So this is a little baby war!times fic for Nini—her birthday was a couple of days ago and because I suck at life I'm just getting around to posting this now. It's centered around season 3b…a darker scenario from what we'll see most likely…war and doom and gloom and all that fun stuff.
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.
Please review.
There's smoke too much smoke.
The burning smell is strong and thick, the gray dense cloud nearly suffocating as the battle rages on around him—the ground shaking threateningly, a low rumble echoing in the distance and a high-pitched cackle floating through the air. Eyes stinging, lungs protesting, and ears ringing from the latest round of blasts, Killian shakes his head a little, trying to clear his mind and collect his bearings as both fireballs and arrows alike whiz by; whether friendly or enemy fire he's not entirely certain, his groggy focus on one thing and one thing only.
Her.
Emma.
And a cold ball of dread hits him right in the gut, as he realizes with slow mounting horror that she doesn't see it.
Her back to him, sword raised—lean muscles flexing with each deadly swing she takes, every brutal blow she blocks—so involved in the fight, she's completely unaware of the way an enemy soldier picks himself up off the ground, kicking at some fallen body next to him with a cruel and mirthless laugh before he takes notice of her, a feral grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he scans the area around him. Raising his sharpened dagger slowly, studying her closely, maliciously, he makes his way through the surrounding chaos—his movements calculated and predatory as his dull gaze zeroes in on her.
And she doesn't see it.
Bloody fucking hell she doesn't see it.
But he does…
And in that moment he nearly loses it completely.
Rage.
Unrestrained all-consuming rage.
A hot and savage hunger rushes through him fast as he ignores everything around him—the clashing of blades and the desperate pleas for help—instead barreling towards the impending attack, unchecked fury only continuing to build inside of him as a violent and familiar darkness urges him on, driving him forward with a brutal and unforgiving wrath.
He doesn't think.
Only capable of reacting.
And moments later when he's plunging his sword into the soldier's chest—the sound and feel of steel sliding against flesh and bone sending a sick thrill coursing through him—he smirks softly, sadistically, at the surprised and frozen face of his opponent—adrenaline consuming him, spreading warm and intoxicating, as his body thrums with the aftermath of the kill.
And through the haze of smoke and battle, past the rain of arrows and the burst of flames, he catches bright green eyes watching him intently, the remnants of shock fading from her features as something else much darker dims her gaze.
~~~K&E~~~K&E~~~~~~K&E~~~K&E~~~
Easing himself into the slightly overstuffed chair that's tucked away into the poorly lit corner of his rented room, Killian sighs heavily, eyes closing briefly as he attempts to give both his mind and body a moment's rest.
It's been a long day.
Trying.
Demanding.
Violent.
Bloody.
Although, he supposes, as he wipes at his split lip with a tiny self-deprecating smirk, no one ever said war was easy.
It's enough to make a man appreciate the simple things in life—a warm bed, plenty of food, good rum and a soft and willing woman.
Toeing at his boots, wincing a little as he pushes them off of his feet, he tries not to pay any attention to the radiating pain that shoots up his side, spiking hot and protesting his movements, knowing sooner rather than later he'll have to make his way to the washroom to assess the damage—the dagger intended for Emma having grazed beneath his ribs, slicing his skin and ripping it open before his centuries old instincts had kicked in.
Soon he'll patch himself up.
But for now…now he just needs a moment.
Only one moment to appreciate their small victory and reflect on their good luck.
No one died today.
Injuries were kept to a minimum.
And most importantly, she was still safe.
With their little sanctuary quickly turning into a war-zone—random attacks hitting them near daily—he knows that each day survived, each battle walked away from, is something to be truly grateful for indeed.
Even so…
There have been too many close calls as of late.
Soldiers with dull black eyes and violent and murderous appetites, hissing flying monkeys with razor-sharp teeth and talons dripping with dark red blood, safe houses breached, borders crossed, and friends disappearing only to be rescued later battered, broken, and irreversibly damaged…
It's a dark and somewhat depressing world they live in.
Unpredictable.
Desperate.
Volatile.
Dangerous.
"Hook!"
The voice is shrill, ringing out and chasing away his bleak musings, disturbing the somewhat peaceful silence of the small darkened room. Lingering notes hanging in the air, they're followed by a loud bang and then another and yet another still; the sound jarring him from his thoughts and causing him to stand quickly, the pain in his side nearly forgotten as his hand goes to the hilt of his sword. His eyes darting across the room to land on the door, he squints for a moment, shaking his head to clear his mind as he watches it vibrate under the relentless pounding of angry and unforgiving fists.
"Open this goddamned door now!"
Emma.
For a moment he feels pleasure spiked relief rush through him fast; the sound of her voice pulling the corners of his lips up into an unconscious smirk. After the battle had come to a close he had watched from a distance as her family had embraced her, his eyes roaming over her carefully to make sure she was truly unharmed before he took his leave, blending into the background and disappearing into the crowd; the knowledge that she was safe calming his nerves and easing his mind. But as the door continues to shake and rattle under her efforts, worry and fear—cold and prickling and all too familiar—seeps its way into his veins, rendering him motionless for a moment before driving him to spring into action, moving across the room to throw the door open with brute and excessive force.
"What's wrong? What—?"
"Let me see it."
Cutting him off, she barely gives him the chance to respond, words getting caught in his throat as she pushes her way into his room—a blur of blonde hair and intimidation—the swiftness of her stride forcing him to stumble backwards ungracefully. Slamming the door shut behind her, her body practically vibrating as near tangible energy buzzes around her in almost visible waves, she turns to him fast—her eyes, green and blazing, staring at him hotly as she gestures to him wildly.
"Let me see!"
Confusion, concern, and just the faintest beginnings of awe edging its way into his brain at the barked out command, he raises a brow; attempting to collect himself, trying to pinpoint the emotion he sees glimmering in her stare as he takes a step towards her cautiously, watching in wary fascination as her jaw twitches slightly, her hands clenching into tight fists at her sides.
"Emma—"
"Jesus Christ…" her voice is strained and terse, and without another word she shuffles closer to him and crowds him fast, invading his personal space with a soft curse falling from her lips. Placing lightly trembling hands on his shirt—breathing somewhat unsteady, eyes focused in front of her intently—her fingers find their way to the buttons, flicking them open with quick and methodical movements as she mutters a slew of incoherent things under her breath.
Too stunned to react, too tired to think properly—his brain still hazy with the fog of battle—he simply stares down at her; her fingers working deftly as she moves down the length of his shirt, mumbling to herself the entire time in breathy and hissing tones; her words mingling together and barely making sense; though he's fairly certain he catches a clipped statement or two about stupid pig-headed pirates followed by something that closely resembles stubborn inconsiderate asses— her attention never wavering from her task as she quietly swears at him with a barrage of colorful insults.
"Emma." Shaking himself out of his temporary stupor, unwilling to allow himself the chance to truly appreciate her too close proximity—the somewhat intoxicating hints of combat and lavender mixing in the air around them—he places his good hand over one of hers, stilling her actions for a moment as he squeezes her gently. "What happened?"
She doesn't say anything at first.
And he allows her the silence.
There's a time and a place to push her; he's never known a tougher more stubborn lass. And right now, as he regards her carefully—noting the way she's almost visibly shaking, her body vibrating with unspoken emotion—is not the time. Seconds tick by slowly, quietly, the silence around them drawing out and only growing still as he watches her patiently, thoughtfully, something inside of him almost desperate to reach out and gather her close while another part warns him of the consequences—he's been pushed away too many times, always, always, kept at arm's length.
Head bowed down, eyes averting his, she finally sucks in a deep breath, fingers twitching a little beneath his as she speaks softly in a slightly trembling but no less clear tone. "They got you…" Her throat works as she swallows suddenly, hands flexing and clutching the fabric still balled in her grip. "Goddammit I saw it…you—you threw yourself in front of me…like an idiot…like a stupid, stupid, unthinking idiot…you took the brunt of it and…" her breath comes in sharply as she inhales fast and swearing softly she shakes his hand away from hers before pushing his shirt open and off of his shoulders, the fabric sticking to his skin a little from where the blood has soaked through, before it falls to the ground in a hushed and rustling whisper.
"A scratch." He murmurs quietly, words feeling thick and coarse in his throat as he watches through suddenly heavy-lidded eyes as she draws her lower lip into her mouth, her attention focused on his bared chest and the shallow gash sliced across his skin, glistening with his still drying blood. "It's nothing."
Looking up at that, features calm and impassive, she opens her mouth as if to say something, snapping it shut again smartly before turning from him abruptly and walking away, striding over to the small bathroom at the far end of the room and disappearing for a moment—the sound of running water and cabinets opening and closing gradually filtering out to him. It takes hardly any time at all before she returns, coming back out with a small bowl of water and a handful of meager supplies—bandages and cloths he keeps on hand.
And with the tension building thick around them, she doesn't say anything as she sets to work, placing the dish on a small table next to them and dipping a cloth into it carefully. When her fingers gently, delicately, run over his skin, dusting the length of the cut before she begins to clean it slowly, thoroughly, he barely breathes, unable to think, only capable of relishing in the small gesture, reveling in the sight of her standing before him and patiently tending to him—her bottom lip still tucked firmly between her teeth as she concentrates on the chore.
"Swan…Emma…stop…it isn't necessary, you—"
"Don't." she says the word quietly, barely whispering it as she rings out the bloodied rag, fingers tracing the path they had just taken before she wipes at the wound again—gentle so gentle—the only sound in the room that of their mingled breathing and the soft brush of cloth against skin.
It's nearly too much.
Her unprovoked touch is enough to reduce him to a lesser man; the urge to fall to his knees before her rushing through him fast.
Finally, slowly, she tilts her chin up to meet his heavy gaze, her eyes imploring yet defiant glimmering with a telling and watery sheen. "You have to stop."
Raising a brow at her demanding tone, he smirks down at her, attempting to ignore the lingering feeling of her fingers still lightly grazing his side as he considers her words and wonders at their meaning. "And what exactly do I have to stop darling?"
"Don't play dumb." She doesn't give him a chance to respond to the insult, instead barreling on without hesitation. "You're careless out there. Rash. Impulsive. Reckless. You continually and thoughtlessly throw yourself into the line of fire…over and over again and—and I'm not stupid. Goddammit Hook I'm not blind. I see you…watching me…protecting me…saving me." Her voice breaks off a little at that and by the way her brow furrows tightly with it he knows she's annoyed with herself for the slip—her emotions usually on lock down and her walls typically sky high clearly wavering a little as she grabs a bandage and shakes her head, ripping the packaging with her teeth as she makes a move to put it on him, head cast down and tangled blonde hair curtaining her face.
"I can't."
Her hands stalling, he watches as her entire body stiffens, a soft barely there curse escaping her lips as she smooths the bandage over his gash with a little more force than necessary—the action bringing both a small wince to his eyes and a tiny smirk to his lips as a slight burn radiates from the wound.
"Emma."
"You promised me things." Still refusing to look up, she ghosts her fingers around the white edge of the hastily placed dressing, her breathing coming out heavy before she shuffles back slowly, hand dropping away from him as her gaze darts around the room rapidly, looking everywhere, anywhere but directly at him. "You promised me things…said things…claimed things…"
The words coming out of her mouth sound more like an accusation than a statement; and his head buzzes a little with it, trying to wrap itself around their vague and unclear meaning as she stubbornly continues to avoid his stare. "I did." He attempts slowly, carefully, watching the way her spine straightens even more with the tentative affirmation.
"You said things about fun and happy endings and—and…love."
Shock.
Confusion.
Understanding.
Hope.
It all rises and crashes inside of him, her voice just barely filtering to his ears as she continues on, ignoring the way he takes another step towards her.
"But you keep putting yourself in danger…you keep…" Clearly frustrated with him, with herself, with the whole bloody situation that surrounds them, she places her hands on her hips, her eyes rising to the ceiling as she barks out a short humorless laugh. "We've lost so many and keep losing more and I can't—I can't concentrate on the fight if I'm constantly worrying…if I know that you aren't watching out for yourself and….and dammit you promised me things." Voice low and vulnerable, she frowns softly, miserably, as she sucks in a shuddering breath before finally allowing her glittering and brilliant stare to meet his."How the hell are you supposed to follow through if you end up getting yourself killed first?"
His head reeling, his blood practically humming, his body on sensory overload—the pained heat behind her words, the trembling heaving of her chest, the hot spark along his skin—he takes a moment to try to calm his racing heart, attempting to make sense of her quivering lips and her shining green eyes before taking yet another step towards her, only halting when she moves back quickly, swallowing once before shaking her head near frantically, her hand shooting out as if to stop his impending approach before falling limply, dejectedly, to her side.
"Goddammit Killian."
It isn't the first time she's called him by his given name, the word slipping out during shouted arguments, whispered in soft spoken conversations and frantically yelled in the heat of battle. Still, hearing it, the desperation laced in her tone, he pauses; a dull ache settling in his chest as he watches her gaze shoot back up to his, undeniably lost and unbearably broken.
"You promised me things." She repeats it, eyes exhausted but still holding his, voice ashamed yet clear and unguarded.
And it shocks him, ruins him, devastates him.
Months of battle, words left unsaid, touches that lingered just a little too long, and still he's not prepared for this….
Raw unchecked emotion.
Not from her.
"I've no plans of dying out there love." His own voice is hoarse, the words a raspy whisper and as they hang in the air between them he notes the way she falters, shoulders drooping and expression softening as a tiny gasp—one that's just shy of a muffled sob—escapes her lips. "But I've every intention… if you wish it…to follow through with each and every promise I've ever made to you…I swear it."
It's slow.
The fall.
The crash and burn.
Her barriers come crumbling down around her with a broken little whimper and a gentle almost defeated nod. Lower lip puffing out slightly, silent tears slip out of her eyes and trail down her cheeks leaving a watery and damning path in their wake. Her breathing uneven, her head bows down in unspoken acceptance, as she finally, finally, allows herself the long overdue moment of weakness. And for a few brief overwhelming seconds all he can do is stare, watching as this woman, this infuriating, strong, and unpredictable woman is reduced to a trembling mess—crying in front of him, for him—before he moves, taking her into his arms and gathering her close without so much as a murmured word.
And she lets him.
Curling into him without resistance she allows him to hold her; her forehead resting against his bare chest, tears landing heavily on his skin, she quietly cries; the burden of the war, of the lives lost, of her fear for her still living family, friends…him, settling upon her so heavily that she nearly collapses under the crushing weight.
And as his hold tightens around her and he murmurs quiet endearments into her hair—whispering softly about how amazing, and strong, and brilliant she is—he can't help but think that it's a wonder she's even lasted this long.
~~~K&E~~~K&E~~~~~~K&E~~~K&E~~~
She doesn't leave him that night.
And he's not strong enough to question it.
Instead she leads him over to the bed and finishes undressing him, ridding him of the rest his clothes before slowly rising over him—like a vision above him—and taking him into her with gasping pants and shuddering sighs. And he watches completely enthralled, captivated, as her face twists into an array of emotions—pleasure, panic, need, fear—before she starts to finally move, grinding her hips into him and drawing a low moan from them both. The exhaustion of the war taking its toll, his injured side burning with each push and pull, there's very little in the way of grace between them, but what their movements lack in finesse they more than make up for in raw and unrestrained passion.
It's something he's waited almost three lifetimes for, something she's been denying herself nearly all of her life; and with the threat of their world crumbling, burning, and falling down around them, they don't hold back.
Can't hold back.
And when more silent tears trail their way down her cheeks, landing between the fingers splayed out on his chest as she continues to rock her hips into him slowly, tentatively, before picking up her pace and giving herself over to sensation only; he doesn't acknowledge them, doesn't say a word, doesn't attempt to wipe them away; instead he merely moves with her, focusing on the way she feels—the wet heat of her wrapped around him, the glide of her skin soft and smooth against his, the sight of her naked scars bared before him—all of it forever implanted into his brain and committed to memory.
When they finally let go it isn't with admissions of unspoken feelings or declarations of undying love—too much has been revealed tonight and he knows her pride can't handle the blow—still they come together; a sharp cry tumbling from her lips followed by a low grunt escaping his, pleasure wracking their bodies as she collapses and trembles on top of him and he shakes and shudders beneath her—his heart nearly slamming out of his chest and a lump forming in his throat as he tries and miserably fails to regain some semblance of control.
And later as they lay, completely dressed once again, their weapons at the ready—with their enemies constantly prowling and a dark threat always lurking they don't have the luxury of lying contentedly in the aftermath—she lets him hold her once more, her head resting on his chest and fingers tracing little patterns on his shirt as their breathing deepens and slows.
"I can't lose you…." she whispers the words softly into the dark and quiet room; voice, so small and fragile and wavering with unhinged shame at the revealing statement that he nearly misses it completely.
If he were a better man he'd focus on her pain, concentrate on her mounting anguish and try to find a way to make it all disappear.
But he can't.
So instead he rests his good hand in her hair, holds his breath for a moment, and revels in the fact that it's the closest she'll come to confessing anything to him any time soon, before speaking to her quietly in a soft and reassuring tone. "I've no intention of going anywhere love."
Her hand curling protectively over his heart, he feels her noticeably relax, hears her release a deep and shaky sigh. And with the dark silence consuming them once again, the weight of their actions settling over them—what the morning light will bring still unknown—she shifts, if possible, even closer, breathing one last word before allowing much needed but usually all too elusive sleep to finally claim her.
"Good."
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