Killian carried Emma through the doors of the Mount Sinai ER still in the silk and wool outfit he'd worn to the celebration. Emma was slumped in his arms, still in her raw silk gown. The villa had appeared just as he'd imagined, on the rooftop of his apartment building in Manhattan, right on Central Park. It was two blocks to the ER, and he carried her all the way. Two paramedics standing in the doorway immediately saw the blood spreading over her chest as he entered. They rushed her onto a gurney. Killian could only run along beside them as a tall young woman pushed up to Emma's side.
"I'm Dr Okafor," she said. "What's your name?"
"Killian Jones. She's Emma Swan," Killian could not take his eyes off Emma.
"Okay, Mr Jones. What are her injuries?"
"She's been stabbed on the left side of her chest. That is the only injury I know of," he said.
"Does your… wife? Girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend," he assented.
Dr Okafor nodded. "Does Emma have any medical conditions or allergies I should know about?"
"She's pregnant," he said quickly.
She nodded, making a note on a chart. A nurse was already inserting a shunt into Emma's right arm. There was a tiny bloom of blood as the needle found a vein. An i.v. was hooked up as Dr Okafor called for scissors and cut away Emma's dress and look at her wound.
"Mr Jones, listen to me," she clicked her fingers and he dragged his eyes away from Emma and onto the doctor. "I am going to work to stabilise her right now. She has lost a lot of blood, and I need to find out if the blade severed any arteries or organs. I am going to take care of her. Do you understand?"
Killian nodded.
"Mr Jones, the nurse her is going to take you to reception. You are going to fill out some forms and discuss payment. Then she will bring you back here to Emma. Do you understand?"
Killian nodded again. Inside his satchel he found his wallet from Storybrooke, complete with a valid New York driving licence and a platinum Visa card. He gave the address of the apartment complex he owned just blocks away. The lawyer he had hired had arranged a social security number as well, for a ridiculously high fee, to save Killian any immigration difficulties. He had two passports, one Irish and one American, tucked away in Storybrooke, but there was no need of them tonight.
He followed the nurse to the reception desk under the too-bright lights. Emma had looked almost translucent under them. He filled out the forms, let the administrative worker imprint his credit card. Police arrived, alerted to a stab wound by the nursing staff. He explained that they had been mugged walking home through the park from a fancy dress party. The police took his statement. Killian couldn't give a description of the attackers; it all happened so fast, in the dark. They left, satisfied, to log the incident. Finally, a nurse led him back to where Emma was shuttered behind the closed doors of a surgical suite.
He sat outside, waiting for over an hour. When Dr Okafor and another doctor, a surgeon whose name he missed, finally emerged, he could read nothing on their faces. The blade had nicked an artery they explained, by they had repaired the damage. She had lost a lot of blood but not enough to absolutely require a blood transfusion, which they wanted to avoid if possible due to the pregnancy. Not having the transfusion was also dangerous, they said, and at this point Killian realised that his knowledge of modern medicine did not extend nearly far enough. But they didn't ask what he'd feared they might: that Killian had to make a choice between what was best for Emma and what was best for the baby.
Having lost the thread of understanding the medical explanation, Killian cut the doctors off impatiently: "Is Emma going to be all right?"
"Yes," said Dr Okafor. "She is stable now. She will need rest, liquids and recovery time, no stress, no overdoing things, while her body repairs the damage and creates blood. Because of the baby, we're going to keep her in for a few more days. We want to make sure she doesn't develop anaemia."
Anaemia, he would Google that later. "Can I see her?"
The doctors both nodded and led him to Emma's room. She was surrounded by monitors and tubes, and he didn't know if he should be frightened or comforted by them. Were they hurting her? The baby?
Dr Okafor came into the room and explained what was happening. He cut her off again:
"Is the baby all right?"
Dr Okafor shifted a bit. It was the first sign of nervousness he'd seen from the self-assured doctor.
"Mr Jones, how far along is Emma's pregnancy?"
Killian counted back to the day beneath the enchanted tree. It seemed a lifetime ago.
"Four days," he said.
She stared at him. "Mr Jones, we did a blood test, and because it is very powerful we were able to detect a slightly higher than normal level of the hormone we use to confirm pregnancies. But this would put her, as you say, at maybe a week, tops, post-conception."
"Yes, conception happened four days ago," he nodded. "So that's about right."
"Mr Jones," she explained softly, "How did you manage to confirm this pregnancy? It is unusual that our blood test picked it up if you're right about the dates."
Killian considered this conversation unnecessary and annoying. "Emma just knew. I believe her," Killian said dismissively.
"Okay, well, she was right, but there's not even a heartbeat that we can check this early on. As far as we know, the baby is fine. There is, to be honest, not much we can test for at this point."
"May I be alone with her?" Killian asked pointedly. It seemed to him that there was no other useful information the doctor could give him.
"Of course. Visiting hours will begin again tomorrow at 8am. So after you've visited with Emma, you can go home overnight…"
"You expect me to leave her here, all alone?" Killian asked, incredulous.
"Mr Jones, she's in excellent hands at Mt Sinai. The nurses are here to look after her 24/7. I promise she will be well taken care of. It is also important that you take care of yourself. If you don't mind my saying so, you look like you have been through an ordeal," she smiled sympathetically.
"I'm not leaving her," he said finally.
"Yes, Mr Jones, you are. You are going to have a short visit with Emma, and then you are going to go home, eat something, shower and sleep. You will be no good to her if you can barely function yourself."
Killian felt himself butting up against the immutable rules of the modern world. He did not understand how these people functioned, so constrained in their freedom of movement by endless rules and regulations. But what the doctor was telling him about Emma was no doubt true. She would be out of it until tomorrow morning at least. He could go back to the apartment, get some food in, get it ready for her to come home to.
"Aye," he told the doctor, in a tone that suggested she leave the room now.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Jones," she said, and left.
Killian took Emma's hand gently, and brushed his other hand over her belly. He leaned his forehead into her fingers, then kissed each one. "We made it, Emma. You did it," he said. "We will be safe here for a while. The doctors say that you and the baby will be fine. They stopped the bleeding. I wish I could get you back to Storybrooke, so that Regina could heal you instantly, but the way back is still blocked." He stood up to kiss her forehead, then her cheek. "I'm going to call Henry, okay? I'm going to let him know you're all right." He let out a shaky breath. "I can't believe they're making me leave you here tonight. But I'll be back first thing, hopefully before you wake up. You have a good long rest, love, that's what you and the baby need." He kissed her again. "Goodnight, my love."
…
Emma opened her eyes and … well, she didn't know what she expected to see, but not this. She was lying on the four poster bed from the villa, but it wasn't inside the villa. The bed lay beneath a solid, warm oak tree with the most intense, golden leaves she had ever seen. She turned her head on the pillow to look around; the bed lay next to a delicate, silvery river that stretched away into a mist. The grassy riverbank was peaceful and sunlit, covered in wildflowers, a riot of orange and red and purple and white against the deep green of the thick grass.
Emma tried to sit up, but her chest hurt something awful. She tried to draw in a deep breath, but that only hurt more. She felt tears starting to form and swore at herself for her weakness. She needed to find Killian.
"Easy, lass," she heard. Startled, she gazed up at the face of man who had appeared beside her bed. He looked older, well dressed in a modern suit and red tie, a bit of grey in his dark hair. He smiled kindly at her. "You've had a run-in with a blade, lass. Here, let me help you." He sat on the edge of the bed next to her and placed one hand over her heart. She saw the blood on her dress disappear, the green silk perfectly smooth again against her chest.
"All better?" he asked her. Emma nodded. He brought his arm around her back and helped her to stand. "I hope you like the flowers. I didn't want this place to frighten you in any way." Emma staggered a bit on gaining her feet, but his arms held her steady. She took a step back to get a better look at him. And gasped. Those eyes, that knowing smile… he looked like an older version of Killian. The resemblance was startling. That shade of blue in his eyes was unmistakeable.
She heard music that she recognised. A waltz. From the ball that she and Killian had attended when the travelled back in time.
"Ah, music. Nice touch, love. Is that a happy memory for you?"
Emma nodded. "Yes. Killian teaching me to dance." She thought she might start crying again.
"Oh, pretty lass, don't cry," the man brushed away a tear with his thumb. "I'll have you back to him in no time. But first, I wanted you and me to have a little chat. I wanted to meet the woman who saved my boy."
"You're Killian's father," she said it like she knew it was a fact.
"Davy Jones," he bowed to her. "How about a little dance, as you've provided us with music? No one ever brings music down here, and I miss it."
Emma felt his strong hand at her back, and placed hers over his other hand. She followed along as he waltzed her through the wildflowers. The music grew a bit stronger.
"But… isn't Arthur Killian's father? Isn't that what this is all about?"
"You tell me, lass. You've met us both. Is Arthur Killian's father?" He gazed at her through Killian's eyes and flashed her Killian's killer-charm grin.
"Not a chance. You are most definitely Killian's father," she said with certainty. She smiled.
"Ah, now, look at that. That is a beautiful smile. I hope my grandchild inherits your smile. And your magic. And your brains," Davy Jones laughed.
"Is the baby okay?" Emma felt tears starting up again. "I've been so worried…"
"Now, lass, we've talked. No tears! That grandbaby of mine is tough as nails already. No need to fear," he twirled Emma around so she faced the river. She could see a boat.
"Is that for me?" she asked, biting her lip.
"No, lass, no! I told you, we're just having a chat. I won't let that bastard Arthur take anything else from my boy, from me. You just need a little time here to recover your strength. I'm going to take care of you, then I'll bring you back to Killian. Agreed, aye?"
Emma smiled, eyes still full of tears, but she felt the security of this man holding her. He wasn't going to let anyone hurt her or Killian's baby. The song faded to an end, and Davy Jones took a step back from her.
"Let me have a good look at you. My boy has expensive taste," he grinned, walked around her. "A princess, yes? Well, Snow and Charming will be missing you, too. They've gone to Camelot, you know, searching for you. They've bought into Arthur's lies, I'm afraid."
"Why does Arthur believe he's Killian's father?"
"Arthur was Kerry's father, and he was Liam's father. My Orla, bless her, she was not a faithful woman, and Arthur didn't always ask for… permission. She didn't always have a choice. She had a magical connection to Camelot and couldn't resist it. But Killian… well, she had a magical connection to me, too, and that boy is all Jones."
Emma burst out laughing, thinking of Mac and his brothers around the dining room table the first night she met them. "Yeah, he is. He is that."
"Arthur is too narcissistic to see that," Davy smiled. "It will be his undoing."
Emma heard a commotion, voices, shouting. She jumped. Davy cocked his head to one side, listening. The movement mimicked Killian's so exactly she felt spooked.
"They're calling you back, love, time to go. I'm sorry for the ruckus, but I had to pull you a little closer to me so that I could watch over you tonight. You'll be perfectly well when you wake." He led her over to the bed and lay her down. He smoothed her dress down on the sheets and then brought his hand up to take hers. He leaned down and kissed her very gently on her forehead. "Now you go back and you take care of my son and my grandchild. Don't come bothering me again for a long while, eh?"
Emma reached up and hugged him, kissing his cheek. And then he was gone.