She wakes in the middle of the night when she feels him shuffling and hears him muttering heatedly. Her heart sinks because she just knows what is happening, has seen it before (been in that situation, in fact, more times than she'd rather admit) – it is the telltale signs of an ongoing nightmare.
When he is plunged into awareness, sweaty and gasping and a shaking mess, she sits up right with him.
It doesn't escape her notice, the way he clutches his bad arm.
She is on the right side of the bed (not her usual place but she's learned to compromise) so she has to scoot closer to him to place her hand atop his left arm in a bid to calm him down.
It pains her when it seemingly does not offer him comfort.
"What's wrong?" She asks instead.
He shakes his head. "Nothing to concern yourself with, lass." He says huskily, voice still hoarse from sleep. Then he smiles. It is weak but it is there. "Go back to sleep."
He doesn't stick around long enough to see if she does go back to sleep, just stands and makes his way to the bathroom. It is why it's glaringly obvious to her, the way his hand still trembles when he runs it through his hair before returning it to his stump, when it is usually something he is adept at hiding.
The bathroom door closes with an audible click.
Emma remains sitting because there is absolutely no way she is going back to sleep no matter how (weakly) Killian protests.
So she waits for some sort of sound to waft through the door just to give her an inkling of what he's feeling – a groan, a shout, the shattering of glass, a sob, hell, even running water would be telling but all there is, is silence beyond the door and that scares her more than anything. At least, if there was a hint of noise then she'd know he was dealing with it, not bottling it up.
She knows – better than anyone – just how destructive that could be.
So Emma let's a minute pass and then she is tugging on her robe and padding her bare, cold feet towards the bathroom. She takes a deep breath before she clutches the doorknob and turns, internally sighing in relief when she discovers it is unlocked.
The respite is short-lived though, when she glimpses him. He is bathed in moonlight and he could have been ethereal were it not for the way his shoulders are hunched, his eyes darting quickly about his body as he takes in the multitude of scars that litter it and his stump and hand are braced on either side of the sink – he is radiating tension.
She wants to gasp in shock because the man before her is so far removed from the Captain Hook persona she is so accustomed to and neither is he Killian Jones, gentleman and man of honor that she is steadily getting acquainted with these past few months. Her entrance doesn't even move him; he is so still he could've been a statue.
She feels her insides churn because he looks… he looks so utterly defeated and she doesn't know how to deal with that. It's as if he was not a man at all, just a stranger… a shadow who, once upon a time, maybe could've been him.If the situations were reversed she had no doubt Killian would know exactly how to deal with her, he'd know exactly what touch to use that would soothe her fears and the words to prescribe that would lull her to peace.
But she is not Killian and the roles still stand.
She doesn't know what to do, what the right words to say are. She only knows that when she was growing up and having a nightmare, she wished she had someone to turn to. Someone to run to or cry to and someone who could just hold her, keep her grounded so the nightmare could float away.
So Emma steps forward and gently winds her arms around his torso – one hand flat against his stomach and the other against his chest, right on top of where his heart lies, quick but firm in its beat. He remains stooped, like she isn't there at all, and in one last effort to relax him, she presses a kiss upon his shoulder blade and rests her head there.
Please talk to me, she tries to convey. And maybe he understands because a minute or two after she lays her head, he lets out a breath and slowly brings his hand to hers, the one on his stomach, and he intertwines their fingers.
They breathe together.
But then she presses another kiss, this time to the nape of his neck, and she thinks for once she might actually be doing something right because he takes a deep breath and then he is speaking.
"It was him…" He says, voice a tad shaky still.
"Liam," she whispers sadly and he nods.
"He was in my arms and he was dying all over again and it was as if no time had passed at all between now and that moment. Every time… every fucking time, it's as if I'm back there again."
She squeezes his hand, the only mode of comfort she can really give. For all Emma has found, she has also lost many – a family, a son, a lover and even a friend, but never a sibling. She can only imagine his pain.
"And then it isn't Liam, it's Milah and her heart is being ripped out in front of me and the pain is so fresh it could have been my own heart. It's turned to dust and then she is dust and she's literally slipping through my fingers and I'm powerless to stop it."
This she understands, and she clutches him a little tighter. Maybe then she could absorb some of his pain.
He doesn't stop there though and her heart breaks at the next litany of words he spews.
"I try to catch her but I'm stopped in my tracks because now it's Bae. Not Neal but Bae… Milah's lad, my little sailor, my second chance but I let him go, didn't I? So now he lies dead at my feet and I clutch at his chest but when I look at his face it's Henry–"
(She thinks at this point that she doesn't have to absorb his pain cause she can feel it reverberating throughout her body as if it were her own. Now they are just an orchestra of this hurt and they are powerless to stop it and goddamn it she was supposed to help–)
(Be strong, for Killian, she reminds herself.)
"I cup his cheek to coax him awake though I know it's a foolish endeavor but I'm no longer staring at his face because it's you. It's you, it's you, it's you and gods, Emma–"
Before she can blink he is turning in her arms and his lips are capturing hers in a desperate and passionate kiss.
"Killian," she mumbles as he tugs her robe open and pulls a sleeve down, greeting the smooth skin there then tracing a path down the column of her neck with his lips. She is clutching the hair at the nape of his neck and running her fingertips along his spine to try to calm the fire between them.
"This isn't something you soothe with a kiss."
He acquiesces by pressing one last kiss at the juncture where her neck and shoulder meet and drops his head there.
"I know," he murmurs, hot breath tickling her skin. "I just need to feel you."
She places her hands on either side of his face. "Look at me." His blue eyes, nearly gray beneath the moonlight, meet hers. "I'm right here."
He lays his forehead atop hers. "Yes," he whispers brokenly, "but for how long?"
Her breath catches in her throat. "Don't say that."
He shakes his head, eyes closed. "Everyone I've ever cared about has been taken from me Emma, more often than not, by death. Perhaps fate plays a part in our lives, but to what extent? The way I see it, there is a common factor – me. I'm nothing but scars and broken edges. I touch a heart and it turns to ash. How much longer do I get to be with you before I break you too?"
He shifts so that their legs entwine, they are hip to hip, chest to chest and he just presses closer to her till there is absolutely no space between them and she is forced to wind her arms around his neck. She should feel suffocated; in fact, a year ago she would have bolted at such intimacy. But this is Killian and he is different and so much like her and he is trembling and she just wants him to feel safe. Like the rug isn't about to be pulled from him any time soon or the world isn't out to screw with him.
She clings to him just as tightly because Killian says that she could turn to dust any moment because of his presence but from where she stands, she can feel him already floating away, out of her reach and into this fear.
"Yet you stay with me."
"Of course," he answers immediately, eyes opening so that she can see the depth of his sincerity. "I will stay however long you wish love, I will stay because you want me to. But Emma, loving me is toxic and will bring you nothing but pain. I'm not even whole." He raises his stump and waves it in front of her sharply to indicate his self-loathing. "It's best you let me go."
"Is that what you want me to do?"
His silence is all the answer she needs to know that that is far from what he wants, what they both want.
Emma cups his cheek and runs her fingers along the scruff lining his jaw.
"Okay, answer me this. Do you love me?"
Killian's eyes, which were downcast once more, snapped back to hers immediately and with an indignant tone, as if it should have been obvious, he says, "Of course I do!"
"But, why?"
He looks at her like she's crazy but the answer spills easily from his lips. "Because you are strength personified. Because your beauty goes beyond the exterior, yours is a beauty that runs deep within you but spills onto the people around you because of the goodness and the compassion in your heart. Because you are Emma and you bring life to everyone you touch – even the pirate who had been a dead man walking nigh 300 years. Until he met you." He thumbs the dimple in her chin in fondness. "I love you because you are unapologetically you – Savior, mother, daughter, fighter – and because you are worthy of love, so worthy, my Swan."
Her smile is wide and bright and seemingly driving the darkness that has clutched at his soul and was brought on by the nightmare.
"So are you, Killian. Despite what you may think, to me you are whole. I don't care that you don't have a hand or that your past isn't squeaky clean. What matters to me is your heart," and here she places a hand over where his organ lay, beating strong and red and protected (never without again, after what Gold did to him) "And it's stronger than any other."
It could be her imagination, it could be the moonlight, but she swears there is a light in his eyes that wasn't there when they started this thing and it simmers with each word that passes her lips.
He sighs and smiles, a self-deprecating thing but conveying his wonder and gratitude at her declaration, knowing how difficult it is for her to express herself.
"You're bloody brilliant, Swan."
She breathes a laugh, "Now where have I heard that before?"
He shares her laughter before falling silent, the events of the night playing through his head, suddenly making him feel drained and sheepish. A blush rises to his cheeks.
"The night has made me quite vulnerable, love."
"No one else has to know."
She kisses him then. She is done with talking, never that good at it in the first place, and lets her body, her actions take over and show him everything else she wants to say, like how special he is to her and how thankful she is to have him and how much she loves him.
He responds in kind.
She knows this is not the last of such nights but, with a swipe of her tongue against his and his caressing hand to her spine, she is assured that they will get through it each time as long as they are together.
He sighs frustratedly and brings his stump up and gestures it towards his scar-littered body. "But I'm still full of cracks."
She runs her hand along the skin of his back where it is most prominent due to the many lashings he endured as a child living on the streets, "They are a reminder, that you are a survivor.
"Besides," she says, caressing the scar on his shoulder. "So am I."
He opens his mouth to protest but she presses a finger to his lips. "It's ok," then she kisses the scar she was fingering.
"I'll fill the spaces in between."