Chapter 1: Selcouth
Killian Jones emerges from his room, his lids as heavy as lead. Despite the fact that he had returned to his childhood home a few months earlier, it still feels strange to him that he has his old room back, as if he were that rebellious adolescent again, despite the fact that he is closer to forty than thirty. He never thought he'd have to live with her brother again. His brother and niece, that is. It doesn't really make him feel like he has control over his life. Who is he fooling? Control had slipped from his grasp months before he moved in.
As he drags himself through the living room, he notes the slippers he kicked off in the middle of the night yesterday. He found a worn pair of grey sweatpants he's wearing now as pajamas deep in his closet. He packed a lot of things with him, but he kept the majority of them in a warehouse, thinking he'd use them one day. In honor of the new year, he realized yesterday, between two glasses of rum, that it would have been better to just toss everything out.
He didn't let himself fall apart as heavily as he did yesterday, but on New Year's Eve, all of the previous year's failures tasted bitter on his tongue. He had to scrub the flavor out of his mouth, burn it out of his system, and disinfect the area where it had been. Rum isn't his solution for everything, but it never hurts (except in the morning).
"Morning," he murmurs to his brother, who is sprawled out in one of the armchairs, watching a superhero movie. The harsh sounds of the action scene grate on Killian's hungover nerves, and he curses the architect who placed the living room next to the kitchen.
The living room is the house's focal point. From the anteroom, one enters this large, L-shaped space, where everything opens up, including the bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, and terrace. The atmosphere in the living room still conjures their mother's remembrance. Liam hadn't changed anything since she'd been gone (except for the ancient TV), so the same beech furniture, beautiful watercolor landscapes, sun-yellow curtains, butter-colored rugs, and even the tint of the wall remained. This gorgeous, warm orange color often reminds Killian of home, and he once picked up a lass wearing a dress of a similar shade. It awoke something wonderful and warm in his chest, but he didn't regret it; that night was definitely worth it, as evidenced by the fact that he remembers it to this day.
"Same to you, little brother," says the elder, turning to face him. His eyes are a warm deep blue that twinkles with peace. "Coffee is on the counter."
"Younger," Killian grumbles angrily, completely oblivious to his brother's one-sided smile.
His brother had warned him the day before to be cautious with the rum, but Killian didn't listen. With a pounding head, he pulls a mug from the cupboard and fills it with the brown liquid, belatedly questioning his decision. This, however, has always been the case. Killian didn't inherit their mother's gentle and compassionate personality; in fact, with the exception of his blue eyes, he resembles their father to a tee. The two brothers are diametrically opposed. Everyone respects, trusts, and listens to Liam at all times, and he has a soft and knowing wisdom that makes people want to tell him everything, being the perfect fit for the village doctor. Killian, on the other hand, is an antisocial hermit who enjoys certain pleasures in life. Of course, not in the last few months, but he prefers not to dwell on it.
"Pour me one as well, would you?" Liam calls.
Killian doesn't respond, but instead takes another mug from the cupboard, fills it with the sour nectar, and microwaves both. While he waits, he massages his aching wrist and looks out the large window that overlooks the lake in front of the house. Outside, the sky is grey and snow is falling heavily. Of course, the residents of Storybrooke may disagree that it's a bad thing; according to local legend, snowfall on the first day of the new year brings good luck, and if the lake is also covered in ice, pleasant changes are in store.
Killian, on the other hand, simply concludes that now that he has fully awakened and if his head is no longer pounding, he must go outside and clear the snow from the front yard, which, as his eyes sweep over the area, will not be an easy task. Nobody expects it from him, but it gives him a sense of accomplishment.
It's a disheartening sight. The trees are almost black, with naked limbs reaching for the sky, the coat of snow, which blends everything together, and pale grey above, which is the color of the clouds above. Killian compares it to a sheet of music without any notes, which breaks his heart. For a long time, he's been like a blank sheet of music. Nothing but emptiness, devoid of sounds and colors, just like the outside world. Other than that red spot on the lake-
No, it has to be his eyes playing tricks on him, or the hangover, because no one would be foolish enough to wade into the lake in such conditions, let alone on January 1st. He blinks and rubs his eyes several times, but the red spot remains. Killian approaches the window, frowns, and gazes out into the whiteness.
Heavens, is that a woman?
"Bloody hell..." he grunts in bewilderment.
Although Killian doesn't believe in local superstitions, he is aware that the lake is volatile and unpredictable at this time of year, making it extremely dangerous.
"Did you say something? Gods, what on earth is that lass doing out there?"
Killian casts a sidelong glance at his brother. Liam's eyes sparkle with worry as he enters the kitchen, then horror washes over him. When Killian returns his gaze to the lake, he notices the red speck trembling and then disappearing.
"Brother-"
"I'll go," Killian says over his shoulder as he rushes away.
He's not exactly the hero type, and many people who know him would probably agree, but he's not so callous as to let a woman drown in this weather.
He rushes through the house, pulls on his boots, rips his coat off the hanger, bursts open the door, and is on his way to the back gate when he realizes he has forgotten his prosthetic. He doesn't have time to think about it as he shrugs into his jacket, not bothering with the zipper. His breath curls into a white mist and the piercing cold causes goosebumps to appear on his naked skin, but he doesn't really care. The snow is almost up to his ankles and it crackles beneath his boots; it's difficult to run, but Killian persists.
When he gets to the lake, he carefully steps on the ice, feeling it firm and robust - he's not sure how it shattered beneath the woman, but it could just be the fact that it's January 1st. He understands that every second counts, but he refuses to rush because he doesn't want to slip and waste time. The wind slashes into his back as if to encourage him to walk faster, but it only makes walking more difficult. Snow falls persistently and densely, blanketing the world in an almost continuous, curtain-like veil.
Killian looks around, but there is no red to be found. He's hoping she hasn't sunk too far because he has no idea how to get her out. He's making his way toward the lake's center, confident that he'll find where the ice has shattered. His heart is racing due to adrenaline, and he is completely unaware of his previous headache or cold. His left arm isn't even aching, as it usually does in such weather.
He's sure he's close to where the lake took the woman but the ice beneath him isn't crackling and he can't see anything. He brushes a few stray, already damp dark tufts of his hair away from his eyes, but it doesn't matter because all he sees is white, with no trace of red. He considers the possibility that he had dreamed it all, but his brother also saw the woman, so it couldn't have been the result of a night of intoxication.
His chest swells with despair and helplessness. Nobody would want to die in this way, so why did she come to the lake in this weather? Did she have nothing better to do? How could anyone be so bloody stupid?
He has no idea what to do. Why is the snow falling so heavily? What's with everything being so white?
As a result of the wind's ferocious attack, Killian loses his balance, stumbles, and falls flat on his back. He grunts in agony as his sweatpants become soaked from the ice and snow. He curses as he manages to get on his hand and knees and raises his head. He notices a flash of red in the corner of his eye.
His own discomfort and displeasure vanish in an instant, and he dashes over to the woman, who is only six feet away. He never takes his gaze away from her, despite the fact that he can only see her clearly when he is very close to her. The unfortunate soul's skin is dripping with water, her lips are almost blue, and her blonde hair is sticking to her head as snowflakes fall on her, but she fights on as she crawls further and further away from the freezing water. Killian concludes that she is a strong lass, stubborn and determined, for which he has respect and admiration.
Killian gets as close to her as he dares, then grabs her arm and pulls her into him. Their gazes lock for a split second, and hers is filled with relief as she looks at him as if he were a walking (or, in this case, kneeling) miracle. He feels anxious and uneasy seeing so much gratitude directed toward him.
Killian draws the woman in close and snatches her into his arms without hesitation. She's light despite her damp clothes, and he's confident she's not even 110 pounds when she's dry.
"Are you okay, lass?" He looks down at her as he carefully begins to walk.
Her pale, watercolor-like lips curl into a half-smile. "I-I t-thought I w-was going to d-die." "H-how do y-you think I'm f-feeling?" She stutters, her teeth clenched. Her lips are trembling, and as Killian pulls her closer to his chest, he notices her body is shaking uncontrollably due to the cold.
He realizes he asked a stupid question and doesn't say anything else. Small talk, as well as trying to console or reassure someone, are not his strong suits. He's leaving all of that to his brother.
He takes faster steps when there is no more slick ice beneath his feet. He is aware that the woman needs to be warmed up as soon as possible; despite the fact that it's a good indicator that she is at least conscious, he can feel her body has fully cooled down.
"I'm s-sorry," she apologizes quietly.
Killian's lips form a barely discernible half-smile that she is unable to see. "It's alright."
"Y-you know, if a-anyone was m-meant to s-save m-me, I'm g-glad it was s-someone w-with s-such a nice ch-chest."
Killian takes another look at the woman before shaking his head and curling his lips. "I believe you're in shock, love."
"M-maybe," she concurs.
Her voice is faint, but it has an awe-inspiring, caressingly delicate, light tint and a lost hoarseness to it. Killian believes that her speech, as the odd pair of evergreen eyes, can be startlingly cold in normal circumstances.
If he's being completely honest with himself, the lass in his arms is absolutely stunning. Perhaps calling her a woman is more appropriate. In any case, how old could she possibly be? Her skin is too delicate to be more than thirty; there are no wrinkles on her face, only marble-smooth, breath-white skin. The details on her face are light and weightless, but they are distinctive. What would a strict or irritated expression on her look like? What would the impact of rage or passion be on her features?
Killian shakes his head gently. After his voluntary exile, perhaps it's time for him to return to society. This young lady nearly drowned in the ocean, and he fantasizes about -
No, enough, he thinks to himself. He must immediately put an end to these thoughts.
He is concerned that, along with his zeal for life, he has lost touch with his principles.
He uses his foot to push open the garden gate, which is a difficult task due to the accumulation of snow. He doesn't bother with locking it. He'll return once the woman in his arms no longer requires his support.
"We're almost there," he says quietly, his gaze drawn to her.
Only then does he notice that the stranger has closed her eyes and has the expressionless face of a marble statue. Her breath is barely visible in the cold, and her long lashes are frost-covered. The sight is extremely frightening.
"Hey, lass!" Killian gently shakes the lovely lady in his arms, but she remains unresponsive. "Bloody f-!" He growls and quickens his pace as much as he can. The fact that she's passed out worries him.
His brother, who didn't bother with a coat as well, walks out of the house ahead of him. Killian can tell he's already in doctor mode.
As soon as Killian gets within hearing distance, he says, "She passed out."
His brother's gloomy expression emphasizes the light wrinkles on his face. "We need to warm her up right away," he insists. "She must regain consciousness. I'll go get some towels while you get rid of her wet clothes."
Killian can't let the sentence go by without cracking a half-smile. Even in this scenario, his brother's command seems absurd, but he enters the house obediently and hastily. He gently places the girl on the living room carpet and starts peeling her soaked clothes off. It might be easier to do it on the couch, but then everything will be wet and there won't be anywhere to lay her later, so the carpet seems like a better option.
The removal of her scarf is the simplest task, but he struggles with the buttons on her scarlet coat, cursing his sluggishness and useless left wrist. His brother has returned with the towels, crouching on the floor and removes her boots by the time Killian manages to free her from her sweater. Killian unintentionally removes a few stray golden locks from her face, but he's already berating himself before he's finished. He doesn't claim to be a true gentleman, but there are some boundaries he'd never cross, and he knows that by touching an unconscious woman in this way, he's pushing hard on those limits.
In discomfort, he averts his gaze and focuses on the thin, body-hugging t-shirt. When he finally manages to free her from the article, he notices his brother yanking her trousers off, leaving her in nothing but her matching panties and bra. Killian believes that seeing her like this is wrong, primarily because, despite the circumstances, he can't stop thinking about how magnificent the woman is, almost like an ethereal dazzling beauty.
"Go get some clean clothes, blankets, and plaid. Come on, brother, hurry up!" He is shooed away by Liam.
Killian obeys once more, and he's grateful for the request. It's best not to see her completely naked because she was already entrancing, and that thought alone is probably enough to keep him awake at night and make him feel like a scoundrel.
He only realizes now that he's still wearing his jacket, so he quickly takes it off and hangs it up before kicking off his boots, albeit a little late. He notices that he has completely saturated the floor behind him when he turns around. He'll mop the floor when the lass is well enough - and there's no way she won't be, he thinks anxiously - but the blankets and clothing are more important right now.
He enters his niece's room, hoping she will understand why he committed such atrocities - after all, there is an emergency, and Robyn's clothes will fit her better than his. His niece did not spend the New Year at home; instead, she went to the city to celebrate with her friends. Killian was also invited, but he chose to stay at home with his brother, which appears to be the best decision he's ever made. What would have happened if he hadn't noticed the girl-
No, it's best not to even think about it.
Robyn is less organized than he is, so he takes a little longer to find some warm clothes - sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a sweater. He's not looking for lingerie because he's afraid his niece won't understand, and he doesn't want to go through her underwear anyway. He has no idea whether Robyn's clothes are even appropriate for the woman, but it doesn't matter; they'll have to make do for now. He dashes to his room, pulls some old blankets from a drawer, grabs his duvet, and returns to the living room.
The woman is still unconscious, and his brother has carefully concealed her shapely figure with a large towel, and Killian is relieved - he has no idea what it is in this lass that makes him think she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, but given the circumstances, he doesn't want to feel that way, and he doesn't even want to acknowledge these thoughts.
Even so, it doesn't escape his attention that her underwear is piled on top of the heap of damp clothing on the floor. Swallowing hard, he averts his gaze, his attraction to her irritating him, and he feels like a bastard for reacting this way.
"Is she going to be okay?" He inquires, and he notices a tint of worry in his voice. Given his apathy over the last few months, this is quite surprising.
His brother doesn't respond, which is simply because he never says anything he's unsure of, so Killian has no idea what's going to happen to her right now, which is crushing his heart in an inexplicable way.
selcouth
(adj.) unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous