"Take off your shirt." She pants and he hastily obliges, lifting the bottom of his black tunic with his good hand. She hurries him along, impatient fingers grabbing at the hem and roughly yanking it over his head.
He collapses back onto her bed and she follows, hands searching along his skin.
"While I'm pleased you are practically ripping clothing off me in haste – I must say, this is not how I anticipated this going."
She nudges his arms up and he winces sharply at the movement. She winces along with him, fingers shaking over his torso.
Her eyes dart up to his. "Would it make you feel better if I thought the same?"
He starts to chuckle but it turns into a pained wheeze, good hand pressing over the large gash in his side. Her fingers are sticky with his blood and, Jesus fucking Christ – she really wants to drown that witch.
"Gods above, it must be bad if you're coming out with that little trinket."
She slaps his hand away and grimaces at the wound. It's ugly and jagged, but luckily for him - shallow. It only needs a couple stitches. They will have to wait and see if there's any sort of dark magic in it, but judging by the amount of blood seeping out of it and onto her very expensivewhite bedspread, there probably is.
She presses along the edge of the wound and his whole body jumps. She mutters an apology and sighs heavily.
"I think that witch hit you with more than just a window pane."
He arches an eyebrow and she's mildly impressed that he still manages to be him with massive blood loss. "Aye, if you recall, she also hit me with a rather large piece of countertop, a wayward chair, and what I believe you call a waffle iron – dreadfully heavy piece of technology."
Her lips twist into an unhappy frown and it's his turn to sigh. "Apologies, lass. I'll behave."
She nods and makes to stand up to fetch some supplies from under the sink in the bathroom when his hand catches her arm.
"Where are you going?"
Her heart thumps a little bit harder at the look on his face – a look she is intimately familiar with – fear of abandonment. But as soon as it appears, its gone, and he lets his hand slide off her arm.
"I was going to get some stuff to stitch you up."
He tucks his good hand behind his head like he's lying on the beach instead of bleeding out on her bed sheets (white, goddamnit) and gestures airily with his hook.
"No need."
"What do you mean 'no need'? You're losing a lot of blood."
He blinks sleepily at her and the most peculiar grin overcomes his features. "You can fix it." He slurs and shit, maybe the magic is moving faster than she first thought.
She looks at him carefully and his hand comes up to cup her face. "Such a beautiful swan."
"Oh, Christ." She mutters and he giggles, actually giggles, beneath her.
"The name's Killian, love."
She rolls her eyes and tries to get up again but his grip is surprisingly strong for a delirious, centuries old pirate. His gaze is serious when she looks down at him and his thumb is rubbing a gently circuit on the inside of her wrist.
"Use your magic, it's stronger than hers."
The conviction is his voice is unwavering and when his fingers twist with hers, she doesn't pull away.
"How do you know?" She whispers.
He smiles, all teeth and pure belief.
"Because I do." He replies simply. He winces sharply and his eyes fall shut and she's just about to shake him roughly when he grunts and re-opens his eyes. They're a shade darker, his pupils large and dominating. "Now, I suggest you try sooner rather than later, love, as I am feeling positively dreadful. But move at your own pace, I'm just here for the drinks."
She can tell she's lost him to the delirium again because he's humming under his breath and his eyes are far away and his hand is swaying back and forth in the air to some unknown beat. He starts when his eyes land on hers and he grins.
"Emma! You look so beautiful for the ball."
Shit.
"Alright, Romeo. Let's give this a go."
He pouts as she raises her hands above his torso and the last thing she hears before rushing warmth and glow overcome all her senses is "Who the bloody hell is Romeo?"
She feels rushing heat start in her chest and explode through her fingertips and it's just like the protection spell, except more. She feels powerful and light and wonderful as she thinks of all the things that bring her joy. She thinks of Henry on a cold, crisp day in the park – laugh bright and tinkling in the autumn wind. David and Mary Margaret happily making breakfast in the kitchen – their movements sure and knowing and screaming of home and comfort. And she thinks of bright blue eyes in a dark green forest as heavily ringed fingers tap on ruby-red lips.
When she comes back to herself, she opens her eyes slowly to find Hook blissfully passed out on her now ruined bedspread, snoring lightly. Her fingers dance over the wound and she sighs in relief when there isn't even so much as a scar.
And he's sleeping so when the urge to run her fingers through his hair becomes too strong, she let's herself give in – lips curving upward gently at the soft sigh that falls form his lips.