He stares at the worn paint of the ceiling until the hiss of the stove and the clinking of glasses below tells him the Charmings are awake, or, more accurately, that they're up, because only the baby has really slept in the few days since Emma…
He stumbles down the stairs in the clothes he slept in—tried to sleep in—but neither Mary Margaret nor David make any mention that crashing on the couch implies crashing on the couch. David just pulls out an extra set of utensils and sets them on the island. There's a vase full of yellow buttercups and Killian doesn't know if that's intentional or just the brightest thing they could find at the flower shop to warm up the empty loft full of people. Empty because she…
Mary Margaret sets a plate of eggs in front of him, sunny side up, and he counts it as another quiet reminder of their ferocious optimism. He eats mechanically and pretends not to notice her slipping things onto his plate because, while he has no appetite, they both know he's eaten even less than he's slept.
David disappears into the bedroom and returns dressed for work and hair combed, but no one would mistake him for fresh faced, the bags under his eyes matched only by his wife's. Killian grabs his own coat and slips his arms through, the too-light leather awkward on his frame and he involuntarily glances at the liquor cabinet, where David locked his flask the first night. While they were under no disillusionment that a warped board and rusted hinge would keep out a determined Captain Hook, the intention behind it was, well, Charming. He realizes his eyes had lingered too long when Mary Margaret's breath quickens slightly (he's used to the subtle nuances of a woman's distress, whether she was made of planks or flesh) and he shoots her a look that he hopes seems comforting but suspects looks more like a child caught in the act. David leans in to kiss her cheek then and Killian busies himself needlessly buttoning his shirt while the prince whispers, "This is a battle too, Snow."
He's already in the cab of the truck, staring at the bug parked in the next space, by the time the prince climbs in. The glint of the sunlight on David's head reminds Killian that not only Emma's genetics but the stuff of her golden soul was made up of the entwining of those two hearts and, despite their separations, again and again, part of who they are is the foundation of who she is and souls don't easily forget these sorts of things.
But it sometimes needs reminding, he thought, and sat up straighter in his seat.
For Liam, he'd sailed by starlight into wretched darkness. After Milah, he'd lost any guiding brightness in a timeless dreamland. But for Emma, for her he'd chase the sun itself if it burned his very bones.
That's who he is.
He sits in silence, watching the yellow lines in the center of the street–double, then chopped–until David pulls into a spot outside the library. They don't even knock on the door before it opens. Belle wears a wrinkled yellow sundress and a light layer of dust and Killian knew she'd been digging through books half the night, yet an upturn of her lips sparks something in his spine.
"I found something," she says, and opens the door wide.
He rolls his shoulders back and strides into the Library, "Let's have it then."
"And he's back," Charming sighs, the hint of a smile in his voice, but Killian ignores it. He'd never left, only veered a little off course.
Belle hands him a book, translating as he pages through and on those old yellowed pages, he finds a beacon piercing through the long night of his battered heart: hope.