Summary: In which Killian confesses to David and Emma. Spoilers for 6x12.
Warnings: None
Notes: I had a lot of feelings about the end of 6x12. Title from The Quality of Mercy by William Shakespeare.
The worst of it, Killian thinks, is that for a moment, he doesn't recall the man's face.
He was nothing but a liability, standing between his crew and enough riches to carry him from one day to the next, bleeding out a living until he could sink his hook into the crocodile's neck. And he doesn't recognize David's father at first, because he'd been merely one in the stream, one of the nameless voices that whispers to him late at night, or early in the morning, growing louder and louder, until he's forced out of bed – and out of the endearingly tight circle of Emma's arms – to wander along the line where the town meets the sea.
Only now, this one has a name, and the longer and harder he peers down at the drawing, the more familiar he seems. Not only from a hazy memory, but from the set of his brow, the swell of his cheeks, features he sees in the man he now calls his friend, and in the woman he longs to call his wife. And here, in the midnight shadows of the home he shares with her, he holds tight to the incriminating pages, a wisp of the darkness still stirring in his heart suggesting he surrender them to the sea.
He holds tighter in spite, grinding his teeth until his jaw cracks.
"Killian?"
Emma, her sweet voice, the creak of the third bloody step on those bloody stairs – they set a cold, and sudden fear down deep in his belly. For a moment, he imagines showing her, in this very moment, imagines the look on her tired face, eyes shining with grief. Imagines how cold his bunk on the Jolly Roger will feel, when he's inevitably cast it. A cowardice – one that he hates the moment it rises – swells in his throat, and he tucks the pages down into the cushions of the couch. Though there he remains, too tired – so tired – to meet her while she half-stumbles down the stairs.
"Killian?" she calls again, frowning when he turns to look at her. "What are you doing?"
He opens his mouth, considers telling her he's not tired, or suffered a nightmare. But as much as he knows she'll catch him in his lie, he at least longs to do her the curtesy of telling her half of the truth.
"I…" he says, and to his dismay, his voice is quiet, cracking, an unbearably loud weakness here in the stillness of night. A warmth and a chill both stir in his heart when Emma comes to him, her fingers reaching compulsively for his hair from behind the couch.
"What's wrong?" she says.
Everything, he thinks.
"I just…" He grapples with what to say, his mouth falling open before pressing shut. His lips are chapped, the delicate skin catching together when he says, "…I'm not…good."
Her nostrils flare, and she shuffles tiredly around the couch, practically throwing herself down beside him. In different circumstances, perhaps, he'd be amused, curl up and lay his head in her lap, as he's done before. But he resists the urge, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants, blunt nails digging into his thigh.
"Not good?" Emma repeats, reaching up to rub at her eyes before her hand finds its way back into his hair.
Killian nods, and stares into the fireplace, where nothing but shadows and ash meet him. He bites down, teeth against teeth, his jaw aching underneath the pressure. Emma waits, and squirms in place, patience and sleepiness warring against one another as she sits at his side.
"Some nights," he says, quietly, "I remember the things I've done. I was not a good man, Emma. As much as I believe I've worked to change, there are some thing that I…that are hard to atone for."
Emma considers him, fingers stilling at his neck.
"That may have been who you were," she says, "but it's not who you are."
He only sighs in reply, looking down at his lap.
"You know I love you, right?"
He looks at her, then, caught by the gentle expression on her face. "Aye."
"And that nothing will change that, right?"
Killian expected her to say something of the sort. He can't quite decide if he wishes it were true or not, whether he deserves it. He only nods.
"I know that these things sort of…" She gestures weakly. "…catch up to you sometimes. I know how that feels. But hey, Archie can help with those things, so, at least you're on the right track?"
She looks hopeful, yearning for an affirmation, looking bright and hopeful. An easy sort of expression that she's carried more and more as of late. Killian can't help the smile the tugs at the corners of his lips, as weak as it is.
"Aye, love," he says. "You're right."
Emma nods, several more times than necessary, exhaustion curling over her shoulders. She leans back against the cushion, trying to stifle a yawn, ultimately failing, her fingers scratching at the base of his skull before falling on his shoulder.
"I think I'll take a walk," he says, leaning back, mirroring the subtle tilt of her head. "Just long enough to purge these demons."
She blinks, long and heavy, and then leans forward. Her eyes sparkle in the silver moonlight, like evergreens in winter. Killian's certain that she sees. She's always seen him. Hurt and guilt and regret, near to boiling over. He can feel his fingers twitching, his lips trembling. He wonders if, when she knows, she'll never quite look at him like this again, with love and patience and that warm and boundless empathy that's saved everyone in the town several times over. So he stares down at her, hard, looking from one eye to the other, down at her lips, then back up to her eyes, growing hazy yet again with exhaustion.
"I know you're hurting," she says, at length, reaching back up to pull at the hair curling behind his ear. He struggles not to close his eyes, the sensation of her nails dragging lightly through his hair enough to test his resolve, to let him give into her before he can make amends.
"You can tell me why, you know." Emma smiles, then, and he's helpless to smile back. Though, guessing by the persistent crease between her brow, it's hardly convincing. "Whenever you're ready."
As if he could ever be ready to break her heart.
All the same, Killian nods, and watches intently as she stretches, the fabric of her shirt stretching over her arms, hair tumbling down her back in hopeless tangles. He memorizes the weightlessness of her shoulders, the gentle look on her face. She stands, and for a moment, she hesitates, before turning around and reaching out, taking his face in her hands. He's never felt quite so small in her presence, so vulnerable, so cherished. She kisses his temple, and he closes his eyes, squeezing tight against the burn.
"Goodnight, Killian."
He swallows, and watches her stumble up the stairs, sure to be half asleep already.
"Goodnight, Emma," he calls after her.
The very next night, he finds himself pacing at her father's door. His footsteps, as soft as they are, still set the old, swollen wood creaking beneath his feet. The room beyond is quiet, and so surely the prince has heard him, wearing a path on the landing.
He'd not meant to come here so soon. When he'd told the cricket his sordid tale, he'd been clear that he meant to tell David, less clear on how or when. In all his wisdom, Archie had suggested he make something of a plan, to think on what he means to say before he does so, to prepare himself. As much as he'd agreed, not several hours later, he finds himself at his friend's door, nothing but voiceless feeling causing a racket in his mind. With each turn, the papers in his back-pocket crinkle, adding to the symphony. It's unbearable, a familiar shame pooling in his belly, the sort of hurt he'd once nurtured into the very careless vengeance with which he'd killed David's father.
"Are you ever gonna come in?"
Killian turns on his heel, the sharp motion setting a twinge in his neck. David, in all his blissful ignorance, peers through a crack in the door, his mouth hidden by the jamb, but his eyes shining and crinkling in the dim light. Killian attempts something of a smile in return, though it's severely lacking, judging by the concern on David's face, becoming all the more apparent when he pulls the door open and beckons him inside.
"You already asked me for my blessing," David says, once the door is shut behind him, hands resting on his hips. "What's got you so worried now?"
Killian shuffles where he stands, hardly able to look at the man before him. His shoulders rest easy, a conspiratorial smile on his face. There's yet something a bit haunted in his eyes, something deep that Killian knows will tug at David's heart when he least expects. The sort of hurt that lingers, subtly, springing up at a familiar smell, or sound, just the way the sweet smell of baking bread often reminds him of his mother.
That thought alone cracks his resolve, if just for a moment, that David will feel the very same way when he looks upon him.
"Don't ask her in public," David says, at length, when Killian can only manage to shift uncertainly at by the door.
Killian, for all the weight crushing down on his chest, smiles, briefly. Must be a family trait, he imagines, coaxing smiles and laughter out of him when the foundation upon which he stands turns to sand.
"Thanks for the advice, mate," he says. "But that's not why I'm here."
David tilts his head, frowns, and in that moment, the resemblance between he and his father flares to life.
"Then why – "
"I know who killed your father."
Killian shuts his mouth as fast as he opened it. If he thought the room was silent before – the lad sleeping soundly in his crib, Snow deathly quiet in her cursed slumber – it's nearly deafening now, a rush in his ears. Though David looks confused, Killian has a feeling the man already has an inkling as to what he's about to say.
"What?" David says, taking a step forward. "You do?"
Though he's hardly a hand-breadth taller, Killian feels dwarfed, and he shrinks, reaching back to clutch at the pages in his pocket. He swallows, hard, and tugs until the sheets come loose. His jaw works, his hand and hook shake terribly. It's a struggle to open them up.
"Aye," Killian answers.
David reaches out, though he bypasses the pages, a steady hand grasping at his arm.
"Listen, Killian."
Killian does, looking up into his eyes at the sound of his name, spoken in tenor, soft and kind.
"You were right," David says. "I should leave this all in the past. It's enough to know who my father truly was, that he wanted to come back for me, for our family. It's enough."
It's enough, something echoes, dark and insidious. Killian wonders, briefly, if the darkness will ever concede to the man he's become, or if it will forever whisper, a remembrance of evil stamped on his soul. For a moment, he imagines throwing the pages into a fire, no one the wiser. If nothing else, August gave him the choice. Another man who saw his face, another reminder that, in decades past, he was the sort of man who would have killed him too, to protect his vengeance.
But – and despite it all, there's a flash of pride welling deep in his belly – Killian knows who he was, and now who he is. So he looks his friend in the eye, and says –
"It was me."
In another situation, perhaps, it would be comical, the way the bright, eager smile drops quickly from David's face, replaced with something guarded and blank. Only, he's as open to Killian as Emma, and it's plain to see the shock in his shoulders, molding slowly, surely, to betrayal.
"What?" David breathes.
Killian breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. "I killed your father."
David's mouth falls open. Hurt, confusion, anger, grim realization, all a terrible symphony on his face
"I…" David takes one step backwards, then another, as though the world is tilting. He fumbles back, until he leans against the counter behind him. Killian remains rooted in place, afraid to talk, afraid to be silent, afraid to move, afraid to be still. He merely watches David, watches the pain wash over him. He looks at his wife, and at his son, and then, with sluggish intensity, at Killian.
"David, I – "
"Get out."
Killian looks down at his feet. "Aye…I just – "
"Please, just," David breathes, the sound ragged, wedging itself in Killian's mind, somewhere he's sure it will never die. "Just go."
Without another moment of hesitation, he complies, and disappears out into the darkness.
Killian's glad, at least, that he'd had the presence of mind to tell Emma not to wait up for him, that he thought David could use a friend.
Not that he'd meant himself. He's not certain, given all he's done, that their friendship could ever recover.
There are times when he's uncertain who he should curse. If he would have become something else, something unflinchingly good, if it weren't for his father, for the men who treated him like broken property, for the secret that killed his brother, the monster that killed his Milah. Moments of confusion and helplessness, when he longs to cast his sins off to the sins of others. But these are fleeting.
"It was my choice," he says, quietly, to the shadows sprawling out before him, drawn out in garish light.
Killian has never quite grown accustomed to the artificial light, how it swallows up the stars. Brighter than fire, but far less warm. It's quiet, at least, lacking the distinctive crackle of the massive fires his crew would set at the water's edge – the rushing noise, like a steady wind. It's perhaps why he can hear David's footsteps, long before he reaches the gangplank, echoing softly through the rigging. Despite the circumstances, it banishes his loneliness, if only for a moment, until David steps onto the deck. And then, quite suddenly, Killian feels lonelier than he's ever been.
"Hook."
Killian flinches, though he grasps tight to courage and dignity, turning to face yet another person whose life he's destroyed. He's not sure what to expect. Rage, perhaps, or cold derision. Certainly not the slack and open expression he finds. David says nothing, only stares, eyes flitting down from his face, catching at the sword on his belt before resting on his shoes, then back up again. Killian takes a step forward, and draws the very sword upon which David's eyes linger.
"I've owned many swords in my life," Killian says. "All of which I've tried to keep. I once told Emma I wasn't a sentimental man, that I didn't cling to memory. I lied. I'm certain she knew the truth. That I remember every face, that I keep all the names, if I can catch them. Once, as trophies. Now, as reminders."
Still, David says nothing, only eyes the sword in his hand with vague curiosity.
"Your father thanked me for saving his life from the men who intended to kill him. Moments later, I…finished what they started."
For a moment, David looks stricken, though he clings tight to silence, shifting from one foot to another. He stills when Killian leans forward, and places the sword on the ground. It clatters across the deck, the hilt knocking into David's foot. A flash of memory, tinged in darkness, sparks in his mind, Belle and the crocodile standing fearfully before him. He falters, and breathes through the desire to fall to his knees.
"I know that…" Killian pauses, longs to look down at his feet, anywhere but in David's eyes. But he clenches his jaw, and steels himself. "…you wanted to fight your father's killer. I meant what I said before. I won't stand in your way. Ask of me what you will. I just thought…you deserved to have that. To know the truth in its entirety. To know that…" His voice quiets, and he whispers, "I'm truly sorry."
If David is surprised, he doesn't let on. He hesitates, though he leans down, and picks the sword up, grasping it by the hilt. He seems to weigh it, follow the deadly curve of the blade with his eyes before he looks back up, and takes a step forward. Another, and then another. Killian stands perfectly still, and watches as David stands nearly toe to toe, before he skirts him, leans over the portside gunwale, and drops the sword unceremoniously into the water.
"Killian," he says, quietly, the man's voice clearly rough with disuse. "You were right then, and you're right now. I…honestly, it will take time to process. But I…forgive you." He pauses, his jaw clenching, eyes shining brighter, lip trembling. "I really do."
Killian isn't quite sure what to say. He can hardly thank the man for something he's not quite sure he deserves. His mouth falls open, nothing but clouds from his breath between them. And silence. At least, until his heart betrays him, and a tear slips down his cheek. As it were, the sheen in David's eyes overflows, and before Killian can protest, David's hand is at the back of his neck, leaning down until his forehead rests on his shoulder, and pulling at Killian's neck until he does the same.
"I'm angry, Killian," he says.
Killian nods, the leather of David's jacket pressing into his face. "As you should be."
"But I forgive you."
"I'm so sorry."
"I know."
David hangs on a moment longer before letting go, straightening his jacket. Killian mirrors, unsure as to what else to do. He shuffles, uncertain, and watches to see what else David will do, intent on following his lead. But he seems just as uncertain, eyes dragging over the dips and knots in the wood beneath his feet.
At length, David clears his throat, and gestures out towards the sea. "I guess I probably shouldn't be throwing so much stuff into the harbor. That's kinda illegal."
It's a poor attempt at humor, David's voice yet wooden and strained. Even so, Killian smiles, weakly.
"Throw as much as you like," he says. "I'm certain you've earned it."
As quick as it was to appear, Killian's smile vanishes, and quietly, he says, "I've lived half a dozen lifetimes, mate. And I…well, any man would be proud to call himself your friend."
Am I still worthy to do the same?
David doesn't quite smile, but he reaches out all the same, pats Killian tentatively on the back.
"I meant it, you know," he says. "You have changed."
He lingers for a moment. But the night grows colder, quieter around them. It's long past Snow's time to wake, and so David pulls his jacket tighter over his shoulder, and gives a weak nod before walking back down the gangplank, and off into the night. There's a decided heaviness in the man's step, something Killian imagines will linger. Time, he thinks, has long been his enemy. Now, as deep wounds begin to knit together, he thinks it could become his ally.
It's much the same with Emma, though he's not at all surprised, given how she takes after her father. She disappears after he tells her, for several long hours. Only, this time, Killian doesn't wander back to the sea. He sits on the steps in the back, naught but water in his flask, watching the sunlight fade, shattering into shades of red. It bleeds down over the shed, casting long shadows down over the grass. The air is terribly still, and when the early spring creatures begin buzzing to life, the sounds echo sharply in his ears, a resonant reminder of how singular he is, a man amongst nature, silent in the noise, a villain among heroes.
Killian knows she'd protest the latter. Likely even in the wake of this revelation. He waits for her judgment, something self-flagellating within hoping she'll banish him from the town, and set him to wander through this strange land until he dies.
"Hey."
She speaks softly, though still it startles him. He drops the flask in his hand, and it clatters down the steps, tipping its contents down upon the ground. Killian shakes his head and turns to look at her over his shoulder, to watch as she comes to sit beside him, just a step above.
"You gonna get that?" she says.
"It's just water."
Emma hums, and rests her elbows on her knees. For several minutes, she's quiet, and together they watch the reds grow deeper, feel the air grow colder. She pulls her knees closer to her chest, and rubs her fingers together. She's so quiet – so unbearably quiet – that Killian nearly startles again when she speaks.
"Did you really give my dad your sword?"
Killian sighs, and turns to look at her, just enough to regard her out of the corner of his eye. "I gather you've talked to your father."
Emma tilts her head expectantly, waiting for him to answer her.
"Aye, that I did."
"I can't decide whether that's noble or ridiculous. What did you expect him to do with it? Fight you?"
"I merely wanted to give him a choice. He deserved that much." He reaches up, and scratches gently at the back of his neck with his neck, dragging down beneath his ear. "And trust me, Swan, there was nothing noble about any of this."
Though a part of him was certain he'd never again have the privilege, Emma reaches out, tentative and soft, her fingers crawling up his arm, and over his shoulder. They rest beneath his ear, the short hair at his neck giving way when she reaches further still. He resists the urge to lean into her, to fall into her arms, to cry into the crook of her neck, where the world can't find him.
"I've told you before," she says, softly. "You're not that person anymore."
Killian shakes his head, breathing through the burn in eyes, the lump in his throat. "How can you be so sure?"
She frowns. "I know a part of you wants us to punish you. But we're not going to. We're going to forgive you."
"How?"
Emma shrugs, as if it's obvious. "We love you."
For the second time in as many days, Killian breaks. He'd resolved to hold it in, to cry and curse where no one besides him would have to bear the burden. He's angry at himself, for giving in, for falling into her, for allowing the granddaughter of a man he murdered to hold him while he cries. Other hurts swell in his chest. His brother, the boy he orphaned, smiling at him. Henry, the son of a man he once betrayed. A family whose past is tied so intimately with his own, hurting because of him…forgiving him.
"Because of me," he whispers, into the fabric of Emma's shirt. But she only shushes him, speaks comfort into his ear, hands weaving through his hair, and winding down over his back, tugging at his ears and scratching through his bears.
We forgive you.
You've changed.
You're a good man.
We love you.
I love you.
She whispers these things against his temple, her breath warm and sweet, washing over his face. All at once, the resistance fades, and the warm, gentle tears tumbling down through his beard give way to sobs, the wild, wracking sort. And so he cries for everything he's done, and everything he's lost. Until evening becomes night, and he lays still and quiet against her.
"I'm sorry, love," he says. "For everything."
"I know."
It's a long while still before he can stand to pull away, and even then, just far enough that she could rise, should she wish. And she does, though not before taking his chin in her hand, and holding him still, bunching up the hem of her shirt, and wiping what's sure to be a right mess away from his cheeks.
"I'm just gonna…do my night stuff," she says. She hesitates when he nods, watches his face closely. "Will you come to bed?"
The something dark that still lives within, still hurting and shameful, bids that he remain where he is, think well into the night, until it's near enough to dawn to be up and about. But he ignores it, and follows Emma's lead.
"Aye," he says. "In just a bit."
Emma nods, satisfied, and disappears, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving him with the crescendo of night, the rise of the moon and a sweet breeze. He sighs, long and heavy. And despite the hurt, the weight on his chest begins to crumble. It feels like forgiveness, real and true, his penance behind him, as much as it ever can be. And though, just the day before, he'd confessed to the cricket that he'd considered retiring the ring in his pocket for good, he grasps it with renewed purpose. They will all need time, he knows, but he resolves to hold onto the ring, and despite his reservations, to hold onto hope as well, the way Emma taught him, the way her whole family has taught him.
Killian leans back, looks up, and watches the stars blink to life, knows them all by name by now. The night begins to slip away. As much as he's tempted to allow it all to fester in loneliness, he pulls himself to his feet, and goes back inside, allowing the door to slam – satisfyingly – shut. He doesn't look back.