This is for the lovely Lena's birthday (aka lenfaz on Tumblr). This is part one. And takes place several months after the season 4 finale.
Someone has stolen the Dark One's (Emma's) dagger.
MUSCLE MEMORY - Part 1
The order whispered in her mind and Emma had a split-second to consider the words and search for a way around them.
"Kill him."
Tears ran down Emma's cheeks, her hands shaking as she raised them before her. "I have to. I'm sorry."
"No!" The blast of magic struck Killian as he threw himself in front of Henry. Searing heat spread through his body before his entire world went black.
"What do you mean, he isn't the same?" Mary Margaret's confusion filled the room, adjusting the weight of his squirming son on her hip. "Does he remember us?"
David swallowed, his eyes turning to the sleeping pirate. The steady beep monitoring his heart rate was more nerve-wracking than reassuring, thanks to his own extended hospital stay, courtesy of the first dark curse. "I don't think he even knows where he is. Whale had to sedate him when he woke up."
David had only seen fear like that on the pirate's face a handful of times. All but one of them had been fueled by worry for Emma. The other had been in a reality David kept trying to forget, the images haunting him. But even then, Killian had fought in spite of it.
Until I killed him.
This time no one had been in danger. The pirate had simply awakened, taken in his surroundings, and panicked, causing his IV to rip and machines to topple. It had taken David and two other hospital staff to restrain him until Whale showed up.
"He's lost his memory?" Worry furrowed her brow and she placed a kiss on top of baby Neal's head, as if to comfort herself.
If only it were just his memory.
"I'm afraid that isn't all he's lost."
Emma watched them, careful to only do so when her dagger-holder slept. She'd gone out of her way to mask the humanity she still contained, only showing the darkness, hoping it would be enough to prevent her family from becoming targets.
It hadn't been enough to protect her son. If not for Killian…
Oh, god. Killian.
He'd survived the curse she'd tossed at Henry—her master had not been happy at her interpretation of "kill"—because the death did not destroy the body, only the essence of who that person was.
It had been Regina's idea to lock Killian in one of the cells beneath the hospital, a few doors away from Zelena. He required medication to calm him; otherwise he jumped at every shadow, every noise, unable to accept the world around him.
At first, she tried to stay away.
I'll put him in danger. He doesn't remember me. Electricity scares him. What would seeing me poof into his room do? What if I make things worse?
Her resolve lasted two days, the pull of him—even though he wasn't him anymore—too strong to resist.
Her magic allowed her to teleport—never thought she'd see that day—into his cell at will, but she always waited until the night shift made the rounds, when her master slept. They dosed Killian with sleeping pills, ensuring he would never learn of her visits.
A piece of her died every time she saw him.
He struggled in his sleep—his hospital issued clothing twisting around him—as if fending off demons and monsters and other creatures like…
Me.
The dim lighting, stolen from the tiny moonlit window and the hallway's fluorescents, painted him young and innocent, belying his centuries of life. Dark shadows grew around his eyes—no eyeliner remained to hide them—his hair always sticking up in odd directions.
The first few nights Emma stayed only minutes, afraid of discovery. As the days passed and she learned the hospital's and her master's—she hated the word, but the dagger made it so—patterns, she gradually increased her time.
It wasn't like she required sleep anymore, though she had yet to decide if this was a curse or a blessing of being the Dark One. It gave her too much time to think, but it also allowed her to see Killian without anyone being the wiser.
The routine went undisturbed for a few weeks, but his nightmares seemed to worsen, finally drawing the attention of the night nurse—his cries tightened around her heart, much like Cora's fist had so long ago—and forcing her to leave.
Emma arrived late the following night—her master had been restless that evening, as if waiting for something to happen—and found Killian already in the throes of a nightmare. A bad one.
Without time to steel herself against his pain, she reacted without thinking. Emma crossed the cell in a few steps, bending over his body and brushing the locks of hair off of his forehead, his skin hot against her fingers. Unable to stop, her hand drifted down, cupping the curve of his jaw—they'd shaved his face today, doing the task once each week—his skin nearly smooth except for the five o'clock shadow.
Killian stilled beneath her hand and Emma froze, afraid he might wake, preparing herself to disappear if he did.
He didn't, his breaths relaxing and deepening, the tension seeping away as if the tormenting dream had fled.
Did I do that?
Her thumb stroked his cheek—his stubble no longer familiar and soft, but harsh—and his head leaned into it, as if seeking her touch.
Emma spent the night sitting on the cold floor next to his bed, his cheek cradled in her palm—wanting more, so much more. She drank in the rare peace upon his face until his body stirred, showing the unmistakable signs of awakening. She tore her hand away, already missing him before she disappeared in a cloud of gold smoke.
How the bloody hell did I get here?
It was a thought that plagued Killian during the rare moments his mind became lucid enough to seek answers. His captives forced some sort of concoction into his body that dulled what wits he possessed, and after the first day, he'd stopping fighting them.
Not like I can win that battle.
After a while, he welcomed the numbness. It soothed his fears, stealing his cowardice and leaving behind an apathetic fog.
He knew, in these clear spaces of time, that acceptance of his fate was perhaps the greatest cowardice of all.
And he should care, should wish to change his circumstances.
A pity you lack even a modicum of courage.
But Killian didn't know this world—everything appeared to be magical, the source menacing and unseen—and didn't care to. There was an odd sort of comfort in his prison, for if he could not escape, surely his jailers would keep him safe from the dangers outside.
He quickly learned, if the walls pressed too close or the call of the sea was too strong, he simply had to become a nuisance—yelling and pounding on the door sufficed—and the white uniforms would answer, bringing oblivion with them.
And the nights… Given his exhaustion each morning, his clothing often drenched in sweat, he was grateful whatever horrors he experienced while asleep remained hidden.
Although this morning he felt… different. Rested.
Occasionally a visitor arrived. Most wore the clothing he now associated with his brig. But a few had broken the pattern, arriving from outside of these walls.
He remembered the visits now, knew the memories would fade into the fog and possibly not return.
There was the long-haired lass, her brown hair curling in waves, her attire a tad indecent for the lady she appeared to be. She talked of finding a cure for what he was and gibberish about a "Dark One curse," whatever the bloody hell that meant.
A man and woman came once, but Killian had panicked at the very sight of them, his gut telling him they were evil, there to bring about his demise. The hazy stupor that followed had erased any details—he couldn't even recall the color of their hair—but he was quite certain they had never returned.
A single audience with a woman of some importance—the carriage of her body the epitome of regal—confused him. He'd expected a berating, certain he'd failed her in some way, but instead her eyes had softened.
"Thank you, Hook."
A pity the reason behind the gratitude had also been erased, though the use of his name always sent his gaze to his left arm, bare without his hook.
But it was the boy he hated to forget, though even with his mind clearing, Killian could not recall the lad's name. There was something about the boy's words that made Killian believe that he was more than this shell of a man.
Of course, the words themselves were also lost, only the sentiment remaining, even though the lad visited frequently.
Perhaps it is time to seek clearer skies and leave behind the fog.
But when the white uniform brought breakfast and proffered the small cup carrying the agents of his fog, he didn't argue.
"We have to do something to help him. This isn't working." Henry's voice cracked as he spoke, his words full of desperation.
David eyed his grandson, his heart heavy. "Whale has tried lowering his medication. He just gets worse."
"The medication is making it worse. You don't know because you aren't there every day like I am. He can't even remember my name, Grandpa."
That did sound a little excessive. The guilt washed over of David again. He wanted to visit the pirate, but after the last time sent Killian spiraling out of control, Whale had thought it best he and Mary Margaret stay away. "I'll speak to Whale again, okay?"
"Thanks."
David caught his wife's eyes across the loft as she looked up from feeding their son, the worry within matching his own.
With Emma the Dark One, her dagger missing, and Killian locked away, the struggle to find hope grew more difficult each day.
Emma arrived as early as possible the next night, not wanting Killian to suffer through another nightmare if there was something she could do to stop it.
How stupid had she been, keeping her distance these last weeks when—
Keep thinking of regrets and the darkness will eat you alive.
Emma locked away her guilt—she couldn't allow the darkness to win—and immediately approached his sleeping form. Killian had curled himself into a ball, facing the wall next to the bed. His body remained still but his muscles were rigid, not relaxed, a sign his dreams had already begun.
No.
Her body acted against her will, only this time it was not her dagger that ordered her movements, but her heart. She filled the empty space next to Killian. She took care to move slow and not disturb him, lying down and molding her leather clothing—one had to have a wardrobe change to play the part after all—to the thin cotton of the scrub-like pajamas he wore. Emma draped her right arm over him, unable to stop her fingers from linking with his, the cold dampness of his hand a sharp contrast to the rest of him. Again, his body seemed to seek hers, slightly pushing back until they weren't just touching, but pressed tightly together, and his tension began to ebb away.
Oh God.
He was warm, so warm, and Emma could feel her light magic simmering under the surface, burying the dark. A faint glow lit the room and it took her a moment to realize the source was where her hand joined with his. Acting on instinct—the feeling in her gut where her light magic originated from—she visualized the light seeping into Killian's skin and filling his body, chasing away whatever tormented him each night.
His body shuddered and he took a deep breath, as if he'd been deprived of oxygen and could suddenly breathe again, his fingers gripping hers tight before his body melted against hers.
"Sleep, Killian."
To Emma's shock, her eyelids grew heavy, the slow rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest syncing her breaths with his.
I can't.
I shouldn't.
Maybe just for a minute.
"I love you." The whispered words escaped her lips, insisting on being spoken before sleep pulled her under.
I'm losing my bloody mind.
The irony of doing so just when the fog began to thin was not lost on Killian.
Maybe I am madman after all.
Killian longed to speak with someone about it, but self-preservation held his lips shut. The only person he trusted was the lad. Killian had no idea why it was so, other than he'd grown used to Henry's—his mind had cleared enough to remember his name now—company.
Unfortunately, broaching the topic of how his nights no longer passed alone—though whether the flaxen-haired beauty was angel, demon, or ghost, he had no clue—with one so young would be bad form indeed.
He'd only glimpsed her once—at least, he thought he had—as he fought his way to consciousness beneath the heavy blanket of drugged sleep.
She'd been in his arms, his body wrapped around hers—her back pressed into his front—her blond tresses tickling his nose as he inhaled the sweet scent of her. It was familiar, but it wouldn't be until the haze of sleep completely faded that he'd remember why.
The same scent greeted him each morn. It had, at the very least, been present for the last week, when his faculties began to return, the fog lifted, and the days became distinguishable from one another. On that morning, instead of only a scent and the lingering warmth upon the sheets, she'd been there. In his arms.
He wanted to bring her closer, to hold her tight and ensure she didn't leave, the possessive feelings surprising him.
Because surely the lass had the wrong room. Or she wasn't truly here, and he merely hallucinated her presence.
Best not consider how mad I'd have to be to conjure a hallucination this real.
She felt very real.
And when she heaved a sigh and burrowed against him, his body quite agreed, stirring to life.
Bloody hell.
The flames of embarrassment burned his cheeks and he reluctantly tried to break the contact. Killian removed his handless arm from where it had hugged her close and forced space between their bodies until the wall stopped him. He was debating how to wake her when she rolled over, abolishing the distance in an instant as her hand found his thigh, leaving him no escape.
Not that he could think of escape, or anything really, save her breathtaking beauty.
It was the face a siren could don to lead an enthralled sailor to his death.
Killian had never considered himself a man blinded by beauty, but this woman…
I would do anything for her.
But then her eyes fluttered open, and he was floored by the depth of emotion in her gaze—as if he hung the moon and the stars and meant something to her.
It's not possible.
"I...uh…" Killian fought to find the words—he'd never been particularly eloquent—and he had no idea what the proper protocol was for waking up next to such a stunning creature, particularly when he lacked the knowledge of how she came to be in his room, much less his arms.
The warmth in her eyes transformed into shock and he blinked, his arm falling to the mattress with a quiet thud, her body gone.
No!
Killian needed to know exactly what the woman was. A hallucination? Or real? And if the lass was real, how the bloody hell did she vanish in an instant?
He honestly didn't care, but knowing the answer meant he could seek out the best way to find her again.
Even if she is only in my mind.
Until then, he'd have to find a way to circumvent the concoctions he was forced to consume, for while the fog had been reduced to a haze, he still forgot more than he remembered.
And he could not, would not, forget her.
Part 2 to come soon, and it shall contain a few of Lena's favorite things...
Review?