He can still feel it: the sting of the whip against his back, the searing heat of the iron branding his skin, the raging fire licking at his throat. The bruises and marks and welts have long since healed—were never really there to begin with, not physically—but the pain remains, lingering in his muscles and to his very bones.

A side effect of returning one's battered soul to it's rightful body, Killian had been told, by those with more authority on the subject than he. His revival had been a traumatic experience: all the injuries which had been inflicted upon him during his hellish torment had come rushing back all at once, scenes flitting across his mind is rapid succession with such a force that all he could do was lay upon the hospital bed while crying out in agony.

Killian's memory of those first few moments back in the land of the living are mercifully fuzzy, save for the echo of Emma's reassuring voice and the feeling of her fingers brushing away stray tears from the side of his face. It had lasted but a minute, they'd said—though he knew for her it had been just as much of a distressing eternity as it was for him—and then he was drifting back into unconsciousness, his Savior's name a faint whisper on his lips.

Now he rests on his own bed—their bed—with Emma situated next to him, stroking up and down his arm in a soothing gesture that's a balm on his spirit. Three days of being under her devoted care have him feeling much improved, her constant presence proving to be the best of medicine. He hums in appreciation when she starts using her nails to gently rake along his bicep, bare like the rest of his upper body.

"Where does it hurt the most?"

It's a question she's asked a few times since they arrived at their house, which was unchanged with the exception of their bedroom, having undergone an immediate transformation from an unused dusty dwelling to a bright, clean, welcoming space with a snap of Emma's fingers. She doesn't pretend that every inch of him isn't sore; that there isn't one spot that doesn't at the very least ache with the slightest movement. Instead, she prioritizes; makes him focus on it one section at a time so that his recovery is less overwhelming.

If he allows himself to think on the abundance of Emma's patience for too long, it makes his chest constrict and the air leave his lungs. He imagines a barrel overflowing, it's wood cracking under the pressure; an endless fountain that threatens to drown him in his love for her. In his gratitude that she came to rescue him in the first place, and that forgiveness and understanding came without hesitation.

"Hard to say," he answers, voice rough from tiredness and from the strength of his feelings for the princess who cares for him so dearly. There's a shift in her expression, worry emerging in the stiffness of her shoulders and the tightness of her brows. And he won't have that. "Perhaps an exploration is in order," he teases on an exaggerated sigh, and just like that the tension fades, replaced with a knowing smirk and her trademark snort.

Emma eases up onto her elbows, golden hair spilling over to one side. The strap of her tank top is a breath away from falling off from it's perch, and oh how he longs to tuck into back into place (or better yet, pull it the rest of the way down) but he lacks the vitality to even do that. His fingers twitch in frustration, drawing her eye to his newly ringless hand. She raises it from it's cocooned state among the silky bedsheets, his arm crossing over his torso as she lifts it to her lips.

She places feather-light kisses to his knuckles, then twists it so she can ghost over his palm. "Does that hurt?"

It does, but her touch is like actual magic and any discomfort he feels is no comparison to the light that fills his heart at her tenderness. He manages to shake his head in the negative, watching with a hooded gaze as she gingerly places his hand back at his hip. Emma follows a path up his arm, across his collarbone and over his chest, tickling him in the most satisfying way.

She scratches at his dusting of hair, and he observes as she scans him with rapt attention. He knows she's looking for them: for any signs of his abuse, for any hint of a laceration. It occurs to him that she's likely more familiar with his wounds than he himself is, at least on sight. That just like he can still feel them, Emma can still see them.

She pauses when she reaches just under his ribs. There had been a deep cut there, caused by a hefty sword so self-righteously wielded by Hades that Killian had rolled his eyes on more than one occasion—and there had been an abundance of torture sessions for which he had the occasion to do so.

And Emma has found it with unsurprising accuracy. "What about here?"

"A little," he admits, and a moment later she's bending down, kissing the site of that particular lesion, caressing the surrounding area.

This time, Killian does find the fortitude to place his fingers beneath her chin, softly coaxing her upward so that she can look at him. He moves a few tangled strands behind her ear, taking in the sight of her flushed cheeks and the stunning green of her eyes. He moves his hand away only to bring it to his mouth, tapping at his bottom lip with playful adoration.

"This may require your consideration as well, love."

Her grin is wide in response, all white teeth and crinkling lines, and that alone makes all the turmoil worth it. He longs to see that smile every day if he can, to see his Swan so replete with joy that it matches the fullness he feels inside.

She's hovering over him in an instant, careful not to disturb his position as the mattress dips with her sudden weight. Killian cranes his neck to press against her, making her cup his face and push him against the plush pillow, a silent reprimand to let her take care of him. And let her he does, giving into the sensation of being so completely cherished by his one true love.

They meet in a chaste kiss that deepens with every tilt of their heads and released breath, mouths moving slowly but firmly with the knowledge that they have the time to take in the moment. They have the rest of their lives, he thinks. And in fact, as proven by their latest successfully completed mission, they had even beyond that.