a belated bday fic to bisexual-killian-jones on tumblr. it is a prequel to another oneshot called Best Chance which you can find on my tumblr thejollypirate if you go to my writing page. (blame for ffnet no linking abilities ._.)
He hates the condition he's in – on top of a radio tower with an injury and lack of food and water.
I suppose I've lived a long and prosperous life, one side of his mind sings.
The other side says, this was meant to happen to you, you worthless prick.
Slipping away from the Navy hadn't been something hard – it was easy for him to escape the reality of his brother's death by leaving the country after being dismissed. Then again, he only got to live another five years in peace, finding love for a year, before zombies became a new reality.
And yes, that's how he ends up as this lone wolf, slowly dying on top of a radio tower, currently safe from any danger that lurks in the forests around him.
Perhaps not the best spot, in actuality, considering it's almost like a landmark, something that other survivors may see. But it's not like he's been bitten, it's just that he's gotten slashed across his arm with a knife and he's still trying to stop the bleeding, though it's not working out. Clearly.
He thinks about Liam, the way his smile used to always brighten up his day; the way his brotherly protective mode used to guard Killian away from the 'evil' of the world.
Where did the days go? he asks himself with closing eyes.
He gets no answer.
.~.
There is something between stranger and ally.
She is, technically, something – someone – of a strange nature and he wonders oh so casually about her and her intentions. Yet -
He considers her an ally, nursing him back to health slowly from his injury. Her name is Emma Swan, former police in the law enforcement from old Boston, someone along the lines with the look of an orphan, lost and stubborn and completely guarded. Something tells him – something stupid tells him – to break down her walls and get to know her, because somehow, he's already found himself in the situation of an enamored man with a beautiful, intelligent woman -
During the bloody apocalypse.
He laughs to himself when he comes up with a name for her; the Saviour.
She punches him in the uninjured arm and he pouts, reasoning along the lines that she did save his life and deserves the label of the Saviour, but she shakes her head and tells him to knock it off, so he does. Last thing he wants is to see her anger flare.
There is, however, something even more intriguing about her; the way she soldiers on as if she's done this five millions times before, the way she walks with her chin up and a fierce look in her green eyes. But inside, he knows she's a fragile piece of art, that she will break, given that she's already cracked. It's no surprise because he's seen that look in his own reflection a dozen times before and recognizes a kindred spirit when he encounters one.
She is – more or less – someone like him.
.~.
She throws a rather damp towel at him which he catches, the water dripping onto his muddy combat boots.
"Wipe that grime off your face, you look like you got stampeded or something," she says, taking a small sip of water from her canteen.
Rolling his eyes, he does as he's told. "Or you simply prefer to see my devilishly handsome face clear of dirt and blood."
"Yeah, well, exclude the devilishly handsome in replace for simple hygiene."
"Feisty."
Emma scoffs, shoving her canteen back to where it was. "You know it."
Banter is quick and easy between them, and they've only known each other for a week – he thinks – as they travel in a direction where he's clueless about. Frankly, he'll follow her and that'll be satisfactory enough. It's not as if he has anywhere particular he wants to go. There is no where he wants to go to, so he supposes he'll just follow her lead.
At least she doesn't behead him for this, because despite the lack of trust from before, he's slowly starting to grow on her, he knows it. And for some stupidly absurd reason, he's proud of himself, and he doesn't even know why. Regardless, he's found this connection with her, as if there's a piece of him inside of her that reflects who he is as a person.
"Satisfied?" he asks, tilting his head to side as he dangles the dirty cloth from his hands.
She turns to look at him, raising eyebrow in some sort of amusement. (He likes her.) (As in the look she makes, not...her, her (that's stupid).) "Yes, I can actually see your face properly now. I won't confuse you for a walker or another person."
"Do I look that horrid for you to be able to mistake me for the undead?" He pouts at this declaration of hers, and she, once again, rolls her eyes at his response and shakes her head all while she stretches out her arms. "Just asking, Swan, considering I want to know how disgusting I've turned ever since the doom of humanity."
Her smile pulls strings at his heart, and it's the one that reaches her eyes. He has seen the old, steely look in her eyes before, the green frozen and solid, so focused and insistent on surviving and being vigilant. It's a relief to see a smile that's different from that.
In a world that's dominated by the living dead – cold, deserted, and in vain, there is nothing more that could possibly brighten his day besides her smile.
And he wonders.
How many more times can I elicit that smile?
.~.
The road stretches before them, as if the asphalt and pavement haven't gotten any worse to ruin their hopes in surviving. They follow the paths unknown in the forests around them, and she says they're somewhere in the middle of Maine, though she's not entirely sure. When he talks to her, a smart retort on his tongue to be said, he bites back on it when she looks simply drained. Something inside of him nearly jumps at the expression on her face, the slump of her shoulders, the look into the distance.
Against better judgement, he doesn't ask her if she's okay, because he knows the answer to the stupid are you okay? question for every single person in the world.
No. I'm not.
If anything, he would say that had he been asked, but if it means anything more to save her from having to burden his own pain, he'd much rather say no, but I will be. It's not entirely false.
There could be something of a worse fate, right? Something worse than the dying population?
Perhaps the end of the world. Like, literally.
He shoves the thought to the back of his head and remembers of Emma, that she's exhausted and needs rest, that it's cold and both of them are living off a mere sleeping bag and their leather jackets, of jeans and boots.
"We should stop," he suggests.
"Why? We can still keep –"
"Emma," he says, causing her to stop progressing any further, "you need to get rest. It's getting dark anyways, we should set up camp for tonight. Any further and it looks like you're going to collapse into a heap of exhaustion." He then smirks just a little bit, something faint. "And I'm not particularly keen on having to hoist you up into my arms."
She snorts. "In your dreams."
They set up camp for the night, but he refuses to let her do any of the late night patrol, so he sits at the old log and watches her sleep while doing his other job, making sure no one creeps up on them, that there's nothing to disturb them. He knows he needs rest too, but he finds himself wanting Emma to be okay – he finds himself putting her first instead. (It seems as if she hasn't ever had that happen before, considering she had argued against him earlier.)
He hasn't cared for anyone for years, and all of a sudden, this stranger comes to decide and fix him up, acts prickly at first, then becomes something like a friend, and he, magically, wants to take care of her and shield her.
Whether it is his second chance at least making things count, he solely believes he will do his best to be a proper reliable companion to her.
Not in the romantic way.
(Or so he tells himself, at least.)
.~.
If it's days, he's lost count. If it's weeks, he doesn't have a clue. If it's months, he must have really lost track of time.
There is a routine –
There are habits that have grown between them. In the cold days of assured safety, they press their bodies close together with only the sleeping bags being the barrier between them. In the busy, occupied days of coming across a rare wave of walkers, they fight in synchronisation as if they've been trained to do so since children.
She is the only one he ever touches, and despite the frequent body contact they make, a simple hold of a hand to help pull one up a little edge causes shivers to run down his spine. It's been too long since he's touched anyone other than himself.
When everything above them is dark, painted with gloomy skies and the heavy pitter-patter of rain, he gathers her to the closest safe place possible.
"Don't want you to get sick," he murmurs.
"Thanks."
He almost doesn't hear that. Just almost.
Then it feels like autumn has vanished and soon comes winter, and the temperatures drop like there will be no tomorrow, the days getting shorter and shorter. It's only a stroke of luck they come across clothes that are thick enough to accommodate the lowering temperatures, both of them bundled up in decent warmth.
His hands are still cold; hers are no different.
When he comes across a pair of gloves, he knows the condition of them aren't much and probably won't do any good in keeping warmth in, but he looks up at Emma who's huddled over her bag looking for something, glances back down at the gloves, and knows what he's to do. It's an instantaneous decision, picking the old, snow covered gloves up, before he heads over to her. When she turns around and looks at him, a furrow between her brows, he offers her the gloves.
Emma shakes her head, but he refuses to take no for an answer.
Her eyes almost show, for once, a little girl who's less lost.
When he watches her slip her hands into the gloves after emptying out the remaining snow that lingers on the fabric, he smiles. Her response is a returned smile, warm and positively glowing as if she's just received the best birthday present ever.
His hands feel less cold.
.~.
The first house they find has already been emptied, but there is a bed, and neither of them are against sleeping in a bed.
(Surprisingly, no complaints about sharing it, either.)
Setting up traps by each corner in the room makes it safer, and boarding all the windows makes it even better. They've come across no one lasting on their journey, and to the ones who they've encountered, they're most likely dead considering they've tried to either kill him or her. Or both of them.
They've been together for so long on this never-ending journey, they've grown comfortable of each other to the point where sharing a bed for one night or cuddling up close for warmth in the middle of a forest during the cold doesn't bother them anymore. He keeps his .22 magnum beneath the makeshift pillow he's made from the use of his sleeping bag. His hand never leaves that gun because he fears worse than anything for something horrible to happen to them while they finally get the rest they've been needing for these last few long days.
The dread settles in for the night.
By morning, he's relieved to know nothing has come close to finding them, and he tries not to make the way he finds himself waking up anymore more than it needs to be.
(Her hand clutching his shirt in a fist and her eyes clenched shut as if she refuses to believe something, makes him think about the things she's seen before finding him.)
Instead of leaving like they maybe should be doing, they stay for a few more days. And a few more days entails more than he expects, but it's not that he objects the idea.
Neither of them speak of their past – it's something every hardly mentioned – it's something of a bitter subject that leaves them in a dark mood, but it appears as if the bridge has finally been crossed on one particular night, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, old room while the snow begins to melt outside before the next wave of a white storm.
"I would have expected you to have left me by now, you know."
"And why's that?"
Silence ensues, but the bed quietly creaks beneath her movement and the cover of her jacket makes that ruffling noise before she huffs a short breath. "Everyone left before."
"I'm not everyone," he whispers with confidence.
"You aren't," she replies in agreement.
And suddenly they're holding hands, and he doesn't even think anything of it until she properly laces their fingers through each other, and she's touched his heart in a way he didn't think would be possible.
His first instinct is a form of reassurance, so he squeezes her hand. "We'll make it."
"We'll make it where?" Emma asks, turning onto her side.
"I don't know, love, but we'll make it," he promises, turning onto his side, bringing their joined hands up, and brushing his lips over her bruised knuckles. "Wherever it is, we'll make it."
For the first time in his life, he sees that lost girl open up to him completely, and though he is limited on exploring any depths of what she thinks about in her own mind, he already knows what she is thinking. There is no doubt in him with knowing about the unspoken and unbreakable bond they hold, but tonight is one of those nights where the dam has been broken and the water is beginning to flow.
Their conversations progresses with ease, but the topics they indulge in are more emotionally draining than anything they've ever discussed before. He speaks of his brother's death, his father's abandonment, and his mother's passing due to sickness; she speaks of being abandoned as a baby on the road, transferring through so many foster families and homes she can't count them, and an asshole boyfriend who left her with little to nothing after disappearing off to the middle of nowhere.
He leaves one bit of information out, which is, perhaps, the next most painful thing next to his brother's death. Having to kill Milah because she had been infected early on.
That is a topic for another day and not a memory he'd like to revisit.
She is – more or less – someone like him.
Lost, frightened, and craving a form of love and belonging.
They give that to each other.
.~.
Nightmares are part of the inevitable. They live in a world that is collapsing. He knows that, he is aware, but he has the faith that whatever remaining power is left, will help with ridding this world of such a virus and its spread. Emma knows it very well too, she is quite knowledgeable on her news here, but she isn't as strong as she makes herself seem she is.
Perhaps it's the way she regards herself now, but he knows her better than anyone else does, probably better than herself. He sees bits and pieces of Killian Jones scattered inside of her – he understands her pain. Now that he knows of her past, the history that makes her, her, he is more aware of the looks on her face or the looks in her eyes, and he knows, well enough, that she doesn't sleep well during some nights.
He can kiss her forehead and wish her a good night's rest, but she will not rest, and he begs to the deities that can listen to him, to give her a peaceful slumber at least once.
For someone who believes they are already broken beyond repair, he wants her to see otherwise because he sees someone who doesn't need to be repaired, he sees someone who's been hurt, but has stood back up and lived.
But when one doesn't believe in themselves, it makes things a tad bit more difficult.
His immediate instinct now is to reach over and wrap his arm around her waist until he can pull her closely and press his lips into her hair. They've only done this a few times, but it feels natural to him, and according to the way she often responds by pressing her back against his chest, he can assume it feels natural to her, too.
It's just another night as he pulls her in subconsciously, but he wakes up when he finds her struggling to sleep in one position. He hasn't had many nightmares of recent, but she has.
"Emma," he murmurs, shaking her gently, his hand on her shoulder. "Emma, wake up."
Her eyes slowly blink open, the green orbs full of fear all over again. His heart aches for her.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he says quietly, pulling her in closely.
Emma's face presses into his chest, her hands bunched up into fists loosely against his shirt. "Stupid nightmares," she grumbles against him; he chuckles and drops a kiss into her hair, rubbing his hand up and down her back gently. "Do we have to leave tomorrow?"
"Aye, Swan, we cannot stay here for too long – it's far too open, we're vulnerable to attacks."
With a sigh, she nods. "Right."
Killian is just as disappointed as she is. He'd die for some more quiet moments of bliss without having to worry about the world outside.
.~.
They take apart the little traps they've set and carefully shove them back into their bags in case they ever need to use them again. It's better to keep them instead of leave them, and besides, he's picky with conserving things, just as she is sometimes.
Leaving behind the house is harder than he originally thought. It marks the beginning of their relationship, something beyond a simple platonic friendship, not that he doesn't value the fact they started off like that.
He refuses to put down his own gun, so he holds her hand in one while he holds the firearm in the other, his finger always wrapped around the trigger but never tight enough to actually pull on it to fire. That'd be a stupid mistake he'd have to live with, attracting all the nearby walkers or survivors to their location. That'd be risking his life, but more importantly, Emma's.
When night falls, they alternate taking turns with sleep and guarding. But it's fair to conclude neither of them get as much sleep as they want to, though they do get just enough to keep moving on the minute it's dawn.
Peace comes easily for them, but not for long.
It's a literal wave of the zombies coming their way, and if they run, they're only running back to the one place where they felt safe for a temporary amount of time. None of it works that way, they can risk their possible temporary safe haven to be run down by walkers because they decided not to fight. No, they will fight – he's going to fight, to make his way through this battle and live.
At first, he had no purpose, no meaning to fight for. He would have died up on that radio tower…but he didn't because he's here with his Swan, the woman he's slowly fallen in love with (or rather quickly, if he's being brutally honest, of course), who saved his life and decided to deal with his horrible sense of humour and endless amounts of teasing.
The closer the horde of the walking dead gets, the more unbearable the smell becomes, the nasty reeking smell of blood and, oddly enough, brains and intestines.
Luckily, Emma is standing right next to him with her own weapon in hand while she unpredictably takes his right hand in her left and squeezes it briefly. He notes that she is shaking in fear, something he's hardly ever witnessed before with their confrontations with zombies. However, he is not surprised. There must be at least a hundred of them, unfortunately for them, much more than what they've encountered before during their travels.
Definitely a sight to behold with their torn clothes and ripped skin, the dislocation of bones and other body parts, the missing organs and the horrid, blind stare.
"We'll make it," he whispers.
"How?"
He turns to her, jerking his head to the side and smiling at her despite what they're about to go through. "Trust me."
Emma rolls her eyes, promptly heaving a deep breath before nodding. "We got this."
"That we do."
That's how it all begins, the weaving in and out, crouching down and jumping over bodies while swinging and hacking their handheld combat weapons.
Earlier, Killian switched to the relatively long dagger – better safe than sorry to use a gun and attract more attention.
The sounds are honest to God – disgusting. He has murdered plenty of the already dead, yet he's not used to the inevitable drop of the entire body or the squish of decomposing organs when he stabs into the walker or steps on one.
He is used to the splatter of blood on his face and his clothes, used to his hands being just as grimy and gross as if he decided to bath himself in mud and dirt. When he looks over to his right for Emma, he trips, much to his demise, being grabbed by the leg and weighed down by the bag he's carrying. It takes him a fair bit of struggle to swipe the arms off of the zombie as they drop hopelessly to the ground, pushing himself up and running, heart racing as if he'd nearly fallen off the edge of a cliff on accident expecting his own inevitable death.
Emma is close behind him, as they've always been close when they fight for obvious reasons, but he's limping from the grip earlier, and she's got this look on her face that clearly is of disgust or something of the sorts, but Killian figures she's fine and that they just hardly got out of a dangerous situation.
They get further and further into the forest. Killian looks around every direction to make sure they're finally clear and can settle and rest for a bit. Take a quick sip of water and recuperate the energy they just lost.
He looks over at her and smiles painfully, his breaths still coming out short from all the running.
She smiles, but there is something wrong.
.~.
"What?"
"I don't know," she responds, distress written all over her face. "Look, I just…"
"Emma you just -" he stops himself, rubbing his forehead and trying to wrap his head around the fact she may be bitten, that she may just be somehow infected, that she may just turn into one of…those. "Emma, are you sure?"
She shakes her head, fists at her sides. "No – no, I wasn't bitten, I was…I don't know, I think its shit might've brushed against the cut on my other hand," she tries to explain, raising her left hand up. "Bites aren't the only thing that can infect people, Killian, this – this is serious."
And here comes the panic.
He may have put Milah down, but he honestly doesn't think he'll be able to do the same with Emma if it comes to that.
(Killian has no answer to why he can't do if it he could to Milah. Just the thought makes the bile rise in his throat.)
"I know," he says, lifting his head up and looking at her, "I guess we won't find out unless you get a fever."
The look she gives him breaks him.
Literally.
.~.
The same night, he sits across from her and watches her. There's nothing much to watch except the way she stares at her hand, her eyes reflecting fear and worry all while she's trying to keep her own composure up, and he knows she's trying to be strong, even though everything she tries against him doesn't work since he sees right past it.
They go through most of the night decently until she looks at him and shakes her head. "I think I'm getting that fever."
Killian squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw firmly, wishing he could scream at the top of his lungs until he lost his voice.
Perhaps hope is gone.
.~.
He wants to touch her, he wants to reassure her everything will be okay, but he can't do that, not when she may just become a zombie before his eyes.
And she refuses to let him get close, knowing it can infect him, too.
But Killian aches to reach for her, finding that his hand twitches closely before he pulls away, an instinct as a habit, unable to do as he wants to. All Killian can do is watch – he watches Emma's curled up form on the ground. He doesn't want to just watch, but there's nothing in his power to save her; there is no antidote to the infection, and even if there is, there's no way he can get it in hours' time. They are helpless.
He is simply going to witness another transformation –
"Killian?"
He looks over at her, but her back is still turned to him, curled up like a small girl scared of what's to come. (He doesn't blame her there.) "Aye?"
"You need to kill me when the time comes," she says.
"No."
"Why?"
"I can't." There is one tear which he is grateful she doesn't see with her back turned which he immediately wipes away. He swallows. "I can't."
.~.
Why did I agree to this?
He lifts his .22 magnum to Emma's head, one hand that suffers extreme shaking while the other tries to support it. Even then, his hands are shaking, but his aim can't be off when he's this close, however he doesn't want to do this, he doesn't want to kill the woman he loves.
Why did I agree to this?
Emma looks at him with pleading eyes. She has been coughing viciously for the past half an hour, all while she complains weakly that everything in her body feels like shit.
Why did I agree to this?
The question simply repeats in his head as he stares at Emma, holding back his own tears while needing to shoot the God damn bullet through her brain.
"Do it," she whispers, "for me. For you."
Killian stands there, the world around him fading into white as he simply sees his own hand, the pistol, and Emma sitting on the floor in front of him. And Emma burns brightly, bright like the sun because she is the sun to him, and God fucking damn it he can't do it, he can't pull the trigger and shoot her. She can beg and plead and cry all she wants, but he can't give in, he'd rather waste a bullet and shoot toward the clouds than put a bullet through her brain and watch the colour drain from her face and the life fade from her eyes.
"I can't do it," he states as he lowers his arms.
"Why?" Emma asks in bewilderment, confusion written over her face.
"There's something that night we shared our pasts that I didn't tell you," Killian begins, gulping away the lump in his throat and failing miserably. "I had to put down my long-time girlfriend when this bloody nightmare started," he explains, his voice visibly shaking, "and I thought – perhaps that was bad – and then you tell me to shoot you and, and I can't, Swan, I can't."
Emma coughs, furrowing her brows. "But I'm not your long-time girlfriend."
"You're right." He laughs bitterly, words having to come out in a way he never wanted it to. "But I still love you. I still love you, Emma, and I'd rather turn with you than put you down like how I did with Milah."
.~.
He's grateful for every day that he never shot her. It turns out she caught a fever coincidentally during a bad time, but not because of an infection. Her fever lasted longer than a typical point for it to turn her into a zombie.
In any case, Killian did confess his love to her that day, but she hasn't so much avoided him or anything. But then again, there aren't any possibilities to avoid him given they are traveling together.
Instead, she's just chosen to accept it, and he's awfully surprised about that.
Or perhaps she's acting really well like she's accepted the fact that he loves her and just simply won't mention or discuss about it. Whatever, the point is that she is alive and perfectly fine. If he had shot her, he wouldn't have forgiven himself for what he had done. God, he's so glad he never pulled on that trigger.
She only talks when she needs to, but that doesn't worry him so much considering she still holds onto his hand like he is her lifeline. Killian would wait all the days for her to talk to him if need be (hopefully it doesn't actually come to that), and he never lets go because letting go is a stupid mistake he's not willing to make.
Sure, she may not say I love you, but he doesn't need her to. The beauty of understanding each other is enough for him to know that I love you is implied in the way she holds his hand. It also means I trust you and I believe you and that's all Killian needs from her.
.~.
Winter keeps on going, the days ending and beginning slowly, but there is less light outside as the days seemingly become shorter. This drastically affects the amount of time for traveling, but they manage it anyways.
The cold bites at his fingers but he doesn't complain much, not when it's something that is of little matter. Emma's hand warmth is enough for him.
"Where are we even going?"
He shrugs, glancing at her before turning back toward the path they're been following for the past few hours. "I don't think there's much of a choice to where we go since neither of us have specific destinations, love. If we made it to some sort of safe haven, no doubt they'd want to keep us in quarantine forever or kill us."
She sighs, leaning her head on his shoulder a little. "I'm fucking tired, Killian."
"Physically, or just tired of everything?"
"Tired of everything," she murmurs. "It's funny how one moment you think an outbreak like this is only possible in fiction, and then the next moment it becomes reality."
Killian turns his head and dips just slightly to press a kiss to the side of her head, responding with a quiet, "I know."
.~.
They run into an empty gas station which he decides to take refuge in for a night, just as she.
She makes sure all possible entrances are blocked of entry so they're the only ones who can enter and leave, though they've been traveling alone for days, so neither of them exactly expect much company, even overnight. "Job's done," she huffs, plopping down onto the ground behind the counter and leaning onto the wall behind her.
He grunts of acknowledgement, pulling out the sleeping bags from both of their backpacks so they can get settled. The more sleep they can pack in, the better.
Finally, he's managed to lay out both of their sleeping bags and the rugged blankets. It's extremely dark since every window is covered up, but he can still make out the figure of Emma climbing into her bag. He does the same, and both of them do need the sleep. He constantly has to insist she needs it more, but she tends to not listen to him much anyways, given that she's always been so stubborn, even since he met her. Or she met him, to be precise.
What he doesn't expect is for them to not sleep like this.
And it's not the – not going to sleep because of a valid reason…
Well, perhaps it can pass for a valid reason.
Emma grabs a handful of his shirt and hauls him to her and he widens his eyes in response, blinking a few times. She's being quite direct with her attempts here, but kissing her is like kissing a goddess, and damn, it's good – it's…satisfying and fulfilling. Much more heated than he anticipated, but he's not exactly complaining about that.
Sex shouldn't even be an option for either of them, not during the damn apocalypse, but Killian can tell she has other plans and she's doing a hell of a job in convincing him.
Their sleeping bags unzip quite quickly.
Killian's hands roam, wrapping around her back, settling at her waist, even to her ass and giving it a squeeze, before he moves it back up to a more decent location. When he glides his tongue across her lips, it elicits a wonderful moan from her which he swallows down.
He's often the responsible one, not that she isn't, but he should be stopping her – this – except he's not.
He's angry, angry at the world, at the spread of this disease, at him not having found Emma before everything happened because now he's left to spend his – God-knows-how-long – moments with her while everyone decapitates into the literal living dead. Perhaps finding Emma before all this would have meant the role reversal of her and Milah, and that isn't the most pleasant thought to have.
"Bloody fuck," he growls when she presses her hand against the bulge in his pants. "Swan, do you know what you're doing?"
"Yes," she breathes against his lips, her other hand resting on his chest. "Don't you want this, too?"
He should say no.
"Aye."
"Good. Nice to know this isn't a one-sided relationship."
Killian rolls his eyes, plunging in for another kiss, all while he's somewhat alert enough to know she's unbuckling his belt with one hand while still maintaining their heated, passionate, kiss.
Whatever reason Emma has for wanting this now, he won't blame her. They finally have a somewhat safe place to lay their head to rest, but they've not taken many steps in their relationship since that night back in the old house.
He supposes having sex on two sleeping bags with one large blanket that covers them both isn't the worst set-up ever.
But there is some sort of desperation of which he notices, the way she unbuttons and unzips his jeans, shoving them down his legs, her hand brushing against his cock underneath the simple layer of a pair of boxer briefs. Killian groans, his hand finding the hem of her shirt and slipping beneath the fabric to her bare skin, warm and soft; despite all that soft skin, he knows she is hardened beneath much like a rock – trying to remain as invulnerable to pain and loss.
Sometimes, he is frightened by the similarities they share. Frightened that one day, he will lose her when she has already crawled beneath his own skin and to his heart, living in one of those chambers. And when she is gone, so is a part of his heart.
He is a survivor, but that is something he doesn't think he can exactly survive. Well, he knows he can't survive if she's gone.
It'll be worse than his time getting over Milah, having to see her dead because he had to shoot her himself.
Simply put – he has an indescribable bond with Emma, and he doesn't wish to ever break it. Be it distance or death.
He can sense she is thinking as much as he is, despite the fact they're literally about to do it.
His fingers reach the back of the bra, unhooking it before he trails his hand to push the straps off for himself. Her inhaled sharp breath after he cups one of her breasts is a priceless noise, something he will cherish. This moment, this part of his life, is something he'll cherish.
(He can believe this is sex and not making love, but he's absolutely certain there's more to it than sex.)
By the time all the foreplay is over and they've moved on, he's probably thought about thirty different things while simultaneously being enraptured by Emma's touches and moans. And he knows he has to be careful because this is unprotected sex and the last thing they need is a baby on the way in the middle of an apocalypse. The prospect of children may have been nice a few years ago, but now it makes his stomach flip and his mind swirl like a hurricane out of control.
If, by any slim chance, humanity is to be reborn and life goes back to normal, then perhaps children isn't so bad. He wouldn't mind having a wee lass or lad running around the house wanting to be a pirate or princess. He wouldn't mind the irregular hours of sleep or unnecessary amount of worrying because it's the first day of school. At the moment, he's absolutely pissed at himself for having not experienced a family life like that.
The closest he does have to family is Emma – it explains why he has to cling onto her while they both let out ragged, short breaths, all why she bites into his shoulder to stop herself from crying out (his name, in all hopes).
It's the flutter of her walls around him that causes his response to pull out and groan. Killian is honestly surprised he even managed to do that fast enough.
For a few seconds, he stays there, absolutely silent in the gas station except the panting. He stares at the dark ceiling, pulling the blanket up higher so it covers the both of them decently. "That was brilliant, though I don't think I would have ever predicted for it to happen," he says quietly while she has her eyes closed.
"I just – we're running out of time. I needed to experience it at least once with you," Emma ultimately reasons, turning onto her side after slipping inside her sleeping bag and looking at him; he can make out the features of her face, the green of her eyes and the dent in her chin, even the apple of her cheeks.
"We still have all the time in the world," he promises – though she probably won't ever believe that, he's aware (he doesn't believe his own words, either). "Get some rest."
"You, too."
He huffs a breath, managing to lift his lips into a small smile. "I will."
And though he's sweaty and exhausted, feeling the fatigue reach his bones and the blood buzz in his ears obnoxiously, he still dares to dream of a happy, domestic life with the one-and-only, Emma Swan.
.~.
Winter sucks.
Killian used to always look forward to the snow. He looked forward to the white covering the edge of his window or the white that piled up on the side of the sidewalks, but now he despises it terribly, slowing down their travels.
He used to run outside when it started snowing with Liam on the rare day it happened to actually snow in London, England. Now there's all the snow in the world, except –
His brother is dead and he is no longer a child who desires to play and have fun. He is a man with a woman he loves and wants to protect after failing to do so the first time. He is a man who has been hardened and rough around the edges despite giving off an ignorant and cocky demeanor – too much loss from his own life to really ever think about playing in the snow anymore.
They settle for a little spot in the forest for a few moments break. Instead of eating separate cans of food or bars of granola bars they have found, they often share their meals equally to conserve whatever they have. Surviving through the apocalypse does that – there's many lessons that come out of it, except this isn't harmless survival lessons in a safe classroom, this is surviving so you don't actually die in the real world.
"Do you like the snow?"
He picks up a pinch of the white snow off the ground. It melts quickly. "I used to."
Emma sighs, leaning against a tree. "I liked it as a kid," she begins slowly, "but then I hated it because of traffic. I hated it because I had to deal with hundreds of car accidents over the course of my police work days." He expects her to stop there, but she doesn't. "I mean, it's not so bad now."
"Except it's bloody fucking cold."
"Hey, that's winter's fault, not the snow."
"Snow is cold."
"Oh, stop being such a baby," Emma comments, kicking at the snow with a foot. "Cherish it while it lasts, Killian. Who knows when one day snow will be gone, just like a lot of other things."
Fair point, he supposes, and he knows exactly what she means. When it's gone, it won't come back.
(Unless, there's some godly miracle.)
(Not that some godly miracle can bring back Liam.
Or even Milah, in that case.)
He's shaken out of his thoughts when he feels the impact of snow hit him.
Despite his dislike for the weather, he grins at Emma who has a challenging smirk on her face. "Game on, love."
.~.
Winter finally ending is indeed a good thing, but the negative is that they're running out of food and water.
That's a dilemma they need to solve, so they go on to rummage for food and search for any possible fresh clean water for them to restock their canteens on.
Continuing on isn't an issue, only that they're tired now.
They've been searching for a safe haven to retire to for hours, only to be rewarded with an emptied, broken down car, and their own weary bones.
"Fuck," she mutters, "we've got company."
It first starts with two men who threaten them, which of course, they take down easily with both of their on spot aiming with the decent cover of the cars metallic exterior. Her being a previous police officer and him being a previous navy lieutenant gave them both enough training to hit bulls eye without much of a struggle. But neither of them can silence their shots on such a clear day, which means the walkers get attracted.
"They're coming from your right, four o'clock, Killian," she states.
"Bloody hell, that's a huge wave of them." He readies his pistols, making sure they're loaded with ammo (which that at least they have plenty of surprisingly), keeping it at arm's length, pointing at the zombies slowly dragging along. "Should we run?"
"No."
"Swan -"
"They'll follow – we're low on food, we can't make it that far without them getting to us again. Loot those two bodies for any ammo or weapons, now," she demands strictly, hew jaw firm.
He sighs and does as he's told, quickly confirming their deaths (good headshots, he can at least say), finding a hatchet and dagger, two canteens of fresh (well, fresher) water, three cans of food, and a rifle.
"Killian, hurry the hell up!"
Quickly, he puts all the food into his bag and replaces one of his pistols with a hatchet in hand before snapping his head up to see her shooting down the closest approaching ones. "Sorry, love," he grumbles, getting to her side (damn melee weapons considerably slows him down a bit), handing her the dagger and bringing his hand in pistol up, clenching his jaw and aiming.
It goes on for a few more moments, circumstances not improving.
"Go," she eventually huffs, "run."
"Emma," he begs, "I can't leave you."
"You have to. Please. I'll hold them off and follow."
"Swan -"
She cuts him off with a quick kiss, too fast and desperate. "Go! I'll be right behind you!"
So with one final look at the woman he's grown to love, he purses his lips, closes his eyes, trying to just...just fucking memorize her every bit, and runs.
He hates himself the moment he realizes she's not behind him.
.~.
It's traveling backwards for him.
He ends up finding the old cabin they first rested in, the bed still intact, everything seemingly untouched just as they originally left it in the first place. By walking in, he inhales a sharp breath, remembering the intimate moments they'd shared in bed that night – discussing their lonely pasts.
(Surprisingly by finding this cabin again, they never traveled as far as he thought they did.)
Killian stares at the empty bed, dropping his bag which falls right next to his feet. Somehow, he trudges his feet a few steps before sinking onto the old mattress, dust flying around him, leaving him with the urge to sneeze.
For a moment when he closes his eyes, he remembers holding Emma closely.
For that brief moment, he wishes Emma were next to him now. He's lost the will to wander and travel – he makes the decision to just stay in this house with the hopes that nothing will come his way. He will dream of green eyes and blonde hair, a flashing smile that makes him grin, and the life he could have had with her if he never abandoned her in the first place because of her pleading for him to escape.
She could be dead for all he knows, and it's his fault.
The weather may be finally warming up, but he feels colder than if he were to drown in the darkest depths of the sea.
Are you alive, Emma?