To Hold Your Hand
"Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?"-Charles D'Ambrosio, The Dead Fish Museum
His crown lit up the way as we moved slowly,
Past the watering eyes of the ones we've left behind.
Though far away, though far away, though far away,
We're still the same, we're still the same, we're still the same.
He looks like death.
There are other, blander adjectives to describe him rough, worn, but its the first word that springs to her mind, the momentary hesitation that holds her back, half uncertain if he's another of Hades' shades, another cruel trick.
Time can move differently here, she knows, but she didn't imagine the years that drip from him like water from a drowned corpse. His skin is unmarried by lines and his hair as black as ever but he somehow looks every one of his two hundred and more years, slightly stooped as if his shoulders have been broken by the weight of too many days and hours, and his clothes, ragged and disheveled, hang on a frame slightly too gaunt.
He takes a step forward, halting, uncertain, movements stiff, creaking like rotting timbers. Dried blood and dirt splatters his skin and clothes, outlining the scar down the side of his neck, His cheeks are sunken and hollow, skin two to three shades too pale. His mannerisms are strange, off, as if all the cocky confidence, the familiar swagger, has been peeled away from him, leaving something half broken and frail in their place. He takes another step toward her, painfully small and hesitant. A wraith snarls, wrapping itself around his ankle and sinking teeth into his boot, as a tendril of fog stretches slowly around his other foot, binding him in place. He makes no attempt to shake them off or free himself, no movement at all, really, and Emma isn't certain he's even breathing.
She's nearly certain he's not real, almost ready to pull the others away and keep searching, when she sees his eyes and the look in them, that look she's seen before, only never this desperate, never this uncertain. He's looking at her like she's the only thing in the entire world, like the sun in the darkness. Only Killian, her Killian, would look at her with that mixture of a drowning man watching the last lifeboat and yet not feeling worthy to be pulled on board.
She's running before she realizes it, even as she faintly hears Robin's arrow root itself in the wraith or the sound of her parents' swords leaving their scabbards. Killian stumbles backwards as she crashes into him, sways slightly, then steadies. He's solid, real in her arms, not limp and lifeless like the last time she held him, and she clings to him, one hand clenched in a fist around a handful of the back of his coat, the other twisted into his hair. He trembles nearly imperceptibly, faint tremors running through every muscle. His bones are too sharp and he reeks of decay and everything else the Underworld teems with, but his arms slowly come up to wrap around her, and his face buries in her shoulder and hair, murmuring her name over and over in a voice hoarse and rusty and strangely fragile, as if he speaks too loudly she'll disappear. Emma, Emma, Emma.
Howling ghosts they reappear
In mountains that are stacked with fear
But you're a king, and I'm a lionheart.
And in the sea that's painted black
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're a king, and I'm a lionheart.
To say it hurts to have your heart broken in half is like saying its uncomfortable to be stabbed. Regina does it as quickly as possible but even then Emma is certain her half stops beating for a full six seconds as she gasps with the agony. Her heart twitches, stuttering weakly before settling into a sluggish rhythm. She rolls over on her side and sees Killian, still and grey, sees the sorrow in her parents' faces as they reach to comfort her and she pushes past them, crawling to his side. In the background of her mind, she hears all the reasons why it didn't work - something, anything went wrong, Regina made some mistake, he wasn't strong enough, but never what Regina tries to tell her, what she won't believe, that it only works with soulmates, and if it didn't work..
She grabs the front of his shirt, shakes him hard enough to rattle his teeth. Killian! Killian!, then covers his mouth with her own, part kiss, part breath.
He tastes of ashes and salt, and entirely, utterly wrong, and she's choking back a sob against his mouth when the burst of magic comes, violent and exploding through her like glass shattering inside her veins. Her half a heart lurches painfully, twitching, and then she feels his start, a half a second before he coughs his way back to life, one painful breath at a time.
As the world comes to an end, I'll be there to hold your hand
'Cause you're a king, and I'm a lionheart.
He says nothing when she tears a long strip off her sleeve and blindfolds him - not that she thinks he'd look back, not with the way his eyes haven't left her face since he opened them - but she's taking no chances. She takes his hand in both of her's to guide him and frictions one across his when she feels the chill of his skin and that constant tremble again.
She doesn't remove the blindfold even after they've reached the ferry and Charon is paddling them across the river. She takes off her jacket with one hand, releasing his hand for the barest of seconds to wrench her arm free, before draping it over him, and his eyes flutter, head lolling forward.
"Not yet." She catches his cheek gently. "Just a little longer."
His face is grey with exhaustion and he says nothing, something that might worry her normally but she can't focus on that now. He leans into her hand like something starved for comfort and she swallows the lump in her throat.
There are no tricks or traps on the way, and she's nearly giddy with relief when they set foot on the bank again, only to catch her breath when Killian crumples, her arms catching him just enough to break his fall but not enough to prevent his weight from pulling her down with him. She's frantically reaching for a pulse when she realizes he's just passed out, the exhaustion finally overcoming his best efforts. She starts to speak, then halts when David and Robin are already at her elbows, lifting Killian's arms over their shoulders and supporting him between them, as Mary Margaret puts an arm around her and helps her to her feet.
She's unable to do more than struggle and fail to hold back the tears as her mother takes her to Granny's and helps her clean the dirt off her hands - and the flakes of dried blood from where she stabbed her true love to death she reminds herself, then teeters dangerously on the edge of hysteria as Mary Margaret pulls her into a hug. She makes her eat, despite Emma's faint protests before finally caving in when her mother urges Regina to go check Killian out and heal any injuries until Dr. Whale can be tracked down.
She loses her battle with her tears when she arrives home - at the house Killian picked out for them. Killian is clean and dressed in some frilly, old-style nightshirt that she suspects is entirely Regina's idea and magic, and bundled into her bed. The others slip away - David last with a cough and a tug on his arm from Mary Margaret - and Emma crawls into the bed next to him, resting her head over his chest and listening to her heart beating strongly in his chest.
She falls asleep to the tune of that lullaby.