I was supposed to be working on the next chapter of "Hold On", but then this popped into my head, and it took on a life of its own. Still, I can't say I'm unhappy about the distraction. All characters belong to Adam Horowitz and Eddy Kitsis.
Killian Jones is frustrated. In fact, he's frustrated beyond belief, even though he knows it's really not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. She's been letting him in more and more, and it couldn't be clearer that she trusts him.
Still, Emma Swan is as stubborn as she is beautiful, and Killian knows that. In fact, it's one of the reasons he loves her so much.
But that doesn't mean he's perfectly content to lean against the wall with one eyebrow quirked up, watching her move her new couch into its position against the opposite wall in her new home. Nope, not one bit, because he can't help but think about all the ways she could get hurt. It had started off simple enough. She'd asked if he wanted to help her move the boxes from David's truck into the bare house since Henry was with Regina for the day, and it would make things go faster. Of course, he'd agreed, and they had gotten all of the boxes stacked in the kitchen to be unpacked later. Then her couch had gotten delivered while he was tightening the nozzle on the leaky faucet. She'd been out of his sight for two minutes, and she'd gotten herself into trouble. Since she was already half way across the room with the couch, she'd told him to just unpack some of the boxes, that that would be the most helpful. He'd argued that it would go faster if the two of them moved it together, using her own words against her, but in typical Emma style, she argued, insisting she could do it on her own.
Needless to say, Killian feels the need to supervise instead of unpack like she'd asked him to. He's not even sure if she notices he's not doing what she wishes because she's so focused on moving that damn couch.
"You know, Love," Killian says after she grunts, "I wasn't implying that you couldn't move the couch. I was simply offering a hand."
"It'll be fine," she replies in a tight, winded voice. "I'm almost done." To prove her point, she gives the couch one final shove into place. Her hand slips, and a piece of metal sticking out from the bottom drags across her palm. She hisses and curses under her breath, and Killian's at her side in an instant.
"What's wrong?" His voice is laced with concern, and Emma almost feels bad for brushing him off.
"It's fine, it' s just a scratch," she says before looking down at the wound.
"No, it's not fine, Emma. You're bleeding." Killian tries to keep his voice level, but he can feel the anger bubbling up inside. He should have just helped her move the couch, he thinks. He would rather her be mad at him than injured.
"You think I've never bled before? Killian, I'm–"
"You're fine, yeah, I get it." This time, he can't keep the irritation out of his voice, and he takes a step back and begins pacing while running a hand through his hair. "You're always fine."
"Hey, what the hell are you so angry about? I cut my hand, it's fine, it's happened before, and it'll happen again."
"That's not the point, Emma. It wouldn't have happened if you'd just let me help you."
"You don't know that," she fires back. "I still could have cut my hand."
"Damnit, would it kill you to trust someone!?" His words hang in the air for a beat before she darts into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. He sighs and scrubs at his face, now angry at himself rather than her. He'd pushed her to hard, and he knows exactly why she ran. He takes so steps to the door she'd disappeared behind. He can hear the water running, and assumes she's washing the wound out at the sink. His footfalls sound like a jet engine in the otherwise silent and empty house. "Emma, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, okay?" The sink shuts off, but she doesn't open the door. He takes it as a green light to continue. "I get why you don't trust people. In the past, you have literally almost gotten killed because you trusted the wrong person. I get it, and maybe I don't know exactly what goes on in your mind, but I do get why you do what you do. I just– I'm sorry." He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his boots, waiting for her response. The seconds feel like hours before she opens the door. Anger still clouds her eyes, but something else, too. Tears, maybe? Her gaze flicks down for a moment, and his lands on her hand, taking him away from his thoughts. "That's not just a cut, Em," he says quietly.
"I forgot I didn't put the first aid kit in here yet," she says somewhat self-depreciatively. "It's in one of the boxes."
"I can find it, if you want," he says. "Emma, it's bleeding again."
"Okay," she nods and follows him to the kitchen, grabbing the first paper towel she sees and pressing it against the cut.
"How is it?" He asks while rummaging through the top box.
"It'll be fine once I get a bandaid on it," she says.
"No, I mean, is it hurting? Because I think I have some of that Anvil stuff you told me to keep with me in case I get a headache or backache or–
"'Advil,'" she corrects with a small smile, "and like I said, I really am okay. Trust me, I've had worse; I gave birth chained to a hospital bed without an epidural. I think I'll survive a scrape."
"What's an epidural?" He asks as he searches through the second box.
"It's umm… it's a needle type thing that the doctor sticks into your back. It's medicine that keeps you from feeling pain below wherever it's placed. In the case of having a baby, it blocks out the contractions and stuff."
"Oh…" he hums, trying to process the information. "I wasn't implying you couldn't handle a cut, I was just… I'm concerned. I worry about you, even if it annoys you."
"I'm not annoyed, Killian," she says softly. "And you're right. I probably should have let you help with the couch, to make things easier, but… whenever I've moved apartments –and believe me, I've done so a lot– I've never had anyone to help me. I've gotten so used to doing everything on my own, and then suddenly I have parents and a son and friends and a boyfriend who all want to help me, and I'm happy to let you guys help, but sometimes it just gets to be too much. So much has changed since Henry brought me here, and you brought me back. I feel like I'm always five seconds away from breaking down. And it's not like I'm unhappy, because I'm so, so happy. But for my entire life, I had my walls up, and I never let myself feel anything too strongly. Happiness would always go away, so why bother feeling it even for the briefest of moments? Love never lasted because people always left. Sadness was depressing, so I chose not to feel that either. I was numb because choosing to feel nothing is an attractive option when what you feel sucks. So that's what I did. And then Henry and Mary Margaret slowly broke down some of my walls, and I felt things I hadn't in a really long time. And then the curse broke, and I was suddenly a daughter, too, and it was too much all at once. I pulled away from my mom in the Enchanted Forest –the time I met you, not when we took our trip to the past. And then I met you, and I fought so hard not to let myself feel anything for you because I couldn't risk it. I didn't want to, I didn't wanna get hurt again. But you've fought even harder to break down my walls, and you did. You broke them down, and now I'm feeling a lot of things. And it scares me. I'm not used to it. And so everything's magnified for me, and it doesn't take much to tip me over the edge and suddenly I'm reduced to a blubbering mess and I hate it with a passion. I've never been like that. I hate it, I don't like it, I don't want it. So sometimes I just need to think about stuff or look at things from my past that hurt just so I can prove to myself that I can still handle it, that I haven't gotten that soft. So, no, moving the couch by myself wasn't me being stubborn or trying to prove anything to you. It was my trying to prove to myself that I can still do it, because I'm grasping at straws for anything that will remind me of who I was before Henry found me. I don't feel like myself, Killian," her voice cracks at his name, and she turns around and walked into the bare living room. He stops rooting through the boxes, deciding that her emotional well-being is of higher priority than the injury at the moment. He follows her and stands a foot behind her so she can have privacy while she gets a grip, but also being within supporting distance in case she wants it.
"For what it's worth, I quite like the Emma Swan I know now. I never knew the Emma Swan before Henry found you, but I'm sure she was great. Emma… you said it yourself, to Cora: love is strength. What's changed your mind?"
"I haven't," she responds in a low, tight voice. "I just… I need you guys to understand. I'm trying, I really am, but–" her voice cracks, and she stops, looking up to keep the tears from spilling over.
His heart drops. He knows that move, the ways she's standing… she's hellbent on keeping it together, on not giving in. She isn't usually in this mood, but when she gets in it, she gets in it deep. And suddenly it all makes sense. While Killian prides himself on his deep understanding of his Swan, he never could figure out why there were moments when she refused to cry, even if it was just him and her, even after the previous times she'd allowed him to comfort her. Well, now he knows why.
"I know it's hard, and we all know you're trying," he says, keeping his own emotions in check. He wants to put a hand on her shoulder to let her know he's there for her, but knows that any comfort will send her over the edge, and he has a feeling that if she does, she won't forgive herself for a while. "Perhaps you should tell your parents what you've told me, it might help them understand how to help you better."
"They already blame themselves enough, Killian," she says in a steady voice. Finally, she turns around to face him. Her eyes are red and shiny, but her cheeks are dry, and he feels a bit relieved to know that she won't be freaking out at herself. Her hand, though, doesn't look so good, and he does want to attend to that as soon as possible. "They don't need to know what I do sometimes, it…" she shakes her head, trying to formulate what she wants to say. "It would hurt them, to say the least. And it has nothing to do with them, or anyone else. It's about me. It wouldn't be fair to put that on them, when I'm the reason for it."
"Yet you told me," he comments.
"Because I trust you," she responds with a smirk, "and it hasn't killed me yet."
"Yet?" He raises an eyebrow. She gives him that look, the one that makes him want to kiss it right off her face, and raises her hand.
"I believe I have a scratch you would like to attend to."
"That's not a scratch, that's a fairly deep cut," he says, his voice laced with concern. He grabs her wrist gently and brings it to his eye level so he can inspect it better. "You might need stitches, which I know how to–"
"I don't need stitches, it'll be fine. Look, I'll even let you put the antiseptic and bandaid on if you want."
"It looks like there's some pieces of fuzz in it," he says, though she wonders if he meant to speak aloud. He looks up at her, "Do you have some tweezers?"
"It'll be with the first aid kit," she replies. "You checked the first two boxes?"
"Yes, so it's got to be in this one, I assume," he points to the one that contains medicine cabinet items. She leans against the wall and watches as he quickly but methodically searches for the white box. "Got it," he says.
"We can do it in the bathroom in case we get blood anywhere," she gestures down the hall.
"After you, milady," he bows dramatically and she rolls her eyes. He follows her down the hall. "It might take me a few minutes to pick out the fuzz, so maybe you should sit on the toilet and I can kneel? It'll be a better angle for me."
"Okay," she says and flops down. He kneels beside her and opens the white box, extracting the scissors and flashlight.
"The fuzz probably won't be that big of a problem, but I don't want it to cause an infection," he says apologetically, knowing that picking the fuzz from the wound won't feel good, to say the least.
"No, you're right," she places her non-injured hand on his and rubs her thumb back and forth. "It's okay." He offers her a small smile before poising the tweezers over the wound.
"Could you hold the flashlight?"
"Yeah," she says, turning it on and twisting the top so that the light becomes focused in a small circle. His gaze flicks up to hers and she nods. Taking a deep breath, Killian slowly lowers the tweezers into the cut. She winces, and he sees it in his periphery.
"Sorry," he immediately pulls the tool out and sighs.
"Killian, it's fine. If you want, I can do it, it's okay. I've done it before."
"No, no, I'm– are you– Emma, I'm not squeamish, if that's what you're implying." He looks almost offended, but she knows he's also just playing.
"That's not what I was implying. Of course the fearsome Captain Hook isn't squeamish. I was just offering because I know you don't want to hurt me, and that no matter how many times I tell you it's fine, you're still going to beat yourself up about it, and I don't want that for you." He smiles at her thoughtfulness, but shakes his head.
"It's alright, Love. I enjoy taking care of you."
She scoffs at that and rolls her eyes, but he can see the touched smile behind the façade.
"You ready to try this again, Pirate?"
"As you wish," he bows his head before trying to pick at the fuzz again. Emma very consciously keeps her face relaxed and not pained, so as not to worry her pirate.
"Where'd you learn all this first aid stuff from?" She asks to distract him as much as herself.
"Out on the sea, we didn't have the luxury of a doctor," he replies, his eyes never leaving her wound. "We had to take care of each other ourselves. Of course, us being pirates and all, we got injured quite frequently, and there were plenty of wounds to tend to. Our choices were to either get good at fixing ourselves up or die. I obviously chose the former." He pauses to more closely examine the cut. "I think there are just a few more pieces in here. Are you doing okay?"
"I'm fine, Killian, really," she says, giving him a reassuring smile. Sure, having cold, metal tweezers digging around a half a centimeter deep cut isn't fun, but as she told Killian, she's had worse and to her, this is a cake walk.
"May I ask a question, since you asked one?"
"You never have to ask if you can ask," she replies, her nose scrunching up in confusion in that adorable way of hers. "That was worded weirdly." He laughs at that, then says,
"How come you chose not to have that… epi-thing when you had Henry? I'm aware that that childbirth is excruciating, and while women in the Enchanted Forest did not have the option, I would have assumed that when given the option for pain relief, one would choose it."
"Epidural," she says with an amused grin. "I don't know," she shrugs. "By the time I got to the hospital –I was in jail at the time, two months away from being released– labor was pretty advanced and almost to the point where I wouldn't even be able to have the needle placed. I kinda figured that I'd made it that long, so why bother. I mean, I guess I also just didn't want it to be a happy experience. I knew I wasn't going to keep Henry, and I… I didn't even look at him. Hell, up until New York, I never even knew what he looked like from before he found me, cause I never asked Regina if I could see a picture. And now I have the fake memories, but…" she trails off and shrugs with one shoulder, careful not to jostle the hand Killian is working on. "Maybe I also wanted to punish myself, or try to build myself up, I don't know. I was in a pretty bad state of mind, and I was furious at just about everyone and hellbent on not being the same person I was before Neal. I wanted to be stronger." She adds softly, "We all know how that worked out."
"Hey," he says softly, putting the tweezers down and cupping her cheek so she couldn't look away. "You, Emma Swan, are the most amazing person I have ever met in all of my 300 years. Everything that has happened to you –the good and the bad– has made you who you are, and you know what? I wouldn't change you at all."
She gives him a tight-lipped, teary smile before nodding to the tweezers. "You gonna finish getting the fuzz out so we can hopefully get me and Henry's beds put together? I don't want to spend another night with my parents and a screaming newborn." Killian smirks at her and resumes fuzz-picking. He doesn't miss the appreciation in her eyes, though, and so he smiles to himself.
"I think that's all of it," he says after a few minutes of silence. "Ready for the antiseptic?" She nods and braces herself for the familiar sting of hydrogen peroxide. Killian pours some onto a piece of gauze, then dabs her cut with it. Emma inhales sharply, then relaxes as her mind acclimates to the pain.
"When do you think I'll get to stitch you up?" She jokes.
"It may be a while, considering I don't stubbornly engage in dangerous tasks."
"Right, because moving a couch is so dangerous," the blonde rolls her eyes and gives Killian a look. "Do we have to relive this conversation?"
"It isn't just about the couch, Emma. However, I know this week isn't the best week to talk about it, so how about after I get you fixed up, we put the beds together, then I can go get that ice cream you like, and we can watch Netflix until Henry gets home?"
"Best… week… how did– how… do you know?" Killian looks so damn proud of himself for making her flustered, she wants to smack it right off his face. But he's also so totally adorable and sweet, she doesn't have the heart to.
"I've known you for quite some time, love. I have a mental calendar, so that I know if something might affect you more at one time than another. I personally like to know how to help you best. It's also why I didn't argue with you all that much when you insisted on moving the couch yourself. This week, you're stubborn to know end and craving practically everything. Next week you'll be angry for no reason, for which I am fully prepared."
"…Wow…" she is slack-jawed and completely flabbergasted.
"Therefor, in a few weeks we'll discuss your death wishes, alright? We'll make it a date. And while you were so wrapped up in trying to figure out how I am so aware of you, I finished patching you up. You're all set, love." He pats the top of her hand gently before bringing it up for a tender kiss.
"You're gonna hate me for saying it, but you're the sweetest man ever," she says with a smile that lights up her entire face. She stands up and pulls Killian in for a long, passionate kiss. "I'm not so sure putting the beds together is such a good idea," she says breathlessly. "But if we put the TV up, we'll definitely have Netflix."
He gives her a look that sends chills down her spine and backs away. "It should be a fairly quick project to put the TV up. We should still have time for the beds, and maybe a little extra…"
"Henry will be home soon," she says with all the finality she can muster (which, really, looking into those dangerously blue eyes, isn't much). "We'll set the beds, up then Henry will be home." They make their way out to the living room, and Emma tilts her head to the side.
"Something wrong, love?" Killian finally tones it back down to caring-puppy-dog-boyfriend level.
"The couch isn't quite centered," she says with a sigh.
"I'll do it," he quickly replies. They then play the 'a little to the left, a little to the right' game until Henry unexpectedly comes home early, shaking his head at the two.