She sees him, behind the bars. His body is sprawled awkwardly against the dank, cool stone floor of the small cell, unmoving. Her heart is still pounding with adrenaline from the break in, and she knows they only have so much time. But the moment her eyes land on him every part of her goes numb and her stomach feels like it's going to drop out of her body. It takes every part of her to refrain from screaming his name and throwing herself at the bars like a child.
"Over here," she forces the hushed words past her lips, calling David to her side. She hears his soft footsteps echoing through the dark chambers, but she's already at the lock, reaching into her pocket for the keys they'd lifted from the guard. Her heart is racing even faster now, and she peels her eyes from his still body as she fumbles with the lock.
"Let me," David finally whispers, gentle hands closing around hers and carefully slipping the key from her fingers. She can't miss the concern in his voice, and the failed attempt to mask his own obvious fear. She forces herself to steady her breathing, reminding herself firmly that Regina's distraction can only last so long.
But over and over one thought keeps drowning out everything else. One memory, a single phrase that she'd trusted and believed.
"I'll be back for you, Swan."
The lock clicks and Emma pushes through the door before David can stop her. She's not completely aware of what she's doing, only that she needs to get to him. But as she gets nearer the dread already in her gut is spreading rapidly throughout the rest of her, turning her skin and catching her breath.
He is on his side, bloodied arms splayed in front of him, right cheek pressed to the cool stone floor. His clothes are ragged, coat and vest not in sight. Red scars scathe his arms and peek out from within long tears in his stained white shirt. And she physically aches, in all parts of her, seeing him so broken and weak. When she reaches him she tries to stand her ground, to play it out strong and reasonable. She is, after all, strong and reasonable.
He'd infiltrated the castle to draw the Witches forces away, to give Emma, her family, and the townspeople a chance to make it to the safety of the castle. He did it for her.
When she falls to her knees beside him is when she begins to lose control. His skin is pale. Too pale, she knows. And she's clever, she does know. She just can't let it be true. She needs to not know, if only for just a moment longer.
She forgets David is in the room when she fumbles for his wrist, grasping cool and clammy skin and pressing firmly where she's sure the pulse point is. Waiting. But it must not be, she must be wrong, and now she's frantically running her hands to his neck, to his chest, in front of his lips which remain just parted, feeling for any movement, any warmth, anything.
"Hook," she hisses under her breath.
It's a joke. It's always a joke with him, some sort of trick. He's fooling her, and she's damn pissed. "Hook," she repeats, grabbing his shoulder now. Surely the sheer panic in her voice is enough to tell him that the joke is over. That she's had enough of his childish games.
"Emma…" David touches her shoulder gently, voice frighteningly soothing (and when had he knelt beside her?)
She shrugs him away, feeling again at Killian's wrists. She can hear her own heavy breathing, sense the panic waiting in the wings. She feels the tidal wave behind her, closing in around her. It's been there the whole time. But suddenly it is crashing upon her and she can't breath at all.
"No."
All she can do is shake her head as the all too familiar pain jolts back into it's rightful place. Tearing at her heart, churning uncomfortably within her.
The damn Witch did this.
The realization lights a new fire within her, one that despite it's strength is drowned beneath the intensity of the rest of her raging emotions. She racks her mind, searching for something, anything to fix him. He must be fixable. She can't do this again, she can't lose anyone again. But every thought, every track she follows and every file she digs into all lead to one inevitable truth.
He's dead.
The tears burn her eyes and the sob suddenly racks through her body without even consulting her for permission. But she hardly has it in her to care. She feels lost, like she's an empty void that sucks everything in only to destroy it. She is destructive. She did this.
This isn't how his rescue was supposed to go. He was supposed to be waiting at the bars, to ask her what had taken her so long with that mischievous twinkle in his eye. He was supposed to smirk when she rolled her eyes, but she would've seen the truth behind his oh so cocky composure. The truth that was always behind his facade, hiding halfheartedly behind his flirtatious remarks and eagerness to please. The truth that she should have accepted long before, because now it was far too late.
The truth that everything he did was for her because he honestly, fully loved her in a way she never thought was imaginable. In a way she'd thought no one could ever feel for her.
Emma Swan most certainly wasn't one to daydream, but she'd had his rescue planned.
And he was dead.
"Emma," David again, and his voice still is soothing but now more forceful. "Emma, we need to go. Robin and his troops will have gotten to the plans by now, the Witch-"
She's shaking her head vehemently, and he finally stops talking. She can feel his eyes on her, she can feel the pity. He's never seen her break. No one has ever seen her break. But the twister roaring within her is too much to hold within her anymore.
"I can't," the words come softly across her lips, and she surprises herself. Her voice shakes with contained everything contained within her and she's fighting to catch her breath all over again. "I can't leave him, David," she continues, voice gaining only in it's frantic tone.
He touches her slumped shoulder again, and this time she lets him. His touch is strangely soothing, but something like putting a bandaid on a broken leg it can't do anything for her. She fights to steady her breathing, to regain composure, but every second a new wave of realization soaks her and staying there, lying beside his lifeless body for eternity, seems a very attractive option.
Henry, she reminds herself firmly, get a damn grip because Henry needs you.
Her son is all the reality she needs to jolt her, if perhaps faintly, back to it.
If Robin has already gotten into her chamber and reached her floor plans, the witch knows. And that means that the dungeon will be surrounded, very soon, by a fleet of flying monkeys.
Priorities.
"Help me lift him," she orders, getting a firm grip around Hook's middle, tugging halfheartedly and getting nowhere. Her heart is racing all over again at how his body shifts limply with her efforts.
She knows she can't carry him, that he's near twice her own weight, but a small part of her needs it. She needs to get out of the castle, yes. But he needs to come. She glances over her shoulder at David, who is staring at her with a fix of disbelief, and perhaps a pinch of worry.
"Emma…" he says unhelpfully, for what feels like the thousandth time in the dungeon so far.
She knows what he's thinking, but she refuses to let it matter. It can't matter because he has to be fixable. She can not bring herself to let go of his cold hand and suddenly a fear swells up rapidly in her chest, a mix of all the nightmares twisting inside of her and tearing her apart. She feels it rising and growing and her heart races and then she hits the tipping point,
"We're in a damn fairytale!" she cries, and David flinches at the volume it comes out. She cringes and lowers her voice slightly, temper waning minutely, "We— We have to bring him back to the castle. Regina might have a spell, or, or a curse or a magic cow… I don't know! I'm new to all this magic crap, but if you could bring Mary-Margaret back with a fricking kiss there has to—"
The look on her fathers face stops her dead. A sudden jolt of hope, immediately gone cringe, then she can see a hesitant desire to speak in the way his lips part slightly, then close. He watches her carefully, then glances at Hook.
"What?" she asks. It's clear that he's thought of something and that he's also strangely unsure of whether to share. He looks even more uneasy, "What is it David? Dammit, if you have an idea-" she hisses, a shade louder than she meant.
"I do," he interrupts, ever so carefully. She opens her mouth to urge him on but the contemplation in his eyes silences her, "Look, this is a long shot. It's assuming he's under a sleeping curse and assuming it's not too late and assuming you're his—"
"Can it save him?" she interrupts his spiel, meeting his eyes firmly. She's sure the vulnerability she sees there is echoed from her own face.
"Assuming—" he starts again, carefully.
"David!" she urges.
"… Yes."
She knows where he's headed, deep down she truly does. The intrigue and hesitance alights within her and she knows but she has to ask anyway.
"What do we do?"
"You do," he corrects cautiously, still looking into her eyes, still adding her up, "Em, the Witch isn't stupid. She… Killing him would be a waste of a valuable bargaining chip," he pauses again, and she wants to urge him onward but bites her tongue. Her heart is racing, and she wonders how it hasn't yet escaped her chest. "There's a very good chance that he's under a sleeping curse."
She knows what it means, without him saying it aloud.
The uneasiness on his face has multiplied, and she knows he thinks it's a trap. The idea has crossed her own mind as well, but it has also occurred to her that they have an advantage— the witch seems to have no idea that the stupidly gallant knight who'd raided her castle all on his lonesome was of so much importance to the Crown. Screw that, even. She hadn't known that he was important to Emma.
She doesn't know that Emma isn't one to wait around for a petty bargain when someone she cares for is on the line.
She looks down at his bruised face, which in her efforts to lift him has ended up just in front of her. If she focuses on the mess of dark hair crowning it, he almost looks as if he is, after all, sleeping. She hesitates and her heart thuds painfully against her chest— a constant reminder that this probably won't work. It's a long shot, but it's also his last chance.
No.
It is their last chance.
She doesn't even bother to hold back her hair as she leans slowly down, towards his lifeless face. Every moment past she expects his soft lips to break into a cheeky smirk, or to part just a hair more to welcome hers. She expects his eyes to open and sparkle with amusement at her predicament, for him to just pop to life and crack a joke and make everything okay again. It's her motivation. She absentmindedly lets her hands slip to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his shirt and his skin.
His lips are so cold.
Well he's dead, idiot, she thinks, and suddenly she is considering that she very well may have gone absolutely crazy.
It isn't a second after her lips press to his that a strange breeze blows past her. A breeze that seems to come from where her lips are against him. She pulls away from him abruptly, examining the scenario and looking for a rational reason for the breeze that has her a bit shocked. But she can only do so for a moment because, as if in a dream or a movie or some sort of fantastic shit that was not her damn life, he gasps. And his eyes fly open.