A/N: This is pain, this is about pain, and it deals with the aftermath of torture, so if that bothers you, please don't read it. Spoiler speculation as well.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. Just my imagination borrowing them for a bit.
Pain.
All he knows is pain, as he lies on the hard ground in his cell. He doesn't move, can't move, everything hurts, though there's no blood, no mark, no bruise.
Each time the door opens, each time they come for him, he wonders what it will be next, what new form of torture they have waiting for him. Each time, it's another face behind his pain, another person he's wronged, another soul he sent to this accursed realm.
He can't tell if it's the actual person he hurt, or Hades himself wearing their face like a mask as he metes out the punishment he knows he deserves. He can barely remember his own name, the pain flaring through every nerve in his body.
But he remembers her.
She's the only thing keeping him sane, he knows, the only thought that occupies his mind as the whip flashes on his skin, tongues of fire racing across his body. Her face, her smile, the only memories he holds onto as he's screaming, a hundred daggers piercing his skin, a hundred murders he knows he must atone. He holds on to her, for her, always for her, for the hope that someday, hopefully far in the future, they'll be reunited, and that he'll finally be rid of the demons he allowed to tarnish his soul.
For a moment, he thought he saw her, standing in a field, a graveyard, fingers clutching the ring he'd given her. For a moment, he could swear he saw her family behind her, anxiously watching him, just watching. For a moment, he was sure he heard her whisper, "Hold on, Killian. I'm coming for you. Don't let go."
But only for a moment, and then she was gone.
The door opens, and he takes a breath, knowing what's to come, knowing he just has to hold on, endure, just a bit longer, and then a bit longer after that, until all the bits add up to the eternity he was promised on arrival.
This time, no one grabs him, no one yanks him to his feet, no one drags him out to whatever fresh torture they have in mind.
This time, it's her, it's Emma. His Emma.
She touches his face, he flinches, and her face falls, she looks so sad. She shouldn't be here, it's too soon, she shouldn't be here yet.
"No," he whispers. "This is a dream. Please, tell me this is a dream."
She reaches for his head, tries to brush back his hair, but he can't control his reaction, fearing her touch and the pain it'll bring. "It's me, Killian," she says gently, holding her hands up in surrender. "I came to bring you home."
It can't be. No one leaves, not until they've paid their debt. Not even the Saviour's boyfriend.
"How?" he rasps, still motionless, unable to move even if he wanted.
"I made a deal. Don't worry about it, I'll explain later." She looks back, and for the first time he notices the others. Her parents, her boy, her friends, risking the wrath of a god to bring him back. He wants to cry, wants to thank them, wants to do something with the emotion swelling in his heart, but he's just too tired. They come closer, sympathy in their eyes.
"Can you stand?" she asks.
He knows he can't, he hasn't been able to move on his own in days, maybe weeks, he can't remember. "No," he whispers.
She reaches to hold his hand, but he gasps at her touch, pain sparking from the bruises that weren't there.
"We're going to move you, ok?" She's sad again, eyes shining brightly. "Just hold on, Killian. We've got you."
David and Robin move to take his arms, and he knows what's coming, knows what to expect, but he's still not prepared for the agony when they finally hold his limbs, lifting him from the floor and wrapping him around their shoulders. He cries out sharply, eyes squeezed in pain from the wounds no one can see, not really hearing the soft apologies from both men as they hold him up. They carry him from the cell, from the building, but he can barely keep his eyes open, he doesn't know where they're taking him. He gasps, vision out of focus as he feels the open Underworld air on his skin, the brightness outside burning eyes not used to such light.
He feels her touch his hand, lightly, gently, but the pain is still there.
"We're almost there, Killian. Don't let go."
But he can't hold on any longer. He drifts away
He wakes on a pallet topped with soft furs, red otherworldly light streaming through a nearby window in the little hut that reminds him of home, his first home. He's on his back, blanket drawn up over his waist, arms motionless at his sides. Not yet home, but free.
His entire body hurts, he hasn't quite figured out how it all worked. Were his wounds invisible and the pain real? Or was everything in his head? It didn't make a difference, didn't change what he felt. Even breathing hurt.
He knows he should feel better, he knows he should feel calm, knowing she saved him, but he's not. What if it's a mistake? What if it's a lie? A dream? Some new form of torture Hades dreamed up?
But then she's there beside him, sitting on the carpeted floor and he can't help the sparks of hope that light in his heart.
She smiles softly. "Hi."
He tries, he really tries, to smile back, but he's so sore that he's not sure he pulls it off. She understands, cocking her head to the side. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
He swallows. "Hurts," he whispers hoarsely. "Everything, just hurts."
She frowns, looking angry and sad at the same time. "We're not really sure what to do about that," she says, pulling her legs across each other. "Regina and Robin and my parents went to get more information, maybe find a doctor or something. There's not a scratch on you, Killian, but every time someone touches you, you're in pain."
Her hand reaches for his, but she doesn't make contact, just hovers over his too-sensitive skin. He sees her eyes, filling with tears as she blinks rapidly. He can't move toward her, or away, fear of pain paralysing him, leaving him motionless.
"I don't know how to help you, Killian." She sounds so broken, and he wants nothing more than to reach for her, hold her, stroke her hair and tell her he'll be fine, she doesn't have to worry about him. He aches to comfort her, and he thinks that hurts worse than the pain in his body.
"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Please."
He can feel the tears pricking his eyes, he can feel his eyelids begging to close, but he watches her, and she looks back at him and nods.
"I'm here. I'll always be here."
She leans forward, lying on her side as she rests her head on the pillow beside him, so close that he can feel the heat from her skin, but far enough that she doesn't touch any part of him. Now, now when she can't see, he lets the tears fall, twin tracks silently carving on his cheeks. As he slips off to sleep, he whispers her name almost silently, a prayer from a man who doesn't deserve redemption.
"Emma."
He dreams. Images come fast and hard, memories from life, memories from death, and he doesn't know which is worse. He can feel the whimpers from his mouth, he knows he's not awake, that it's not real, knows that the noises he makes are, but he's stuck, trapped in his past.
She grabs him, holds his arm and shakes him awake, and he's crying out, screaming, back arching off the pile of pelts at the agony of her touch. That was the shoulder that went first, dislocating with wet pop as he swayed suspended from the ceiling. He knows nothing is wrong with it now, the bone smoothly in the joint, but the pain remains.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she was saying, had been saying, only now he could hear her as his cries soften into whimpers, hiccupping gasps that shake his chest far too much. She's crying, she's sitting beside him and crying and he can do nothing about it.
"Don't cry," he rasps weakly, "please, don't cry." He can't survive this if she's broken too.
"I can't...I don't know what to do," she says sadly, not meeting his eyes. He doesn't know either. "We're stuck here for a bit longer, and it's killing me that you're like this, that he hurt you, and I can't do anything about it." Tears spill to her lap, and his shattered heart breaks more.
Doesn't she already know that her being here, in the pit of death, means more to him than anything she's ever done? Doesn't she know that her family, coming to save him from the afterlife, has already healed more of his soul than any forgiveness they may have previously offered? Doesn't she know that she's already healing him, putting him back together piece by piece the longer she is with him?
"Stay," he murmurs, echoing his words from earlier. "Just stay." His fingers ache to hold her hand, but ache for other reasons too, involving implements he'd rather not think about.
She wipes her eyes, tries to smile at him. "I'm not going anywhere, Killian." Tears still shine brightly on her cheeks. "I just wish there was something, anything…"
"You'll find a way," he says softly. "Always do." This time, he manages a lopsided grin, and it doesn't hurt.
She settles on the pillow again, just close enough.
"I miss you," he whispers, his voice and energy fading. She's right there and yet he feels as if she's miles away.
"I'm right here, Killian. Sleep."
He does.
It's dark when he next opens his eyes, a fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows around the room. Emma's sitting on the floor beside his pallet, head resting against earthen walls. The pain isn't as bad now, he can breathe, a little bit deeper, a little bit better. She stirs, yawning widely with her eyes still closed, and he watches, feeling more pieces of himself fall into place.
Finally she looks at him, surprised to find him already awake.
"Hey, beautiful," he whispers, a smile tickling his lips, the words tickling his memory. Last time, she felt his broken ribs, this time only he did, but they've come a long way since that night in the mud on the side of the road.
"Hey, yourself," she answers, slipping closer to him. "Any better?"
He tests it, flexing his fingers slowly on the furs.
"Probably, a bit."
She plays with the edges of his blanket, he could feel the gentle tugs of her fingers on the wool. Is this it? Is this as close as they can get? Surviving death, rescued by the woman he loves with all the broken bits of his soul, only to be separated by the ghostly haunt of this phantom agony?
"My parents think they found someone to help you," she says, as if reading his mind. "But we still can't leave just yet, there's… something we have to do first, when you're well."
"Is this something your deal with him?" he whispers slowly. He can't say his name, the god who tormented him with other people's faces. That pain can't be healed quickly.
"Yes."
He's quiet. He doesn't like it, her owing him something, anything, for his freedom. But he knows he'd do the same for her, he knows he can't deny her anything, even at so steep a cost.
"The healer should be here soon" she continues. "I hope it works."
"Take my hand."
The strength in his words surprises even himself.
She lifts her head a bit, worry in her eyes. "Are you sure?"
He forces himself to nod, using muscles he hasn't moved in days, lingering memories of rope burns across his throat too raw, before. The healer is on his way, but he can't wait, can't wait for magic to heal him of the pain this distance between them caused.
"Aye."
She moves her hand close to his, and his heart pounds in anticipation. She turns back to him, chewing her lip nervously.
"I don't want to hurt you."
He knows she will, he knows but he doesn't care. "You won't."
She slips her fingers under his, and he gasps with the shock of it, unseeable broken bones shifting with the movement. She starts to pull her hand away, but he moves his fingers closed around her, ignoring the shooting pains up his arm.
"Killian, I can't-"
"No," he whispers harshly, blinking roughly against the tears he refuses to shed. "Please."
She brings her other hand over the back of his, her palm lightly brushing his knuckles. He bites back the pained groan in his throat - he needs this, wants this, no matter the price.
"I don't want to hurt you," she says again.
"Emma," he says, gripping her fingers as tightly as he can without visible discomfort. He wants to tell her that being apart from her, that hurts. He wants to say that the look on her face as she ran him through with the blade, that hurts. He wishes he could explain that thinking he'd never see her again, that hurts, and far, far greater than the non-physical wounds invisibly littering his entire body.
"This helps." Two words, it was all he could manage, but it was enough.
She relaxes, lying beside him once more, her head still inches from his, but he can feel her now, her smooth skin against his calloused palm, her thumb rubbing lazy circles against his fingers.
The healer will be there soon, hopefully to take away the agony in his body. But she had already healed the pain in his heart.
"Don't let go, love."