A/N: This story was in response to this request on Tumblr: "Is there any chance you could write more sick Killian like in the first couple of chapters of 'Sit, Stay, Feel?'" Warnings for alcohol induced vomiting.

Seven hells.

Killian gripped the edge of the commode with his hand and fixed his hook around the hinge of the seat to give himself some stability as he heaved the previous night's libations into the bowl in front of him, for what felt like the fiftieth time, as the small room spun and swam before his eyes. He'd been there for a few hours already — a cold sweat gathering at his hairline and running down his neck and back, while he wished a pox upon those who suggested he "have another" each time he declared himself through drinking. He hadn't felt this vile since the second morning in Neverland after Milah's death when he drank himself into a stupor not just to dull the pain of losing her, but his hand and the phantom spasms that accompanied it. That night he begged whatever dieties would listen to let him die, but this time he'd be satisfied with the death of David Nolan, orchestrator of his current state.

In the background of his jumbled and hazy thoughts, Killian could hear knocking on the door of the room he'd been occupying at Granny's since Emma moved out with Henry, but all he could do was moan weakly and retch again, grateful only for the cool touch of the basin as his hand slid down to hold it, letting the slight chill of it creep up his arm and give him something pleasant to focus his mind on. He rested his head on the toilet's seat and closed his eyes, wishing for the pounding outside to stop not just to ease the throbbing it caused to his head, but because there was not a single person he wished to see at the moment. Especially not the person he was fairly certain was behind the door.

"Killian! Are you in there?" Emma called out.

"No," he mumbled.

"I can hear you, you know. Let me in," she demanded.

"No," he said again. Louder but not too loud. He didn't want to shoot his eyeballs out of their sockets after all.

He could barely make out her irritated mumbling as he heard the lock slide back in its chamber and the doorknob turn, followed by the commiserating low moan of the hinges. The bloody woman and her lock picking skills could not just leave well enough alone. If he was going to die in this most undignified manner, Emma Swan was the last person he wanted to witness such a thing.

Her footsteps came closer and Killian felt his stomach roil again. The blood pounding in his ears muffled her voice as he counted to 10 hoping to quell the surge forming in his belly.

"…Let me help you," he finally heard her speaking softly through the last defense he had — the unlocked and not-quite-closed-all-the-way bathroom door.

"G'way, Swan. I'll be fine," he managed to say before losing the battle of wills with his innards. Again. Killian flushed the toilet just as Emma stepped through the door and looked at him with such pity in her eyes he had to look away.

"You look like shit," she stated.

He shot her a glare then placed his forehead back on the toilet seat and closed his eyes, pretending she was not there. She was obviously not in on the game because she spoke to him, dragging his attention back to her.

"What the hell happened to you? You weren't downstairs this morning and no one had seen you since last night. I was afraid you fell off the docks or something," she said, the concern in her voice as excruciating to him as the stabbing pain at the base of his skull.

Lifting his head and peeking at her with one eye, he spat out, "Your father is what happened. Bloody bastard."

Emma attempted to hide her smile behind her hand, but Killian saw it nonetheless and turned his head away from her, this time resting it on his arm which he had used to lever himself upright in indignation, but failed miserably in the attempt, almost cracking his head on the toilet seat instead.

"My father?" she asked not sounding remotely surprised.

"Aye. Your father. I went with him for 'boy's night out' at his behest…such a ridiculous name for grown men going out for a dram…and he kept plying me with drinks the whole night," Killian complained, his voice rough and tired.

"What the hell were you drinking? I've never seen you like this with rum," Emma noted.

Killian huffed in disgust as he slowly unbent and stared up at her as blandly as he could given his unsteadiness inside and out. "That's because we weren't drinking rum, love."

Emma arched her eyebrows in surprise. "Oh?"

"No, your dear father wanted to 'drink something else for a change' and requested a bottle of…What was that poison?…Oh, yes, tequila."

Emma winced and wrinkled her nose. She looked at him with a sympathetic smile and asked, "You didn't drink the worm did you?"

At the word "worm," Killian's stomach rebelled again without warning, and he threw himself over the opening of the toilet as what he prayed was the last of whatever was left in his abused guts hurled out of him. He spared a glance at the results. Thank Poseidon's floating balls. There was no worm staring back at him.

He could hear the water in the sink running and then felt a cool, wet cloth over his neck as Emma rubbed his back in small circles, trying to soothe him.

"Sorry. I was just kidding. There are no worms in tequila bottles anymore," she admitted, sheepishly.

Killian glanced over his shoulder at Emma, and raised his hand in her face. "Do not speak to me, woman. Just let me die here in peace with what little dignity I have left, would you?" he demanded.

Emma rolled her eyes at him and handed him a glass of water, which Killian reluctantly took from her. He sipped from it, letting it refresh his feverish body, spreading from his throat and throughout his torso like a gentle wave lapping at a sun-bleached shore. Killian let it settle and hoped the water would stay put. He handed back the glass and Emma placed it on the counter behind the sink, then she squatted down, putting one arm around his back, as she lifted his arm over her shoulder. "Come on, you big drama queen. Let's get you to bed."

"Adding insult to injury, eh, Swan?" he hassled her as she hefted him upright, taking on more of his weight than he would have liked, but his leg was asleep, and, frankly, he felt too weak to stand on his own.

Snorting, she patted his arm leading him out of the bathroom and to his bed. "Yup. It's part of my charm."

Killian sighed and tilted his head, "Like father, like daughter, I suppose."

Emma shot him a disparaging look and deposited him on the bed with perhaps a bit less care than he would have liked. He squeezed his eyes closed against the whirling room and its hideous flowered walls. He opened them again, cautiously, to see Emma smirking somewhat smugly at him.

"Not quite. You'll be happy to know that my dear old dad is home, passed out in the bathtub, covered in his own vomit," she informed Killian.

"Well now, that does sound like just desserts to me," Killian crowed with a satisfied nod. "At least I made it to the toilet," he said. She shook her head and stifled another laugh.

Emma left him sitting there and returned to the bathroom where he could hear her moving around and running the water again. Killian shucked his shirt over his head, balled it up, and tossed it across the room, then attempted to pull off a shoe only to smack himself in the face when his hand slipped its grip. Two more tries, and his shoes were safely on the floor while he fell back on the bed, unbuttoned his trousers, and began trying to shimmy out of them. The movement was just making him queasy, so he stopped to rest for a moment.

Killian opened his eyes at the sound of Emma clicking her tongue. "Look at you," she said, shaking her head with an amused smile. Placing the glass of water she had brought with her down on the night stand, along with two white pills, she gripped the cuffs of his jeans and gave them a yank. "You're a piece of work," she added.

"Part of my charm," Killian quipped, his eyes drifting closed again.

"Hmm…is that what this is?" Emma asked, tugging him upright again so she could steady him as he finally pulled off his pants.

Her touch on his skin should have set him alight as it usually did, but his senses remained muted from the alcohol and all he could do was be grateful he wasn't regurgitating on her feet. Never again would he betray his rum for that foul liquid. With a finger to his shoulder, Emma pushed him back down on the bed and handed him the water glass and pills.

"Take these and sleep it off, buddy. You'll thank me later," she said.

He downed the pills in one gulp and handed the glass back. She removed his hook, settled him under the blankets, and kissed his forehead before covering it over again with the cool cloth from earlier.

Killian's hand snaked out from under the blanket and slipped his finger in the waistband of Emma's jeans, pulling her closer to the bed. "Indeed, I will, Swan. Indeed I will," he assured her with a sleepy leer.