Killian sat outside, watching the flames of a fire slowly finish dying down, the half-empty bottle of rum still held loosely in his hand. The cold air that rushed by in the wind, blowing the leaves around him and his coat open, didn't seem to stir the captain, his bright eyes staring into the dying flames. His only movement was to lift the bottle of rum, slowly, and take another swig.
It had been days—(weeks?)—since he'd been out here like this. Let her come back into his mind like this. And there were reasons for that, always reasons; he couldn't focus on what was important if she never left the forefront of his mind. If she was always there to remind him—
Silently, the bottle was hurled into the fire, though it was already too dead to light up anymore. Glass shattered against the rocks and the burnt wood, the angered and enraged expression on Killian's face slowly ebbing away, into nothing but drawn exhaustion.
He really couldn't afford to think about her anymore.
Not now.