It's late into the night when he hears her coming down the stairs, the steady thuds and occasional creaking against the hard wood keeping time with the clock that ticks away above the mantle (it's a usually faint sound, not nearly loud enough for him to notice, but the silence of the living room is such that any noise makes a commotion).
Killian puts down the stack of papers in his hand, plopping them down on the coffee table, and sits up straighter from his previously slouched position on the couch to greet her.
"What're you still doing up?" Emma asks, and he feels a pang of guilt that his absence from their room had disturbed her enough that she felt the need to seek him out, but she seems neither tired nor irritated. Instead, she sways towards him, her features calm and manner casual.
As she gets nearer, he can make out her still-glistening face from the lotion she applies nightly, her skin bare and slightly flushed. She's a stunning thing to behold on any given occasion, but something about seeing her so at ease and unguarded does something to him. To get to experience this side of her—to receive that constant confirmation that her armor is nonexistent in his presence—is the finest treasure he has the honor of possessing.
He exhales on an extended breath, combing through his disheveled strands for the hundredth time that evening. "Oh, just trying to discern an estranged rival's happy ending before the Evil Queen decides to wreck havoc on the town again."
"So, the usual," she says, laughter in her voice, as she takes a seat beside him. "Isn't that supposed to be my job?"
"I can't let you have all the fun," he replies with the hint of a smirk. Leave it to Emma Swan to lift his spirits no matter the situation or level of weariness.
He watches as she tucks her pajama-clad legs underneath herself, her short-sleeved sleeping shirt skewing as she turns to face him more fully. Emma stares at him for a beat, her eyes darting back and forth—and he is equally as determined to gage her thoughts—before glancing over at the cluttered disarray across from them.
Sprawled out on the table are two copies of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea—one paperback, one hard cover—which rest atop several print outs of various articles and literary analyses of said novel (for all his initial skepticism of the magic box that sits atop the front desk of the library, he's come to find it abundantly useful if not somewhat overwhelming; he's barely scratched the surface of the wealth of information he's found on the subject of Captain Nemo and this Jules Verne person).
Killian flicks behind his ear and chuckles sheepishly when he sees her brows arch high on her head the more she discovers. "Sorry, love. I promise to properly organize my findings when I'm done."
"It's fine," she assures him with a light-hearted eye roll. "This place is as much yours to make a mess in as it is mine." The simple reminder that they share a home—him and her and, sometimes, Henry—never fails to make his heart soar.
The cushions crinkle as Emma reclines further into them, settling in to keep him company for as long as she needs to. She tugs at the collar of his navy blue t-shirt—a new addition to his wardrobe which, while not as loose as his old linen shirts, is quite comfortable and slowly becoming one of his favored items—and then makes to hold his hand.
She gasps when she feels it: the fluttering spasm that erupts under his skin. He winces, more so from embarrassment than from discomfort, and Emma pulls away with a worried expression.
"It's alright, love," he says, flexing his digits in an effort to force the cramping away. "Happens every now and again. Never lasts long."
He can see she's about to say something. Her mouth opens and closes while she blinks rapidly in that contemplative way of hers, before she appears to have made up her mind about her next course of action.
Grabbing a pillow from the end of the couch, she places it in her lap and pats it in invitation for him do something, though what that is he's unsure. "Put your hand right here," she explains, playfully echoing words from long ago back to him as she gestures a second time. He's amused certainly, but still hesitates to accept her offer.
He trusts her implicitly (always has, really), but the notion of someone wanting to care for him can still be foreign. Killian never wishes to ask anything of her, especially now. The role of the Savior weighs heavily on Emma, he knows, and so he endeavors to do everything he can to alleviate it. She should be resting, he thinks, not tending to the physical ailments of Captain Hook.
She catches his eye as he lifts his head, her nod of encouragement reminiscent of the ones he's given her in the past (ones she's told him, in the refuge of their bed, mean the world to her). There's an eagerness in her posture, but patience as well. She's prepared to wait there for hours if that's how long it took to convince him. And more than he wants to relieve her of the duties of her predestined title, he wants to never keep his love waiting.
He places his hand on the pillow, rotating his tense shoulders and scooting closer to her. She positions his hand as she sees fit, his wrist at the center of the pillow with his hand almost dangling from the edge. One by one, Emma removes his rings, pinching the bone of his fingers as she goes, until he's barren and exposed.
She turns his hand over with both of hers, his palm facing up, and runs her thumbs along the sides, smoothing the creases and watching as they bounce back and retake their form. Emma repeats the motion, each time with firmer passes until he relaxes. His arm dips into the plush material and it's then that she stops, her eyes remaining focused nonetheless.
In a fluid, confident motion, Emma bends her body forward so she can place a kiss to the center of his palm, righting herself just as quickly. It's such a sudden thing—over before he has time to process it—but he gapes at her for several moments until she finally looks up at him, a gentle smile on her lips that speaks to a truth he's accepted long ago: when his Swan sets herself on a mission, it shall not be protested or argued, and Killian is completely at her mercy.
Her moisturized hands glide over his joints, her touch soothing as ever. He breathes in deeply, consumed by the sensation of her delicate strokes and the outpouring of emotion he feels he may drown in.
Centuries of tireless use—of his single hand doing the work of two—and no one has ever done this for him. He's known the warmth of Emma's hand intertwined in his. The sturdy handshake of her father. The quick slap from one of Henry's "high-fives." Instances of contact that remind him of where he belongs. But this concentrated attention, this display of devotion, is something else entirely.
Killian feels cherished, here in their house with his own personal happy ending.
He feels safe.
His whole body shivers as she rakes her nails against the underside of his forearm, her scratches light as a feather. He hums in appreciation, a smug grin painted on Emma's face as she continues her work. "Where'd you acquire such a skill?" he asks, his tone gravelly and words slurred. Surely she'd been taught by a professional.
She shrugs at his question, angling his hand so his palm is facing down. "I saw it on a daytime talk show one time." Massaging the knuckle of his pinky, she gets a distant look about her, the same she gets during recollections of her childhood, he recognizes. "Kathy Lee seemed to enjoy it."
"I can assure you," he says, pulling Emma back into the present. "I'm enjoying it infinitely more than she did."
"Good."
She reaches for his wrist and shifts it back, discarding the pillow behind her as she interlocks their fingers. It fits even more perfectly than it usually does without his rings and he relishes in the feel of her twisting this way and that as his muscles are stretched. He senses their session is coming to an end by the way she repeats her previous techniques in quicker succession, and while he wishes it to go on forever, he knows the memory will be captured in his mind permanently.
"Thank you," he mutters. He opens his eyes (doesn't even remember having closed them), expecting to meet her gaze. Instead, she's looking down and to his left—specifically, at his left arm.
He lifts it up and out of the crevice it had been buried in, his brace still on even though his hook is detached and resting somewhere nearby. Emma reaches for it, brushing over the many buckles and straps that secure it to his arm. "Can I?"
Killian hasn't the strength to deny her outright. She's seen him without it before but has never lingered on it the way she's silently promising to now. He swallows thickly, his skin still tingling from her earlier ministrations. It's strange how he can long for a thing he hadn't known to be a possibility mere minutes ago; to desperately want to accept what only Emma has ever offered him.
As much as he craves it, he pauses. He doesn't wish to burden her with the task of attending to this part of him; doesn't want to be another thing she has to fix—
"Hey," she whispers, jolting him from his train of thought. "I'm a fan of every part of you." That earns a laugh from him as he fidgets in place. There's a joke on the tip of his tongue about her stealing all his lines, but it dies when he sees the absolute earnestness in her eyes. "Let me."
So he does.
She takes his forearm and holds it up straight, a wordless command for him to keep it there while she undoes the fastenings of the well-worn brace. The latches clink against one another as she puts it on the littered coffee table, a few sheets of paper drifting onto the carpet when it lands.
Killian holds his breath as he watches her caress his maimed wrist. She scratches at his arm as she had before, goosebumps emerging in her wake. It's nothing short of incredible. He moans as she starts to apply pressure, her thumbs digging into his tissue. Emma grasps him when he begins to shake, transitioning into more of a ghosting motion, cradling his arm to her chest. One palm moving up and down, the other cupping his cheek.
She leans her head forward, his temple meeting with hers halfway as they press against each other. He feels he may weep, he's so overcome with love for this woman. He's dizzy with the weight of it in his heart, while simultaneously feeling as though he could fly, as though a Pegasus sail were attached to back.
Killian bumps his nose with hers instead, eyes shut and face slack. She'd only just begun to touch his bared wrist but he's already lost to the sensation.
In his too-long life, he has never been touched so tenderly. With so much reverence; with an mystifying mix of an awareness of it's importance to him, and a nonchalance about the state of his scarred flesh. There is an absence of hesitancy in her movements, in granting him this simple moment which he thinks can only come from someone who understands him so thoroughly; from someone who knows what a rare gift it is to be treated so lovingly.
From his True Love.
When she's finished, he surges towards her, kissing her soundly as his mouth moves languidly against hers, conveying his gratitude as best he can. She responds to him with equal enthusiasm, her fingers tangling in his hair while his rejuvenated hand gets lost in hers.
"Thank you," he tells her again, a watery quality to his voice and unshed tears in his eyes. I love you, he means to say; wants to write a novel of his own filled with nothing but the phrase.
Emma guides him upstairs, his research forgotten for the time being, and leads them to their bedroom so they can finally rest from a hard day's work in Storybrooke. As they huddle under the covers, bodies drawn together like two magnets never to be separated, he drapes his arm across her waist and joins their hands once more.
"I love you, too," she sighs before drifting off to sleep.
And he knows it, more than he think he ever has.
.
.