anchor me down

She watches him cradle the newborn (their newborn) from her place on the bed, sweat clinging to her forehead and wrists feeling blessedly free compared to the previous situation she'd had to deliver a kid in.

He grins down at his son.

(His son. Their son. It all seemed so terribly unachievable for such a long time but now they're here despite curses and wicked witches and dark ones and the like. The look on his face is of pure adoration and God, she's sure if she thinks about this for a second longer, she'll start crying again.)

"Did you settle on a name?" She's chewing at her bottom lip when she asks, not wanting to break him out of his little bubble of joy.

He meets her eyes, his own twinkling in the harsh light of the hospital room and she thinks about how far they've come. He shakes his head. "We should decide on it together."

His thumb is rubbing slow lazy circles on the side of the blanket that's wrapped around their baby while his other hand is tucked carefully underneath him. She can practically feel the love radiating off of him and she can't help but smile.

"I was thinking," she pauses and considers the options they'd laid out months ago, "you liked Leopold."

He hums noncommittally, slowly rising from the, no doubt, uncomfortable plastic chair and moving his attention to his son. He walks the short distance to the side of her bed, and nods at her to scoot over. She lets out a breathless laugh and complies. The bed dips as he squeezes in next to her, chin grazing her shoulder, one leg pressing against hers while the other dangles on the side of the bed (these things werenot made to hold two people - or perhaps, now three).

She notices that he's gotten more comfortable since they'd arrived at the hospital. He's stripped off to just his button down, pants, and those ridiculous blue socks with white anchors on them that her father got him for Christmas. She's suddenly overcome with the desire to buy her son matching ones, if only to see the look on Killian's face when she does so.

"May be a little too ambitious for the wee lad," he says quietly.

"Wouldn't want to make him feel too pressured," she finds herself whispering back and smiling at his answering chuckle.

She moves her hand to thumb at the apple of her child's cheek and she's infinitely glad that he has his father's dark hair, just like she'd imagined he would. "Charles?"

He laughs again. "I don't believe I'd be able to speak of him without thinking of my ridiculous princely attire."

"I quite liked the princely attire on you."

She can feel his smirk pressed against the side of her neck. Her other hand goes to wrap around his forearm, sighing into the comfort that he always seems to provide her merely through his presence.

"Perhaps. After all, he is a prince."

"How about Oliver?"

"I quite like that."

He moves his hand from its place on his son's chest and brings it to tangle with her fingers. She can't see him with his face downcast and settled into the dip of her shoulder, but she knows he's wearing an expression of contemplation. The one he gets where his brow furrows ever so slightly and his lips part slowly.

"How about," she takes in a heavy breath. "I was thinking, maybe…"

He pulls back from her slightly, attempting to catch her eyes and read her expression no doubt. "What is it, love?" His concern overwhelming in his soft voice.

She meets his eyes and takes in his knitted brows and tight lips, and sighs once more. "I don't know, it was just a thought but, I really liked it and," she cuts herself off and looks down back at her son.

And she knows he's watching her, waiting for her to tell him what she's kept pressed inside her chest for the past few months. In some kind of fear. Of not hurting him, of not wanting to overstep some sort of boundary. And she's married to him, for God's sake, but she still doesn't know if it'll be too much.

"Emma?"

She shifts her gaze back to him. "Liam." It's as soft as her own breath, and by his frozen expression, she's not sure he's heard her. But as the steady breaths of her child slowly become the only sound to fill the room, her own heart begins to speed up anxiously and she moves her gaze away from his stoic face.

Suddenly, she feels his hand tighten around hers and he exhales shakily. "After my -" he doesn't finish the thought, merely lets it hang in the limited space between them.

She nods.

"You don't have to do it for me." And his voice wavers ever so slightly, the echo of a lost boy caught in his throat, the rapid rhythm of his voice when he told her he wasn't good enough for her still beating heavily through her mind.

"I want to."

And they're staring intently at each other now, his eyes brimming with a strange spark that she thinks ishope and she's certain that there are tears streaming down her cheeks and Goddamn these hormones. He leans in and kisses her softly, and she feels every hair on her body prickle at the passion that coats his action.

When they separate, she notices his careful grip on their son - on Liam. And she knows he hasn't said it yet, but he wants it. He wants to cherish his brother's memory, wants to speak to his little boy and raise him to be like the man he has always looked up to.

"Are you sure?" He whispers. "We can always name him Charles."

She smiles. "I'm sure if you are."

He nods and swoops in to kiss her again, this time harder, and she's so fucking tired but it takes everything in her not to press him flush against her and let him take her right on this bed. She figures the nurses wouldn't take too kindly to that. Neither would their newborn son - who she realizes they will probably be embarrassing quite a lot for the rest of his days.

"Emma Swan, you are the light of my life. Thank you."

"Emma Jones," she corrects, nudging his nose with her own, "and you are mine."

He grins like an idiot. And she's never loved him more than like this, dark circles under his tired eyes, but every part of him aglow with bliss as he carries their son in his arms.

He pulls Liam closer to his chest, his hooked hand wrapped around him while his other one rests on her waist, lightly drawing patterns there with his fingers. It is as if he is anchoring them both to himself, and she knows the feeling because that's what she wants too. To keep this moment here, forever. To keep them, forever.

"And you, little Liam," he squeezes him even closer to his chest as if that were even possible, "I will go to the ends of the earth for you."

And if he notices her eyes glaze over as she presses herself further into him, his only indications are his fingers tightening around her and him nuzzling into her neck, whispering to her to go to sleep, love.

(When she awakes, she finds Killian standing by the window, Liam in his arms as though he hasn't put him down the whole night, mumbling stories of his brother to their son - and she makes a silent wish that her heart never stop swelling at the sight of them.)