He hauls her into the back of the car, barely hearing David and Elsa behind them. Not one thing about her he could describe as being warm, the tips of her hair and the shallow breaths she releases into his neck eliciting nothing but shivers. She presses into his torso once they're both in, scrambling into his lap and ramming her hands into his pockets.
"Sit tight back there. I'm getting Dr. Whale on speaker," David announces to them without looking back, all his attention on starting the car. Blasts of warm air shoot out at them at the same time he feels the now-familiar vibrations under his feet. The wheels squeal, a side of the car practically lifting off the road. An invisible force thrusts both of them into the back cushioning of the seats as he hears a phone ringing, magnified in volume, but he can scarcely concentrate on it, not when he feels the weight of Emma's head lolling onto his shoulder.
"No, no, no, stay awake, at least until we speak to the doctor," he murmurs to her, flexing his shoulders to prop her up just a little. She groans in response and scrunches her nose.
"But you're so warm and you smell good," she slurs, a violent shiver following. He wraps his arms around her tighter. She's alive, so he allows himself another breath. Her hair brushing against his cheek, a wave of exhaustion washes over him like he's been held underwater all night.
"...don't let her fall asleep, not until her body temperature's back to normal," he can hear Whale's faint voice over the rush of heat blowing out all around them. "When you get her home, cover her up, upper body first. Hands and feet can wait. Warm liquids, make sure she stays dry for a while. One she starts warming up, you can draw her a bath, but do not, I repeat, do not immerse her in water right away."
"Thank you," David yells into the phone. He swerves the car onto the next street, sending them all reeling, but the jostling seems to jolt Emma back into some semblance of lucidity. She can turn her head anyway.
"Emma, Emma, I'm getting Henry on the phone next, let him know we're coming, okay?" David shouts back to her. She nods, but the motion seems to course down her spine, another shiver overtaking her. He can't push into her any more. His fingers and wrist have locked up, the corner of his mouth digging into the pulse point on her neck, his leg trying to curl around hers, no small feat when she's already straddling him. Every muscle, every droplet of blood in him changes course in hopes of warming her.
"You found me," she whispers to him, her voice already much steadier than it had been before.
Henry knows they're coming. He'd answered David's questions and promised to get things ready, his voice curt and shaky from masking fright. Killian's kept Emma awake with the most annoying tactics possible, flicking the dimple on her chin, grinding the side of his boot against her calf, bobbing his shoulder up and down when her head starts to feel limp on it. Elsa has yet to face the front of the car, her arm reaching out so she can pat Emma's knee.
The sudden stop of the car jerks all of them forward and Killian almost expects a rush of cold air upon opening the door, but there's a world of difference between the temperature outside the apartment and back at the wall.
"Let's get her inside. Henry should be rounding up the quilts. Mary Margaret's got at least three of them in the living room alone," David rambles, bustling to the door to hold it open for them. His eyes keep darting back at them, but he doesn't say anything.
"Come on, Swan," he urges her, trying to scoot out the door with her still in his lap. He gathers her back up, her legs no warmer than they were when he'd picked her up back at the ice wall.
"I-i-it's on the th-third floor," she protests, but even with her teeth chattering it feels halfhearted.
"I've ca-"
"I-I know. You've ca-carried rum barrels h-heavier than me," she says, laying her head back down and burrowing her forehead into his chest. He won't even ask how she knew he was going to say that of all things—time a little too of the essence, especially since she's half-asleep again.
Elsa needs no invitation, running up ahead of all of them and opening the door. Henry raises his eyebrow at her and his mouth drops open in confusion, but he doesn't say anything. She hustles into the room with her hands on her hips and sways in a circle, searching. David squeezes in past them to try the lights and then pulls a blanket up from the foot of the bed.
He should be doing something, and yet, he can't do much more than place her in a chair far from the windows and kneel next to her, her hand stinging his, it's so cold.
"Emma? You okay?" David returns and and piles the blanket on top of the one Elsa's already wrapped around her. A furtive nod and incoherent "hmms" answer him.
"She's so cold," he says to nowhere in particular, and then he feels his fingers being parted. Looking down, he watches her interlock her fingers in his, clenching his knuckles with her fingertips. If she wasn't still panning the room with her eyes, fighting to stay focused, he'd pin the sudden return of the lights on her magic. She needs more heat than this drafty place can scrounge up. Even when its inhabitants are at their warmest and most inviting, the apartment retains a persistent coolness that made things like wearing layers and the little space heater in the bathroom appear cozy...
Ah. That should do the trick. He leaves her for a split second to retrieve it. Setting it down at her feet, his hand catches a streak of warm air blowing out of it.
"Oh, that's good," she says, smiling up at him, her voice not overwhelmed with cold. Also good that it was already working, he thinks, peeking down at the knob at the top of it with numbers written to the side. Settings, he wants to say those are called. Bending back down, he reaches over for it and turns the knob to the highest number.
"I'll go make some hot cocoa," Henry offers after staring at his mother for a minute.
"Wait." Swan's voice gains some strength. Her arm wiggles out of the blankets to press on his sleeve.
"I know," Henry says with a smile. "With cinnamon."
She has to jerk her body into Henry's to embrace him, apologizing, of all things, something about help or the lack thereof earlier in the day. His arm hovers over her, the small movement rendering her out of breath. She continues to hug the lad, however, panting as she does so.
"I'm just glad you're okay. I was already down to one mother and I won't go lower than that."
He takes her jittery laughter as a good sign in spite of another shiver rippling through her. He brings his arm up around her, certain he'll feel the cold on her back even with two blankets in between.
"Elsa, you okay?" It's easier to examine her face now that it's more animated. It should have been easier to when still, but he compares it to how it looks in the course of a day, all the expressions she's not even aware she makes. She may have turned her head in Elsa's direction, but she looks more like herself. Elsa hesitates, he sees out of the corner of his eye, her eyes doing a quick inspection of Emma before she feels she can give an honest answer.
"Not only have I lost my sister, I've lost her necklace, too. Now I have nothing of hers."
He understands, truly he does, but he finds it a strain to care at the moment. Surely tomorrow he'll be more ready to tackle this latest quest, after Swan can shed the blankets. After she doesn't sound so groggy.
"Then let's find her," David says, crossing over to the crook. He holds it out for her to take, and Swan sits up a little higher, her interest piqued. She instantly winces, though, and twists around until she's all but using him as a crutch. He matches her angles, turning so he can see how it works. Elsa and David have it positioned so they are looking in the space between the staff and where it curves downward.
"I don't see anything," she says.
"It should work," David sighs.
"Is it broken?" he suggests. It's not as though the butcher woman kept her workspace shipshape.
"Or does it mean something happened to her?" Elsa's eyes widen, image upon image of grisly ends probably circulating in her mind. If she panics, she could ice over the apartment, he thinks, gritting his teeth, his legs stiffening.
"Wait, what's that sound?" Swan asks suddenly. All motionless, they watch the air, blocking out the gentle hum of the heater until a faint thumping sound thuds clearer and clearer.
"Is that a heartbeat?" Elsa's eyes well with tears and hope. Now he can care with a little more ease. It's what she does, his Swan, he thinks gazing down at her huddled mass, feeling her fingers rub against his wrist. She finds people, finds reasons for them to hope.
"We might not know where your sister is, but we know the most important thing," Swan whispers, her voice back to gravely, but only because she's drained, her hands and arms and shoulders giving off more and more of a sweet warmth.
"She's alive," Elsa chokes out.
Snow's motherly instincts kick in immediately after David retells the night's events, every detail widening her eyes more. There's a split second of horror on her face before she lays the baby into his cradle and marches over to Emma, yanking her up off the chair and placing the back of her hand against her daughter's forehead. She holds her hands, wincing at the cold, and ushers her into the bathroom, calling for Henry to scrounge up a change of clothes for her.
The sudden sound of rushing water from behind the door prompts his eyes to veer anywhere but there. He should be hearing it any minute now that David has realized the danger has passed, a courteous but deliberate affirmation that they can take it from here, a quick thanks for his help, and a not-too-subtle suggestion he go back to his room.
Pretending he's slowly making his way to the front door, he spies David rummaging through a closet, pulling out extra pillows and a lumpy mass that looks simultaneously heavy and light.
"Henry, you want to go upstairs and set this thing up? Elsa, we don't have a lot of extra space, but you're welcome to stay with us until we find Anna. Henry's getting it all set up for you."
"That's, that's very generous of you," she says, summoning back some of her composure. It's rather easy to imagine her as a ruler. "How exactly is he doing that?"
"Come on up! I'll show you!" Henry calls down to her, and Killian invites himself along, eager for a reason to cleave himself of the bathroom door and to see just what the thing David handed off to Henry is. Stepping away from the warmth of the space heater, he takes slow long strides up the stairs. The last time he'd been in the upstairs of the apartment, he'd broken in, in search of his hook. That night he'd rifled through everything in the dark. That night he'd shaken off thoughts of Emma entering into his head as a distraction.
It had changed since he'd been there. An actual bed took the place of the fold-out couch that had been there before...although the deep red sheets remained. The bureau looked the same, but the ajar closet door revealed a few more clothes and jackets than before, a few more boxes on the top shelf.
He jumps at a grating sound coming from the corner where a cot had been shoved aside. The blue deflated rock of a thing was inflating, growing more and more into the shape of a mattress. He looks over at Henry, but the lad seems keen on waiting until the noise has subsided before explaining anything to Elsa, whose eyes are as bulged as his must be at the blaring transformation before them.
"So, we'll get you a pillow and some blankets and you're all set," he says. To be sure, it's a mattress.
"I've taken your space," Elsa objects with both her hands out, motioning at the cot.
"Nah, it'll just be a little tight up here, and I could take it downstairs if we get into a pinch. Killian, you're on the couch tonight?"
Is he? A quick glance at the clock indicates it's one in the morning. By the time he gets back to Granny's and fights off her, Ruby, and others...as there is always a scant crowd...asking him about what caused the power outage, what he makes of the ominous looking ice wall surrounding the town, gets to his room and showers...because he can't seem to return to that room and not shower anymore...another hour will have passed, maybe more, and he, they, will have their work cut out for them tomorrow. Anna could be anywhere. Henry's staring at him, waiting for a response. He scratches his ear and shuffles...
"The couch is smaller, kid. That might be a better place for you to crash tonight." Swan's skin gleams a warm pink, a sight for sore eyes after her sunken eyes and blue lips from before. Her hair still has some damp waves in it from her bath, flowing down her back as she's clad in the softest looking white shirt he's ever seen.
Henry nods at her and makes a stop for her on his way down the stairs where he leans into her and allows her to kiss his forehead and cradle his head one last time for the night. She looks remarkably the way her father does when he holds her. Watching him go downstairs, she folds her arms and looks over at him and Elsa.
"I'm, uh, I don't plan on doing anything else for the night." Her eyes settle on Elsa. "First thing in the morning, we'll go back out to the wall and then start tracking down Anna."
"You have a lead?" Elsa asks.
"Gold's shop," she sighs. "Besides, if your sister's necklace was there, it's a safe bet he's got some kind of magic homing pigeon or custom-made Anna finder that can do the job." With a more serious tone, she adds, "We have a lot of things working in our favor, Elsa. Anna wants to be found. She's alive, and one of her possessions wound up here. For all we know, Anna's been here ever since the original curse."
"Curse?"
"Not cursed anymore. No, Storybrooke's just a regular place that has magical stuff going on in it."
He lets out a silent laugh. Savior, sheriff—with such a horrible way with words. Laughing at herself, she lets her arms plop down to her sides and says she'll explain later. Elsa places her hands on her hips, but the motion seems more a habit than a sign of exasperation. She gives her a wry smile and tosses her braid to one side before sliding down onto the mattress, seeming to fall asleep the moment her head hits the pillow. He supposes at least a day's worth of wandering around in uncharted territory and conjuring monsters and ice walls takes its toll.
Flexing his shoulder blades toward each other, he stifles a yawn and looks over his shoulders at the stairs.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Swan's already crawled into bed, only the very top of her head visible under the covers, but the shape underneath the blanket reveals she's curled up in a ball.
"I wasn't sure on the arrangements..."
"Just come on," she says, her arm like a mole beneath the earth tunneling its way to the other side of the bed. "Don't get too excited, though. I'm about to be out like a light."
"Just on top of the covers then," he says after a moment's hesitation and a soft shuffle. Like the night in her New York apartment all over again, he removes only his boots and his coat and treats the sleeping surface far more gingerly than required. Reclining, he stiffens just a little at his back hitting the headboard and instantly relaxes once he feels her huddle into him.
"You're still cold?"
"No."
He wakes up to a sound he swears is a mewling kitten, and for a moment has no idea where he is, so sure he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. Opening one eye, he cranes his head just a tad so as not to wake Emma and listens for the sound again. He knows he's bleary-eyed, the whole room, even the hands on her clock blurred. He hears it again, stronger, angrier.
He must still be in need of rest as it takes longer than it should for it to register it's the baby. He lays his head back down and soon hears footsteps and incoherent but gentle whispers downstairs. A creak of the cradle, a few thuds against a countertop, the quick whoosh of the sink—he knows Snow is trying to be as quiet as she can in their cramped apartment.
He wants to laugh, not sure why given the hellish situation before, so he twists around only to find Swan had taken his hand sometime in the night and tucked it between her cheek and her shoulder.
"Are you awake?" he murmurs. A bit of moonlight shines down revealing her eyes darting around behind closed lids, the ghost of a smile on her face. Dreaming, and contently, he notes. It would be just the right moment to stroke her hair if he had another hand for it, and he won't risk tangling the hook in it while she's sleeping. It would have been the perfect way to distract him from remembering every awful detail that was almost losing her. It was only timing and David's motivation that saved her; he'd been utterly useless. All the knowledge he'd soaked up about this world in such a short span of time and it ultimately accomplished nothing.
He takes it back. Timing, David, and magic had dictated the night's events and Emma's fate. Magic had built the ice wall. Magic had refused to allow Elsa to control it. Magic led all of them to discover this Anna was alive somewhere. And neither Regina nor Rumpelstiltskin had allowed their own magic to be an option.
His sigh turns into a grunt at the Dark One. Blasted shopkeeper crocodile had refused them when it would have cost him nothing to do anything at all. His dignity, and only his dignity, relishes that he wasn't part of the original curse, that he hadn't been another poor denizen forced to pay the formidable Mr. Gold rent and consider a day he wasn't evicted from his own premises a good day. He had thought the curse's purpose had been to deprive people of their happiness, but Rumpelstiltskin had done quite all right for himself—comfort and power, the things the coward craved, and love on top of it. And now, in addition to all that, he also had magic. Even Bae's death didn't seem to put a wrinkle into anything.
Now you're just being cruel, he tells himself, closing his eyes. He nestles into Emma more, to where his nose is in her hair. Of course he misses Bae. How could he not? Of course his death affected him. The Dark One's not the problem, a small voice in him states. It's you. You don't belong here. You have no place in this marriage of two worlds. Emma survived a snow monster and freezing to death today and it's just as likely she could fall victim to something tomorrow.
Emma can take care of herself, he argues...with himself...gods, he's tired. He banishes the thoughts from his head as this is no time for this sort of thing. What matters is the present—be a good man and be there for Emma.
Yes, but how, the small voice nags again. He won't answer it tonight. Instead, he musters a smile at how numb his hand has gone with her sleeping on it. Ought to tell her, he tells himself, but even trying the words on for size sends a shiver down his spine, no matter how true they are. He'll find a way. He'll find a way to be part of this world, to offer her something besides his presence to help her carry her Savior burden. He has to.
"I love you," he whispers into the back of her neck.
A/N: Coming up? Fun with daggers.
