watch me stumble, wake me up
"No!" he nearly screamed, jolting upwards and toward the fantastical beast that went in to tear out Emma's throat. He was gasping, so utterly frustrated by his helplessness in saving her.
A dream, his mind murmured, heartbeat rapid and angry and so very, very foreign after his time spent without one. 'Twas only a wretched dream. Only a nightmare.
After the seventh time that night – being jerked from sleep with a tortured shout and a sour taste coating his tongue – he was ready to jump ship. Or at least depart on one for the foreseeable future in the hopes that the rocky yet pacific waves and gritty air would bring him a modicum of peace.
It had been days, and he was willing to try just about anything to escape the weariness. To stop the agony. To force back the fear in his throat threatening to pull him below the surface. To get the be-damned ricocheting hammer to cease its relentless assailment on his skull, on what was left of his tattered composure.
He bowed his head over a palm, smoothing the sweaty strands of hair from his eyes. The fierce and urgent pounding shook at his temples once more, and he feared he would be ill.
This was how the wheel had spun ever since he'd returned from the realm of death.
He would either wake so cold his teeth gnashed against themselves and he was left with no choice but to curl up on the floor beside the heater in a pile of blankets despite the warmth of the coming summer; or so blazingly hot his stomach seemed to churn on fire and matches and gunpowder and he was forced to cringe around the toilet and retch miserably until the emptiness and frustration filled him so thoroughly tears coated his cheeks.
Tonight had been no different.
He woke up six times within the four hours he'd been in bed. Each time he was wrenched from a terror so profound and hideous his lungs quaked and his intestines gargled, auguring a weak stumble to the commode.
He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, to catch his breath and pray for reprieve.
He didn't know how much more he could bear.
Several infinities later, the sun poked its nosy fingers into the sky, plucking away the bits of night that clung to the apartment's walls, and he breathed a sigh of relief before heaving himself out of bed, where he had lain awake for several hours simply counting the revolutions of the fan above him.
Watching the blades turn round and round was the only thing that seemed to bring with it a semblance of calm control, of predictability. But even at that, it was a fleeting, tenuous thing. He would sometimes close his eyes – a fatal mistake, he came to discover – and descend into an exhausted sleep only to awaken as a sword was wedged between two ribs, cutting down sinew and bone and living essence. Blood dripping away with his last vestiges of life and into a writhing malachite pool, chains were wound and tightened around his middle, deliberately and gruelingly squeezing the breath from his chest.
The worst nights were the ones where the same dream recrudesced again and again and again, and left him curled in on himself, sobbing into the pillows.
He was waiting for coffee as the machine sputtered and ticked when a knock sounded at the door. He rose unsteadily to his feet from where he sat at the kitchen island, seeing stars momentarily at the sudden movement, before swinging the door back, a small noise yelping from its hinges.
"Killian! Where have you been?" came from a bewitching goddess bathed in a silky leather jacket and enveloped by a cascade of bright blonde hair. Emma. She was catapulting herself into his arms, fingertips reaching for his face.
He felt his lips twitch into a tired smile. "'Ello, Swan." His voice was thick, rough, hardly intelligible through his accent. "What can I do for you this beautiful morn?"
Her eyes came up, fiery green orbs clashing to hesitant blue. The concern there in the golden flecks and freckles chafed along his skin and his eyes fell from hers. "Killian, hey," she started, a frown creasing her forehead in soft ripples and valleys. "What's wrong?"
"Why would you think something amiss, love?" he evaded, hand clenching unnecessarily hard in the fabric at the back of her jacket. "Everything's fine."
His spine wasn't atremble. His voice wasn't catching on every other syllable. His shoulders weren't tensing with every slight adjustment of his body. His stomach wasn't tied into burning knots. The world wasn't spinning, tilting backwards on its axis every time he blinked.
Everything was fucking fine.
Maybe if he screamed it often enough in his head it would eventually be true.
Maybe she would start to buy it.
You lying bastard.
But, as usual, he was only fooling himself. He could see it in her eyes.
Her lack of anger at his palpable deceit was surprising in and of itself. Even the shock. But it was the glimmer of fear, of guilt, of pain that was also visible underneath the tenacious, anchoring walls she hid so carefully behind that made him feel as though he would fall to his knees then and there.
Just come out with it, quick and clean, you brainless git.
She's been through enough as it is. I needn't add to her cares.
Turmoil flooded his veins more so than blood these days, it seemed. Instead of allowing the gaping voids to swallow him, he stood straight, attempted to put a bit of spark back in his eyes, smiled with all 15 rows of his teeth, and begged for the torment to leave him.
He saw the defeat and disbelief run in and out of her gaze; he let the shame trickle down his face. "I don't believe you, but we don't have time for this," she said, harrumphing with distaste as her focus shifted. "Anyway." She waved her hand dismissively. Dismissing him.
He swallowed hard as her eyes brightened dangerously as they settled upon him. "As you know, we never celebrated my dad's birthday because, well … you know, and since we just love to enjoy the quiet moments –" she flashed a grin "– Henry and I were planning a party of sorts. A scavenger hunt, trekking through the woods, swashbuckling and sword-fighting – the works."
She stopped to find her breath and brushed past him into the apartment, eyes sparkling once more. He shut the door and trudged behind her into the small kitchen area, and poured two cups of coffee while she rattled off a number of to-do lists and chores and other ideas to properly prepare for this party that would occur later that evening, despite her mother's beseeching wishes. "I came over here because I need your help finding things at the store and it's an afternoon we could spend together," she said. "Besides, you know how to show a man a good time."
Eyebrow perking up, he grinned mischievously, though he knew it was sans his usual sensuality. "Surely you don't mean in that way, love."
Her lips may have quirked in laughter, but all her saw was the worry suddenly lining her beautifully crafted features. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you?" she asked, a wry note tickling her tone as she came to stand before him. Golden-jade irises were scanning his face, lingering on the shadows he knew lay heavily beneath his eyes. He felt every flicker as though it was a somatic stroke of an angel's wing.
"Hey, look at me," she asked of him quietly. He inhaled a sharp breath and knew that as soon as he did as she bid, she would see all that he was trying so hard to conceal. She would sense the demons lurking in his mind, the misery in the redness of his eyes, and he hated that he had to stand vulnerably before her.
"Killian."
Emma.
His heart was screaming in his ears. His entire being was aching for her touch.
He smiled as coolly, calmly, as he could manage with the toothpicks and thorns puncturing his tongue before he settled a kiss atop her head. "I'll gladly accompany you anywhere, Swan. Just let me put my jeans on," he said, turning away, unable to tolerate the expression he knew was on her face. He took a step toward his bedroom. Then another. Another step farther from the solace he knew she offered with her presence. "Be back in two shakes."
But he was beginning to feel as though he was already too far gone.
He truly did love this woman, but sometimes his patience was severely tested. In usually the most unblemished and adorable ways possible. Usually. Other times, not so much.
After walking at least twenty miles back and forth at a store aptly named Party City (a place he really must visit someday), wasting – no, spending – three hours in Target and a handful of grocery stores buying cupcakes, plastic rifles, foam swords, several bags of Swedish Fish, and other party paraphernalia deemed appropriate by his Swan and Henry, he could proudly foresee that Prince Charming's birthday surprise would surpass expectations, if he did say so himself.
For a moment, a single perfect moment, he'd nearly forgotten his fear of night falling. But night's claws soon started edging into the lovely bubble of Emma and Henry's company, threatening with a quick swipe of teeth in a tugging exhaustion that he was soon going to be powerless once again, caught in the tender, cruel mercies of his dreams. Emma seemed to notice the shifty look invade his eyes and reached for his hand, her smile small, while he grappled for his bearings.
They picked a spot in the forest near the border – close enough to the road, yet far enough away that no unskilled partygoer would have the hapless chance of falling over – and began to hang targets amidst the lines of pines, boulders, small dirt mounds, and moldy logs. In the small clearing where the citizens of Camelot once resided, they plopped down folding tables and chairs rented from Granny's. Lines of rope encircled the sword-fighting arenas and target practice, while blankets were laid out on the wind-washed grass. Several of the townspeople began to fill the arena's tables with food and the air with excited chatter. So content were they to finally have something so homely and simple to celebrate.
Soon enough, the sun had dipped low below the horizon's belt, caught in a lover's ephemeral embrace, and the torches Emma and he had nailed to the trunks of trees lent the clearing a woodsy scent of smoke and medieval light that left Emma appearing even more angelic than usual. He told her so, and she pulled him toward a nearby tree to prove to him that she was a lot of things, but beguilingly innocent was not one of them.
Even breathless and dizzied he didn't believe her.
A gruff, familiar voice echoed between them after a while, and he knew the charming and beloved prince had arrived, but he also knew there wasn't a thing in the world that could have kept him from pressing one last lusty kiss upon her lips divine.
"There was that time where we nearly fell off the clock tower, David," Snow was saying, hardly able to keep her breathy laughter from falling into her words. "You can remember that as well as I can – hey! Don't you dare look at me like that!"
It was one of their seemingly favorite topics, one in which supplied an endless rhythm of easy smiles and brushing tears of joy out of each other's eyes: the christening of several surfaces in the city the royal couple married, many of which he would rather not know about.
It was well past midnight, the moon as full as their bellies. Most of the guests had left long ago, leaving Emma, her mother and father, and Regina sitting around a glowing campfire he had fashioned several hours earlier. Henry went home with Robin, and with baby Neal safely in Granny's compassionate care, Snow and Charming somehow reverted back to their normal 30-year-old selves after a few libations of beer and wine, which likely explained Snow's inappropriate and quasi-embarrassing remarks, along with the carnal, needy look David was currently sending his wife. Killian's eyes touched Emma sitting beside him, bottle perched in her palms – root beer, he noted with flaccid amusement – as she chuckled over her parents' antics with a mature grace he would never be capable of. In those moments, he didn't think it possible to love her more.
But the exhaustion from this evening and the previous missed nights' sleep was catching up to him now, and he could scarcely try and keep his eyes open. He was overly warm, if slightly uneasy, in the darkness, but he tamped it down to a manageable level, and soon felt himself relaxing into Emma's side. Her sweet, buttery smell mixing with the dense air of the forest created a sense of tranquility that he didn't want to evaporate. But he knew what demons haunted him and how they had the tendency to shatter the most precious handfuls of seconds.
Regina's shrieking, harpy-like laugh mixed with David's guffaw of outright giddiness echoed through him, and he startled himself into a state of heightened wakefulness. Emma must have felt him tense, as she turned toward him, fingers outstretched and eyes soft. "Ready to get out of here?" she asked quietly, making to rise.
He nodded, suddenly so tired his marrow ached in its joints and his eyes watered. He started to tremble, though whether from the thought of spending the night alone once again or from the weeks of tireless exertion without rest, he wasn't sure. But Emma – precious, all-knowing and understanding Emma – stuck out her hand for him, and he reached for it gratefully, steadying himself against her as he stood shakily.
They said a few short goodbyes and made promises to join Snow and David the following day for lunch before they were off and finally, blessedly alone to stumble through the forest to Swan's yellow automobile.
She didn't speak again – opting for soothing, tender touches instead – until they stopped at a red light near Emma's residence. "Will you stay tonight?" she asked tentatively. "Henry's with Regina and Robin for the rest of the week, so we'll have the house to ourselves. That is, if you want to and there's no pressure or anything, I just thought, you know..." She was rambling, making guiltless her offer of escape if he chose to say no, to pull away and be left behind.
He could deny her nothing. Not anymore. Not since his mind had been so thoroughly and devastatingly rattled by his ceaseless night terrors and downright agony suffered without her.
"I'd be honored, Emma."
His voice only shook a little.
You lying bastard.
He'd spent nights with her before. Before the darkness, before Camelot, before the Underworld. It had been a slow, leisurely, delicate flame burning between them, all unhurried desire and shared current running through their veins.
But tonight. Tonight was aching, desperate, and wrought by his need for her. She placed scalding kisses over his quivering chest and belly, his parted lips, and he responded in equal fervor near to the point of giving more than he would ever be capable of receiving. He couldn't bring himself to care. All he felt was utterly consuming and treasured, so in the moments before their simultaneous releases it mattered not that she was the air he held in his lungs and the only thing he needed because she was – and always would be – his.
In that time, he forgot the terror waiting for him in the dark, that deadly slithering up his spine that fair thundered its need to snuff out the light in the pulsing behind his temples. He was too frustratingly weak to either heed its call or allow Emma out of his arms as she slumbered peacefully beside him, her breath coming easily in and out, in and out, in and out.
But it was never enough.
In the small morning hours before dawn, he awoke shuddering as an immaterial pain itched and spasmed up and down his flesh, as grim and unavoidable as ever.
He thanked his dwindling number of lucky stars that he made it to the bathroom before his stomach launched its violent heaving. It refused to be soothed until every attempted breath singed his throat and tasted like copper coins melted in acid.
When the bout finally passed, he slid back against the chilled tile wall in as painful a manner as how it felt for his hands to slip from the edge of sanity. Knees drawn up, temptation's weight of giving in to despair reared its ugly, black, soul-seeking head. It threatened to crush his bones and settle deep within him as if it would take everything he had left to offer.
It took an abyssal amount of effort to stand and return to the bedroom, though not to the bed as he thought he would – indeed, he felt his body was no longer his. Instead he fell into the puddle of moonlight painting the floor near the unbolted window.
Had anyone ever cared enough to ask, he didn't believe he could explain what happened next. He couldn't explain the sob that broke from the dark bloody mess of his insides or the way his heart was splintering into little pieces that made no sound as they tumbled from him. He couldn't explain the screaming that reverberated in his ears in such a way he was unable to tell if it was real or fake or if it was shattering the silence or his soul.
He couldn't explain why two arms that were not his own were suddenly there, encasing him in their softness and warmth and familiarity.
But it all happened anyway. Despite how unworthy he was.
"Emma," he sobbed, trying to break away, scarcely able to drive the words out. "Emma, I'm so sorry. I'm so – I'm so sorry." Oh, God. God! Oh, merciful Father. She resisted firmly yet gently, pulling him back and ever-closer so his head lay on her shoulder.
"Killian, it's okay. You're okay. You're safe, you're safe," Emma murmured into his skin, rocking slightly to soothe his pain. And he tried. He really tried. To quell the convulsions in his chest, to dam the tears in his eyes. He tried. He tried. He couldn't.
But Emma. God, Emma. Perfection personified. She waited. She waited for him, wholly at ease simply holding him in her arms until he settled enough to return to bed and partially to himself, and even then she tucked him close enough that he could feel her everywhere along his edges and dips and toes and fingertips.
He slept.