her in, wrapping his wiry arms around her and resting his chin atop her head. He doesn't whisper platitudes or falsely promise that the nightmares are gone. He only understands her and steps forward to share her burden. With aching tenderness, the only words he utters are, "Oh Swan…come here." Then he is soothingly rocking them back and forth, rubbing idle patterns on her back.
Eventually, he steps back into his own room, closing the door to hide them from any other sleepless nighttime wanderers who might gossip or interrupt. "Come, Lass, you need to rest," he murmurs, leading her by the hand to sit on the edge of his bed. "Might it help if we are in the same room? So you can see I am going nowhere without you?" he asks hopefully. "I shall take the floor by the fire, right where you can see me if you wake again," he offers.
Emma realizes then that Killian had already been worried about her, knew she was not sleeping and was merely waiting for her to come to him and confide in him. He might not have pressed her, but he knew her too well to be fooled. Though she loves him for the suggestion, and for his willingness to do anything to insure her happiness, she doesn't want to kick him from his own bed. "You ridiculous, old-fashioned gentleman," she mocks playfully, weaving her hands lazily into his thick, ebony hair. "You're much too gallant for your own good." She should have known that she would only need to see him to feel better.
He kneels beside her, trying to look deep into her eyes, seeking out what she needs from him, and now he leans into her caress.
"Will you just hold me?" she finally manages, the words so soft, so begrudging as she utters them that he almost misses her request. He knows what it costs his Swan to ask, to make clear that she needs him, and so he does nothing more than immediately assent to her wishes.
"Aye," he answers simply, "I will do that gladly, Emma love." Killian is already guiding her to lie down before he finishes speaking, then he crawls in behind her, spooning her gently as she snuggles into his warmth, her back pressing into the cradle of his chest.
He runs his good hand through her silken tresses, marveling that she lets him hold her, lets him in at all, when she speaks once more. Her voice is still small and anxious. "Why do you still want me? I've been horrible to you, I was lost to you, there's a constant threat in being with me…why didn't you give up and find someone easier to love?"
He closes his eyes against the wash of emotion, hating that Emma still doubts her own worth, that she cannot see herself as he does. "You are no more difficult than I am myself," he answers slowly, wanting her to hear him and understand. "I'm convinced, Swan, that I lived as long as I did to know the treasure that you are the moment I laid eyes on you. I could not want or care for any other as I do for you. I was twisted and shattered, as broken as you were…maybe just so that we can put each other back together."
Emma lets out a whoosh of breath, and he feels most of the tension held in her lithe frame relax at last. "Smooth talker," she mumbles snarkily, but there is a breathless quality to it that lets him know she is touched by his fervent speech, even before she grabs his good hand where it rests on her stomach and weaves their fingers together, pressing firmly. "Just don't change your mind," she breathes out almost inaudibly.
He will never do so and is seeking more convincing words to promise it when he realizes that Emma has finally drifted back into slumber.
It's in the stars
It's been written in the scars on our hearts
We're not broken, just bent,
and we can learn to love again…
A few months pass, and they no longer have across-the-hall rooms at Granny's. They have quietly and calmly moved Killian into the little apartment over the garage of the little house facing the harbor that Emma and Henry now own. More often than not, Killian retires to his own space for the night, out of respect for Emma, his stubborn determination to prove his good intentions to her parents, and his own gentlemanly sense of honor. One night though, while Henry is staying with Regina, they are curled up on the couch together watching a movie and sharing a bowl of buttery popcorn. When it ends, Emma bites her lip nervously, as if almost ashamed at the request she is making, but softly asks him to stay a bit longer.
If she were meeting his eyes instead of fiddling with the buttons on his grey thermal shirt, Emma might see the goofy look of surprise that blooms on Killian's face. As it is, he wonders at the fact that she doesn't feel his heart thumping erratically. It swells within his chest at the affirmation that she finds it as hard to part from his company as he does from hers, and he loves her even more for her reluctant embarrassment.
"Of course, Lass," her murmurs, settling more comfortably against the arm of the couch, removing his work boots, and propping his feet up on the coffee table as she leans over against his side and rests her head on his chest. "As you wish."
"Tell me a story," she whispers, voice drowsy and relaxed, though still curious. "Something about when you were a boy…"
Killian wracks his brain for a happy tale, for some memory before the death of his mam, his father's abandonment, and the months of constant fear, near starvation, and living in lean-tos against the outside of buildings nearly freezing before Liam found him. He runs the fingers of his good hand through Emma's silky flaxen hair until the moment finally comes to him.
"My mother loved to sing," he begins, his voice gentle, almost stunned at the innocent beauty of the remembered scene after so much time. "I would help her in her garden as a wee lad, and she would always sing while we weeded and pruned and dug our fingers in the dirt. She taught me all her favorites…" Soon, he is singing to Emma, a melody he hasn't thought of in years, with a soft, trembling voice, the tune still within him even after centuries.
"That was beautiful," Emma murmurs when he lapses into silence at the song's end, craning her neck to kiss the underside of his jaw, but saying no more, not pushing, understanding all too well the pain of childhood's joys vanished much too soon.
That is how they fall asleep together on her plush, cozy couch, curled into each other's warmth. So when Killian screams out a few hours later, writhing in remembered, all-too-visceral torment and horror, waking himself, eyes popping open wildly, he is even more disoriented by not being in his own bed and familiar surroundings.
Emma startles awake as well and is immediately concerned for him. She reaches out both hands to stroke his face, to ease his shoulders back down as Killian thrashes wildly, still half asleep and nearly throwing them both on the floor.
Another bloodcurdling howl rips from his throat as she realizes that Killian is covered in a cold sweat, his skin clammy and shivering while he relives some nightmare she cannot see. It is only as his stump rises to rest on her waist, that she realizes he is trying to cradle the blunted arm to himself and has found her body in the way. His feverishly murmured, "Please, no more! … Leave me!...Just let me die!" suddenly runs her blood cold, and she knows all too well what must be going on in his mind.
She redoubles her efforts to wake him, desperate to end his torment, and she can't help wondering how often he has suffered these nightmares alone, shouldered the pain without any comfort in sight, and even now that they are together, how many times has he soothed her fears and hurts without taking the same for himself? Has he been suffering in silence and all alone when she is so close? Emma knows, with a sharp pang in her chest as soon as she thinks it, that he has.
Sitting up, she shakes him gently until blinkingly his blue eyes open and focus on her, growing troubled as soon as they clear of sleep. "Swan?" he asks in confusion, his voice hoarse from his earlier cries. "How did you…Where am I?'
She runs her hands over his face and through his damp hair, hoping to soothe him, even though she herself is shaking from the emotion of seeing him so distraught. He doesn't quite meet her eyes as he regains his senses and comes back to himself, but Emma can feel tremors running all through Killian's limbs. He won't let her hold him any closer however, pulling back stiffly and awkwardly trying to keep his bared hook arm out of sight.
"Killian," she finally states firmly, forcing him to turn his face back to her, "look at me."
He swallows hard, shivers racing down his skin that she can feel in her own body. "Emma, I…" but his words flounder and fail him in a way she has never witnessed before. The shrouded agony in his deep, fathomless eyes threatens to pull her into the depths if she doesn't find a way to anchor him.
"You can tell me anything," she whispers, tracing her hand over his forehead in the lightest of caresses and tenderly kissing his brow as his eyes fall closed at her touch. Nothing happens for an eternal-seeming stretch of time; Killian doesn't speak, and Emma forces herself not to push him. She reaches out to take his stump in her hands, pulling his truncated forearm toward her despite his resistance. She bends over his arm to kiss the scarred flesh, never letting her eyes leave his, forcing him to see that she loves even this part that haunts him. Cradling it to her chest, she murmurs, "Was it about losing you hand?"
He nods solemnly, opening and closing his mouth several times before words come in a rasping croak. "Aye, Love, it was." She thinks that is all he is going to say for some time, but then he carries on as if finally purging his most terrible demon. "You know that… the Crocodile took my hand and vanished…leaving me with Milah's body… and my grief…but the amputation nearly killed me – long before I could ever begin the quest for revenge that… blackened my soul."
"Shh, stop," Emma croons, carefully easing him up against the arm of the couch. Curling closer in his lap, she pulls Killian into her arms, almost rocking his upper body in a rhythm that she hopes will grant some measure of comfort. It is what she had always wished for all those years alone when she was hurt or angry. Her pirate is so brave, so fierce, so independent and strong, that to see him shaken before her like this, to still feel the tremor in his limbs, lets her know this has needed to come out for some time. He has needed the easing of this grief and yet not known how to find it. "You're not that man anymore," she continues calmly, despite the ache in her chest for him. "I know you, Killian Jones, and you haven't lost your soul. You soul is good and true."
He buries his head in her chest, finally seeking and accepting the solace she offers, clinging to her like a frightened child. When he at last draws in a ragged breath, she sends up a prayer for strength, hoping she can bear to hear what he suffered to survive.
"When the Dark One vanished…I – I blacked out, I think. When I …woke again, I… I was burning with fever…hands were h-holding me down. And…and this pain…this blinding, screaming, overwhelming pain… I couldn't understand what was happening…or where I was…I only knew this unending, burning torment." He swallows convulsively, wetting his lips before he can go on, and Emma feels a tear trickling down her cheek, despite her best efforts to be strong for him, matching the tears silently flowing down his face. She is stroking her fingers through his hair, trying to offer any ounce of support she can, to let him know is not alone in this any longer.
"It was only later…when I fully regained consciousness…that I learned my crew had been c-cauterizing the wound the best they could…so I didn't bleed to death. It took Smee, Ceccio, Jukes, and Starkey…to h-hold me down on the table…while Cook used the base of one of his pans…held in the kitchen fire to s-sear the wound closed. It was agony all the way around…I was out of my head. I think many of them thought I would go mad…or die of infection…but I was up and around…by the time we gave Milah… to the sea."
Emma brushes her fingertips lightly over the scar in a caress, wanting him to understand. "I am so sorry you went through that, Killian," she says, feeling the words woefully inadequate, but truly, deeply sorry for his suffering and having no others to offer.
He finally pulls back fractionally to meet her eyes then, still shaky but fervently sincere, "It was a long time ago, Lass. Nothing left now but old phantom pains." He gives her a valiant, if crooked, smile, and Emma can't help marveling all over again at how much he can give of himself, despite what he has lost, how openhearted he is, how he can dedicate his entire self to her when she had tried for so long to push him away. He still offers so much of his heart, and slowly but surely he has made it less fearsome for her to do the same, when she knows he is holding nothing back.
They will never be without their blemishes and scars, but it is what makes them so uniquely suited to each other. It is why she is an open book to him when she could hide from anyone else, and it is perhaps what allowed her to find him, when he should have faded from existence ages before she was ever born. They no longer have to be alone, because they understand each other. It will be their love that heals them.
Oh, tear ducts and rust
I'll fix it for us
We're collecting dust,
but our love's enough
You're holding it in,
You're pouring a drink,
but nothing is as bad as it seems;
We'll come clean…
Time passes, and as Killian and Emma make a life together in their quaint little Maine town with Henry, Snow and David, Regina and Robin, and their other assorted friends and erstwhile subjects, they do begin to make each other whole.
If sometimes of an evening Emma finds Killian standing at the end of the docks looking out over the water to the horizon, she doesn't panic thinking that he misses his ship or his freedom so much that he is about to leave. She doesn't say anything at all, merely wraps her arms around him from behind, lays her head against his shoulder blades, and lets him lean into her warmth.
If Killian finds Emma dismantling their toaster with a fork, face red and eyes hazy with unshed tears, nearly vibrating with misplaced rage that has nowhere to go, he merely chuckles, begs clemency for their appliances, takes the fork from her, and kisses her everywhere his lips can reach until the tension seeps from her bones.
If either of their hands tremble, or their eyes are haunted as they pour a nightcap – hers Jameson, his rum – the other merely reaches across the table, takes that hand, and holds on tight, vowing silently that they will never let go.
Though life may never be normal or easy for them, it is how they fix the damage from the past. In clinging to each other, they find happiness at last.
Just give me a reason
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second,
we're not broken, just bent
and we can learn to love again…