I have but one thing to say: I SWEAR ON EMMA SWAN! No, but really - I'm in a fantastic mood with this episode coming tonight and I... actually, I probably shouldn't have posted this if we're all in good moods... *runs into the distance and turns around on the horizon* I'm sorry!
Cudos to Nicoles for being a fab-monster and Adri for... well, you'll all find out why eventually she's awesome eventually.
(I might have listened to 'Say Something' by A Great Big World towards the end)
When Emma was twelve she was placed with a heavily religious family. She couldn't remember the name of the supposed church they had subscribed to or even their names for that matter, just that it was one where everything enjoyable was the equivalent to a sin and the appropriate punishment always encompassed some form of violence. There may have been more to it, more conditions and complexities, but her memory was vague on the year she'd spent with them and purposefully so – the emotional and physical scars congealed by her expertly honed repressive instinct.
But there was one time, one day, one memory, which she couldn't quite expunge no matter how fervently she tried. The last day; the only day that had really mattered.
She had been in the dining room, using what little spare time she had when they weren't forcing her to pray for forgiveness or reprimanding her for some misgiving or another against their divine beliefs, when the father of the household had arrived home. He'd barely walked in when his eyes had locked onto the small science textbook and notebook she was frantically scribbling in. Evidently, her homework – administered by the public school they unenthusiastically allowed her to attend – hadn't exactly been appropriate. The theory of evolution enough to make the man's face darken frightfully when he laid his beady eyes on the pages of the book she had opened.
Lifting her small head, she'd registered quickly that her 'disobedience' would require swift disciplinary action, promptly followed by the realization that this wouldn't be like the other punishments if his expression was anything to judge by. It had taken her mere moments to scramble out of the chair and sprint up to her room, his thunderous footsteps echoing in her wake as his long legs compensated for her speed and agility.
She'd never made it to her room. He'd caught her in the hallway at the top of the stairs, hand fisting in the back of her shirt and shoving her against the wall roughly.
She could remember the feeling that had washed over her distinctly, looking into his unkind face, knowing that night would be a painful one if she could just survive it. And it had – luckily, it had also been the catalyst that child services needed to finally extract her from the poisonous couple: the broken collarbone and littering of bruises impossible to ignore when she eventually found her way to a medical center. Granted, the next families hadn't been much of an improvement but at the very least, that was one of her last severe beatings as a kid (perhaps also because after that night she had tentatively taught herself the loose-beginnings of self-defence – the roots that would bloom into a career years later).
That mixture of emotions though, of such unfathomable fright and immeasurable panic, hadn't swarmed her body in a very long time. Inklings of it had been felt at the Reed Ranch, when the dogs attacked her, and a smaller wave had confronted her system when Henry's face had appeared on the worn computer screen. But she hadn't experienced such a tidal wave of that same, somewhat haunting, emotion until now.
Yet it was precisely what Emma felt as she leaned against the wall where Neal had carelessly, almost effortlessly tossed her.
Her heart froze, her lungs draining of every last wisp of oxygen as her mind refused to co-operate, rejecting the image before her with a vehemence she didn't think humanly possible. Watching Neal get into position behind Killian, dragging him up relentlessly with a fist bunched in his raven hair to press a knife against his throat, her entire being seized. Eyes darting around for something, anything, she locked onto the handgun her partner had dropped as he entered and snatched it up, scrambling to her feet and pointing the gun at her ex without hesitation.
Neal looked up from where he'd been about to drag the blade across Killian's neck, eyes fastening onto her with a muffled expression of amusement. His laugh echoed in the room, drowning out the still present crackling of the fireplace and replacing it with a coldness that sent gooseflesh racing across her skin, the foreign yet familiar sound running shivers down her taut spine.
"Stop or I'll shoot," she ordered, forcing her voice to remain firm and unyielding, trying to appear outwardly unaffected by him. His response was immediate, a self-satisfied grin forming instead of the vigilant complacency that usually appeared when she made such demands.
"No you won't," he retorted, genuinely sure of himself as he maintained his position with the agent's life dangling in his revenge-stained hands, the delicacy of the moment so fine it was like balancing on the sharp edge of a knife. One ill-thought move and everything would crumble and crash to the ground in a symphony of pain and anguish. Glancing at Killian, a piece of her resolve thickened and she pulled back the safety with a sense of finality and purpose even as her hands shook uncontrollably.
Maintaining eye contact, Emma ground out between her teeth, "Touch him again and I will."
Again though, Neal simply chuckled at her, the same noise one would expect to hear from an adult responding to the antics of a small child, or perhaps a small dog. It made Emma's finger itch closer towards the trigger, if only because of the anger now driving her forward. She didn't let her eyes dart down to her partner again; knowing even the slightest lapse in concentration from here on out would be enough for Neal to expand on.
Though she did see, from the corner of her eye, the way Killian sagged marginally as the other man's grip gentled, his attention now thoroughly on her as a cruel leer twisted his lips. He shook his head at her and spoke in condescending tones that did nothing to assuage the red heat of emotion blistering her skin and veins.
"See, I know you won't," he began in the self-assured tone that seemed to be his trademark nowadays, "Because I know you and deep down, you still love me – I can see it. It's why you hate me so much, it's why you hate yourself. Because you could never stop loving me, no matter what I did or what I'll do – I own your heart, and you certainly won't kill me."
The most disconcerting thing wasn't even that he objectified her heart and feelings like she was some insentient thing able to be possessed in the first place.
No. It was that he wasn't lying; there was no hint of untruth in any of the words that dripped from his tongue like bile, tainting the air around them so it was bitter and thick with tension. He was wholly confident that she had never ceased in the toxic feelings for him that had bloomed over the time they'd been together, so isolated under the impression that there was nothing either of them could do to break his hold on her or hers on him.
In disaster movies, Emma had always wondered why people didn't run. She was one of those individuals who were often ridiculed for getting so intensely irritated with the characters, yelling irately at the television monitor as the tragedy played out regardless of her lamentations. Despite essentially living a life that was saturated by other people's grief and pain and blood and tears, she never could understand why, when the world was on the precipice of crumbling around them, people in those movies simply stood and stared.
For her, it was infuriating. At the very least they could run, and at the very most they could fight tooth and nail. But, like statues cemented to the ground, the film characters never wavered in their reactions. It was always a slow pan from the oncoming calamity to the protagonist followed by a drawn out zoom to that person's reaction. And Emma hated it zealously.
She hated to watch them stand as though their mind had pressed pause while the world raged on play.
However, held still by the combined force of her paralysing thoughts and the image of Neal preparing to slit Killian's throat, she finally felt an overwhelming wave of understanding.
Emma's brows drew together as she tried to sort through the melting pot of emotions stirring inside her, frantically categorizing them as she kept the gun pointed at Neal. She could feel her face closing off as she fell deeper into her thoughts, the satisfaction on his face growing by the moment as she hesitated to go through with the promise she'd made days ago when Graham had fallen limp in her grip.
His words were, to some degree, true: there was a part of her, a sliver of youth and naivety that couldn't quite let go of what had been – and maybe it was fuelled by the residual guilt she would always harbour for Charlie's death and her role in it. She shifted her weight as her thoughts finally began to clear, the sluggishness no doubt a result of the lingering concussion she probably had from breaking the coffee table with her back. Regardless, the silence was deafening and Emma's eyes were locked on Neal's as it stretched out before them.
He grinned with a knowing satisfaction that sent a crawl of disgust down her back, "Thought so."
But that wasn't it – he wasn't right.
She couldn't possibly love him after everything; no one was that twisted.
The fog clouding her mind slowly began to recede as she employed as much concentration as she could. It took a moment longer but finally the truth appeared, smokescreens and self-enforced, decade-old emotional blocks drifting away to reveal what she felt at the core of it all. Emma swallowed.
Yes, he would always hold a place in the very depths of her soul, like a cancer that latched onto her bones and would never be erased no matter the treatment or willpower. But it wasn't an everlasting love for him – it was an undying love for the idea of what they'd been, what they'd had, the life she'd stroked in the palm of her hand, the life she'd painstakingly discarded for one of integrity and justice (and initially; isolation). She didn't hate that at all, she hated that she had to give it up. And she didn't hate him because she loved him; she hated him because of what he'd done and how he callously ignored the repercussions of his actions then and now.
Her self-loathing, on the other hand, was an amalgamation of scarring childhood memories, guilt trickling down from years of unresolved cases into the pool that had formed when Charlie died, the fresh wounds that were Henry's kidnapping and Graham's death. And yes, she also hated herself because she'd allowed herself to feel something for him, the emotion spawning from the fact that she'd been barricaded from the monster residing beneath the masks of domesticity and charm. She had, despite her most fervent warnings, let herself get caught in his web and that, more than anything, made her furious with herself.
She'd known firsthand what he was capable of, had born witness to it on the news watching, horrified, as terrorist attacks were given prime coverage. She'd known what he was doing, his role in some of the most disturbing events in human history and the unflinching way he responded to it, the ties he felt no shame for possessing, and somehow she'd still managed to find a way to screw up: dancing dangerously close to an abyss of irreversible emotions.
Emma had nearly fallen completely in love with him, though her mind had already been head over heels infatuated with the idea of what they could have after a life of solitude.
But that wasn't the only root in the long-standing line of causes for her defining deficiency in the self-worth department. That was only scratching the surface.
More than any of it, she was disgusted with herself because she had loved him to some degree once upon a time – but it was not because she loved him at that moment. No, she hadn't loved him in a very long time. And there was the distinction, the fine line between past and present that he didn't seem to grasp or conceptualize.
She was brought back to the present by Neal's arrogant voice as he crooned, "Say goodbye to your boyfriend, Emma." Everything came back into focus like she'd been given an electric shock: including her partner.
Killian.
His name, memories of their initial partnership, the timid beginnings that blossomed into the undefinable enigma that was them, his often infectious smile, his ridiculous laugh, his indescribable kiss, the years they'd spent together, the unsuspecting way he'd slowly but surely healed a good part of her broken bits with his friendship, the unconscious way he'd wormed himself into her life – it was the proverbial nail in the coffin. Her fury simmered up again: Neal was going to kill him? Literally the only thing that had kept her rooted all these years, the first bit of light she'd encountered at the end of the tunnel after the dark days introduced by the venom that was Neal himself – whether she wanted to admit it or not?
He flexed his fingers over the knife, eyes drifting down to Killian's head where he pulled it back a margin so the sensitive skin of his neck was spread bare.
There was an explosion of sound as she pulled the trigger, the room becoming very loud and then very quiet all at once. She watched as the knife fell from Neal's grip, clattering loudly to the ground as he stumbled back with an expression of absolute shock. A red stain bloomed on his shirt at the top left of his chest, exactly where his heart was. He appeared to be caught between looking at her and his chest, eyes glazing over quickly.
At times like these, she never missed her target. It was one of her biggest assets – the ability to perform under pressure.
Emma's arms dropped at the same time he did, falling back against the wall and sliding down it to leave a long red, wet stain in his wake. He dropped unceremoniously to the floor, entire body jolting at the impact, brown eyes fixed on hers as he took a few shuddering breaths.
"Jennifer?" was the last word that escaped his lips in a breathless whisper, sad and pleading and confused all at once so the dormant part of her that remembered the man beneath the monster cringed a little. But there was no regret, no feeling of great loss – there was definitely pain, but there was no grief. Not for him, anyway.
Then he was still, his eyes glossing over and becoming unfocused, fastening onto an invisible fixture in the distance, letting the room finally fall into a peculiar sort of quiet. Until Killian decided to keel over on the spot, face-first.
She rushed towards him instantly, letting the gun drop from her numb fingertips so she could hold him up as she dropped to her knees. His eyes were fluttering and, swallowing down her repulsion, she forced herself to look at the wound. A curse was immediately spilling from her lips.
It was bleeding profusely, the stain creeping out so nearly the entire lower left side of his shirt was soaked red and she could see the scarlet stretching its deathly tendrils further with each minute that passed.
Panic started to pulse alongside the adrenaline left over from the gunfire and she shoved away any and all thoughts of what had just happened, tucking them away for later pondering (and there would most definitely be later pondering). At that moment, she just needed to get them out of there and keep Killian alive long enough to get him to medical attention. Which, judging by the bleeding, was a task that would have to be completed with unerring swiftness.
"Hey, hey, hey," she said softly, dragging him up with two strategically placed hands on his forearms; but his head simply lolled forward and she had to keep him upright by pressing her forehead against his. His eyelids only fluttered, stunted breaths hot on her face and she used one hand to slap him lightly, "hey!"
Killian's eyes snapped open and he swallowed what looked to be a cry of pain before fixing on her.
His brows furrowed as his eyes narrowed in unequivocal confusion, "Emma? But… but Neal… are you –"
"He's dead, I'm fine. We have to go," she said, mind racing as she tried to stitch together some kind of loose semblance of a plan. Her partner sighed with apparent relief, an action that made him wince.
"What – what happened? I thought –"
"I shot him," she answered curtly, ignoring his expression of mingled astonishment and something else she couldn't distinguish. Glancing down at his side again, she frowned and let him lean against her chest more heavily so she could tear a long piece of her shirt away. If ever there was an opportunity for a lewd comment it was then, and the fact that he didn't even muster a lecherous smirk spoke volumes as to the level of his weakness. Scrunching up the torn fabric in her fist, she pushed him back into a semi-upright position so they were face to face, knees overlapping.
"Jones, stay with me," she ordered. His eyes were half-lidded but open and he looked at the curled up material in her palm, wordless understanding passing between them as he painstakingly took it from her grip and pressed it into his side clumsily. Unfortunately, he couldn't bite down the guttural sound that erupted from his chest and Emma felt her paper-thin control tear a little.
He might not make it.
He might actually die.
"Come on," she said, fervently ignoring the traitorous thoughts as she shifted around to his right side. Pulling his unoccupied arm over her shoulders she prepared to stand but his raspy voice made her pause.
"Gun," he murmured, "get – the gun."
Emma nodded in agreement – there were probably more guards on the exterior and even if there weren't, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared. She used her foot to drag the firearm towards them, unwilling to let him go since he would undeniably fall to the ground like a leaden weight, and tucked it into the waistband of her pants. Then, gripping his right arm around her shoulders and placing the other under his left armpit, Emma began the arduous process of drawing them up.
He growled at the pain it obviously caused him, but he moved anyway, throwing his legs into action to help her put them in a standing position. He was still curled over slightly, and she had to bend to accommodate his extra weight, but they were upright and now all they had to do was move. The blonde glanced at him once, at his painfully taut face, before moving them towards the door.
"We need to move," she repeated again, unsure if she was speaking to him or to herself. She struggled to hold herself together every time a whimper managed to slip past his tightly sealed lips. The sound of his teeth grinding together was near audible as he stumbled along with her, his hand clamping down tightly on hers whenever he tripped as the other maintained a steady pressure on his side.
Finally, they reached the door and Emma had to let go of his arm to open it. He responded by holding onto her shoulder like it was his only anchor to the world, hard enough that it hurt just a little – but she couldn't muster up anything other than the already present anxiety that he was in so much pain. As it swung back, the blonde extracted the gun from where she had tucked it into the waistband of her jeans and took Killian's hand again, the weapon still held loosely in that same hand. She wasn't even fazed by the lifeless body of the mercenary that had surely been guarding her particular door, a scarlet stain pooling around his head from where her partner had shot him.
They just kept moving.
Somehow, she remembered the floor plan of the mansion – or at least, she remembered the particular route they were about to follow. It was the last one she had ever made out of the house when the take-down had commenced all those years ago. Although last time, Neal had been following behind her, wrists cuffed as black-laden government soldiers descended on each of the rooms.
Emma held Killian tighter as they hobbled along, down to the end of the corridor to where it curled to the right. Straining her ears, she struggled to discern anything other than the exceedingly loud sound of their footfalls and heavy breathing. If anyone was coming after them, it wouldn't take long to find them – especially in the unnerving silence that seemed to envelope the mansion since its desertion.
They reached the end of the long corridor and Emma swerved them left, but not before she noticed another two bodies to the right wing. She suddenly wondered how many people he'd taken out on his war path to her, and glanced at him. It was lucky she did because his eyes were drifting closed and she could feel his weight slipping markedly further and further onto her shoulders.
Wobbling to a halt, the blonde directed them over to the wall where she leaned him cautiously up against it.
The rag was nearly soaked with his blood when she leaned down and pulled it away.
A lump began to form in her throat as frightened wetness pooled in her eyes, much to her dismay. She coughed to cover up the noise she made and blinked back the tears, standing up to her full height so she could catch Killian's eyes with hers. His gaze wafted over to her, the haze visible over his glassy eyes as he regarded her. With his full weight against the wall and both hands free, he reached one up to gingerly touch her face.
"Go," he slurred, a failed attempt at reassurance in the cadence of his voice, "It's okay. Go."
Emma shook her head rapidly, her hand coming up involuntarily to grapple with the palm pressed to her cheek, "No."
"Emma, I need you to get out of this – please just leave me, just… just go, love," his voice drifted off, pain clenching his eyes shut so his hand stiffened in her grip. She tugged it away from her face and tore another strip from her shirt so it was essentially a midriff, bunching up the fabric and shoving it into the hand she was holding.
"Don't you dare," she said in a quietly dangerous voice, one that wavered and cracked slightly as she fixated on anything but his face, "Don't you fucking dare, Jones. You're not a martyr so suck it up and press this against your wound."
As she moved his hand to his waist for him, she held it there for a couple of seconds before finally looking up to meet his gaze.
He appeared more alert for the time being so she held his chin between her fingers so he focused on her, his stubble tickling the oversensitive skin of her fingertips, "You are not dying on me today. You hear me?"
He didn't respond, but he also stopped telling her to leave him behind. So she took it as a small victory and once again moved to his side, winding an arm around his waist and using the other to pull his arm over her shoulder. It didn't go unnoticed to her that it was more difficult to peel him from the wall, his ability to remain upright dwindling even more so that she was carrying significantly more of his burden.
She felt suddenly grateful for all the preparation the Bureau had ever provided for these types of situations, a new appreciation for their gruelling training scheme and entry requirements developing under the strain of her partner's dead weight. Jaw clamping down shut, Emma held him close as she directed them towards the T-intersection at the end of the hall.
Two meters into what felt like a momentous journey, she stilled.
Loud footsteps ricocheted off the high ceilings just before two men wielding guns appear at the end of the corridor and Emma instantly let go of Killian's hand to aim the gun. She fired three bullets, killing one as the other escaped by turning back into the corner. Her partner gripped her shoulder fiercely to keep himself up as she barrelled them as fast as she could towards a table that ran along the wall to their left. Kicking it over, she managed to duck them both behind it just before the guard threw his arm and gun out to fire off several rounds.
Killian hissed as they hit the floor, and she shot him an apologetic look before crouching low near the edge of the thick mahogany surface protecting them. Craning her neck, she glimpsed the guard moving out momentarily to shoot again and withdrew to press herself into the underside of the table. Somewhere beside her, there was a soft groan and her hand stretched out almost automatically, reaching for him. When her palm touched his arm, she felt fingers slide over hers and hold it there, like her strength might flow into him and provide him with just a little more willpower. If it weren't for their dire situation, she might have been heartened by the action, but instead it just made her more disturbed. If he was being outright tender, it meant he thought he was on borrowed time.
"Hang on," she murmured; vaguely unsure of whom exactly she was talking to.
So caught up in worrying about him, she'd barely spared a thought to herself – which was probably a good thing. She stumbled on the spot as her mind went momentarily hazy, muscles burning as she finally took an inventory of just how exhausted and physically damaged she was. And they were only on the second level – they still had to make their way down a corridor, a flight of stairs and then they had to find a suitably unguarded exit.
It was a good thing she remembered where to go; the place could be a maze if you didn't.
Another moan drew her attention and she looked down to where he was still clutching her hand, eyes darting around beneath his lids. Damn it, they had to get out of there. Sitting around waiting for this hired dick-head to stop firing at them was only going to result in her partner bleeding out. Her thoughts faltered at the horrifyingly vivid mental image that appeared at that thought (though, she was fairly certain that was because Graham's death was still fresh in her memory).
She turned to him briefly, squeezing his hand once with another incomprehensible, "Hang on," before pulling her hand out of his grip and steadying herself. Taking a deep breath, Emma jumped up and pivoted at the same time, pointing her gun at the corner just as the man appeared again to take a shot. She fired twice and nearly sobbed with relief when he dropped to the ground.
Averse to time wasting, she crouched down and quickly began lifting Killian again. Her arms and legs shook with the exertion it took this time to wrench him into a standing position. But they made it, and when they did she started hauling him towards the intersection again where they turned right to see a long set of stairs. They were dark wood, mahogany like the floorboards, with an elaborate, thick bannister that was covered in a copious layer of dust.
She could see through the boarded up windows on the wall opposite them that it was late in the night, no golden sun-streaks filtering into the dim mansion. Thankfully, Neal had apparently decided to illuminate the halls by the wall lamps but that only cast a soft, almost unnatural glow across the peeling walls, decimated frames and dusty floor.
Leading him over to where the bannister was, Emma jerked Killian into a state of alertness (or as alert as his mind would allow considering his predicament).
His eyes were groggy in their assessment of both her and the task awaiting them when he finally noticed it: navigating the stairs.
"I need you to stay awake and I need you to help me get you down these stairs, okay?" she enunciated carefully, holding his gaze. He nodded dazedly and she responded by tightening her arm around him. Leaving his other hand to grapple with her shoulder for leverage, she took a hold of the bannister and started lowering them down each of the steps. It was a sound stage of loud thuds, grunting and groaning and the tell-tale whoosh of heavy breathing.
Every three or so steps they would have to stop for Killian to regain himself, the agony clearly rocketing through him at an unstoppable pace now as his system began to fail. His feet dragged, his face was clammy and she could feel him becoming weaker with every step.
Panic started to flood her system again.
He couldn't die.
He just couldn't.
Not after all that had happened, not after everything they had been through. It would be plainly cruel for the world to just rip him away now, when they were so close to escaping. But then, were they really even that close? Once they managed to get out of the house, what then? She knew for a fact that the mansion was in the countryside of Louisville and at least a half hour's drive from medical attention and that was if they could get a hold of a car. For all she knew, the guards had deserted by now leaving them stranded in the abandoned mansion to walk for help. And at the rate they were going, he wouldn't be able to walk soon enough.
The more she thought about it, the more the odds seemed to stack up against them, forming insurmountable piles.
Thoughts occupied, she almost didn't catch her partner when he stumbled again. Luckily, they were reaching the last step and the distraction forced her to tuck away her intense unease to instead concentrate on Killian.
"I need to… I need to stop for a sec – Emma," he gasped out, barely audible between his cavernous breaths.
"Okay," she replied, leading them towards the wall again, "Okay."
But they didn't make it, his weight dropping unceremoniously on her when his foot caught on a dust-mite infested rug. They landed with a harsh thump and Killian cried out, face contorting as it pulled into an expression she would later categorize as one she never wanted to see again in her entire life. Ignoring her own anguish at the way her limbs protested and swallowing down the urge to throw up as her head spun like a roulette wheel, Emma crawled closer to her partner and gently laid him on his back.
His hands were shaking, the one that had been pressed against his wound now scrunched in a fist at his side and she chewed her lip ravenously in an attempt to withhold her emotions. Never glancing at his face, she hovered over him and proceeded to peel back his shirt, bile rising up in her throat when it clung sickeningly to his skin.
As she dragged it up, Emma blanched.
His torn skin was coated with blood, the wound clearly deep. She thought about the way Neal had viciously ripped the splinter of wood out and thrown it to the ground – knowing that taking the weapon out of the wound would speed the process of his death. More than that, though, he'd had a knife but used the wooden splinter. The bastard had wanted to inflict as much damage as possible and Emma felt an overwhelming wave of satisfaction that he was dead at her hand.
It was a transitory feeling though, overcome swiftly by the realization that their time was dwindling by the second and sitting around looking at his wound was going to get them nowhere fast. Leaning close, she grabbed his chin so he would look at her.
"I am not leaving you. I'll be right back," she iterated, deliberately sounding out each word so he could hear her loud and clear. He didn't respond so much as just blink and take another precarious breath. But she couldn't waste time on waiting for him to reply. Standing on shaky legs, Emma moved quickly towards a bathroom she knew existed on that floor, her memory of the house nearing Henry's skill in its vividness.
Running into the room, she made a beeline for the medicine cabinet. There was a good chance it was all cleared out or moulded and damaged. But it was a last ditch effort and the only thing she could really think of. Opening the small door, she began to rifle uninhibitedly through the small boxes and bottles, several of which were empty, broken or were emitting a smell she felt inclined to hold her breath because of.
Her hand came into contact with plastic and Emma looked to where her fingers were just scraping the edge of an unopened roll of bandages. Heaving a sigh of relief, she snatched them up and started running out of the room, back to where Killian was still on the floor.
The sight of him made her trip though because, for all intents and purposes, he looked dead. His eyes were closed; his torso tinted a foul pinkish red from the blood, hands covered in it, face pale and damp with sweat. It was only the brief opening of his eyes and barely discernible rise and fall of his chest that let her know he was still there, still conscious.
Kneeling at his side, she tore open the packaging, laid it down beside her and grabbed his upper arms.
"Sit up," she ordered, voice catching, well aware that doing what she asked was going to cause him a lot of pain with the injury he had. Killian winced at her words, as conscious as she was of the repercussions of moving. But he trusted her and he clearly trusted that she wouldn't ask him to do it if it wasn't necessary. Biting down hard on his lower lip, hard enough that he probably drew blood, the agent curled his fingers around her shoulders and pulled.
She tried to take most of the effort, hauling him up as fast as she could, but her arms were weak and he was heavy and it took them an equal amount to get him upright. The sound that absconded through his teeth had her insides curling in on themselves and she did a quick scan of the surrounding halls before returning her attention to him. He leaned on her heavily but she didn't mind.
Emma tore off a long piece of his shirt from his right side where it was generally unscathed, and bunched it up in her fingers. Holding him steady, she whispered an earnest, "sorry" before placing it firmly against the still bleeding puncture. He writhed against her but generally kept his reaction subdued as she grabbed the roll of bandage material from where she'd left it a moment ago.
Unfurling it, she began hastily wrapping it around his abdomen, crossing tightly over the spot where the fabric was so as to hold it in place. As she tied the last part of the material securely, she pulled back her hands and realised they were shaking, covered in his blood. Her brain chose that moment to also point out that her breathing had considerably picked up in speed and for the second time that day she was on the verge of hyperventilation.
She didn't have time to freak out though (a thought that, unfortunately, only served to make her more hysterical).
They needed to move.
Move.
Move, damn it. Get it together!
Her thoughts screamed furiously at her but she couldn't because he was leaning on her so much that she was convinced this time they wouldn't be able to stand. He was getting so pale, so cold and weak and she could feel the death starting to edge its way into him, the way its black hand caressed his unnaturally pale cheeks and dug into his shredded skin.
Regardless, she tried. And, as per her prediction, he was just too heavy; the combination of his additional weight and her exhausted muscles incompatible with the goal she'd set herself. The most she could do was pull him into an upright position, but even that was uncomfortable so she just let him lean against her chest, forehead pressed against the crook of her neck.
"Emma?" his barely audible voice drew her attention, hot breath flushing out against her skin, and she carded her fingers in his hair, leaning down so she could touch her forehead to the top of his head until he shifted he was all but curled into her lap. Emma's hands shifted so she was essentially cradling his head, remaining deliberately silent since she knew her voice would break if she spoke. Evidently, she wasn't masking her emotions as much as she hoped because one look at her and Killian's brows drew together in a frown.
"Hey," he slurred, "hey, calm down."
"I can't pull you up, I can't – I can't – you're too heavy and my arms – I can't do it," she said, voice low and hysterical as she looked over him again, anywhere but his eyes, afraid of what she might find there. And for good reason, because when her gaze eventually flitted to his, she saw exactly what she'd been dreading: resignation. He knew what his chances were at that stage, knew that if they didn't haul ass out of there soon he would bleed out. And even if they did manage to get him out, the fact that Neal had used a wooden splinter meant there was a likely chance of infection.
He was going to die.
And Emma was going to lose her mind.
She held him closer as he took a shuddering breath, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she murmured into his hair. He simply shook his head and gave her a small smirk, really just a subtle tilt of his lips.
"Must say I'm not surprised I was killed by an ex-boyfriend of yours," he muttered; always trying to lighten the situation. She sobbed a laugh, a tear tracking down her cheek as she pressed her forehead to his.
"You're an idiot," she retorted shakily, barely perceptible watery smile appearing for a split second, returning the banter without thought.
A beat of silence passed between them, their eyes locked as a wordless understanding was exchanged. She didn't know how to describe it, or even what it meant, but whatever he saw in her eyes made him smile just a little bit, a sad sort of twist of lips that begged for more time and cursed the world for its unfairness.
It wasn't fair. None of it was fucking fair; this wasn't how things were supposed to end. He was never supposed to die here of all places, never supposed to die before her if at all. They were supposed to have more time, time to live and fight and maybe more. Under the glare of imminent death, she would only be insulting their relationship to claim nothing more would ever result. Especially after the kiss they'd shared in the Paix Helvezia before the world had crumbled under their feet well and truly.
Staring down at him, all she wanted in the world was more time.
The moment was abruptly broken when thundering footsteps resounded at the end of the long room. Emma's head snapped up and she manoeuvred herself ever so slightly, placing her body in between the noise and Killian so she was shielding him. Grabbing the gun from where it had been lying beside them and holding it up, she aimed for the entrance their newest acquaintance would be coming through any second.
Her partner might have been on the precipice of death but she'd slaughter anyone who tried to touch him.
It was like the beat of a drum, the heavy footfalls hammering out each second as it slipped through their fingertips like fine sand. Eventually the owner rounded the corner and it was, indeed, one of Neal's guards. He had a rifle and it was pointed at them, outgunned and outmatched by the alert stranger. But at the very least she would attempt to hit him. Emma mercilessly pulled the trigger on the handgun.
A resounding click travelled through the hall.
She tried again, but the click reverberated again.
She could just discern a cruel leer on the mercenary's face as he realized what had happened the same time she did.
She was out of bullets.
There was a second where she just stared at the firearm clutched in her hand, shock permeating the air, rolling off her skin as it crashed over her. When it finally did settle in and the man at the end of the hall started a leisurely stroll towards them, she turned back to Killian. He was staring at her, silently questioning and she just shook her head, silently answering. Understanding crossed his features, followed by a flicker of anger before landing on an expression she couldn't rightly identify.
Twisting her body further around his, Emma held him close and tried to get lost in the familiar smell and feel of him. Tears welled in her eyes again and she could see something like wetness gathering in Killian's gaze before she curled further over him and let her eyelids slide closed. The guard's feet were near thunderous in the echoing silence of the mansion and once again she felt like each step was a countdown, a metronome of boot against wood that would end in their death.
She heard as the man stopped a few feet away and could imagine him raising the gun, aiming at her, at them both, preparing to shoot. Neal had probably instructed them to guard the mansion with their lives and indiscriminately kill anyone who tried to enter or exit.
Emma clenched her eyes shut even tighter.
The sound of gunfire ripped through the air.
It didn't even hurt.
Not even a little.
Wait.
What?
Part of being an agent in the BAU meant she'd been exposed to gunfire almost on a daily basis and had been shot numerous times. While shock would often take away the roaring agony of a gunshot wound, Emma had once had the unfortunate experience of taking a rifle hit to her arm. She remembered it vividly, and she remembered distinctly the way it had burned intensely before it had started to numb.
But she genuinely felt nothing – other than, of course, the still present scorch of her overused muscles and the headache that was attached to the mild concussion she'd received. Judging by the angle, her back should have taken the brunt, or at least her head (in which case she wouldn't have been thinking). More than that, Killian was still breathing – not the panting-hacking of someone shot, the slow inhale and exhale of someone bleeding to death. Which was no less satisfying but wasn't what should have been happening considering the situation.
Emma's arms relaxed their hold on her partner so she could sit up slowly, turning around as her mind struggled to catch up. Her jaw just about dropped to the floor at the sight that greeted her.
"Emma!" David yelled, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and sprinting headlong towards them from the end of the hall.
Her eyebrows nearly fused together and she felt Killian stiffen in her grip.
"Is that…?" he murmured, momentarily attempting to strain his neck so he could see them but hissing as his injuries permitted him little movement. She didn't turn back to face him, just nodded absently, still staring down the corridor like it was an apparition.
Perhaps she really had died and this was her mind's way of leading her to whatever lay ahead; in all honesty, it wouldn't surprise her if her team were the ones to lead her out of this life. They were as close to family as she'd ever had. But she was also pretty sure that she wouldn't still be hurting if she were dead. So it wasn't a hallucination.
The Unit Chief was still approaching when they heard another two gunshots and then Phillip was rounding the corner, an identical gun held aloft. His soft eyes landed on them and then he was running forwards, a look of relief stretched across his familiar features. As the blonde man reached them, he knelt beside Emma and instantly scrutinized both of them. His eyes stopped on the ugly wound in Killian's side.
"David – but – how? How are you –" she stuttered, shock coursing through her veins and mixing with a newfound wave of adrenaline that the presence of her teammates seemed to have introduced. He shook his head and started to roll Killian over enough to get a good look at the blood-drenched side of his abdomen.
"I'll explain later," he answered concisely, fixated on her partner, "What happened to him?"
Shaking off the cobwebs in her head, Emma replied, "Neal stabbed him with a broken piece of wood –"
"How long ago?" he asked, fingers dancing over the other agent's skin as he cautiously assessed the wound.
"I – I don't really know, maybe half an hour or so? I'm not sure."
"And where's Neal?"
"Dead."
David paused for a short second, glancing at the blonde as though both shocked and concerned. His dusty blue eyes regarded her carefully, a look that suggested he was weighing her emotional capacity at that moment. Apparently, he was at least marginally satisfied at what he saw because he quickly began to position himself around Killian's other side, grabbing his shoulder to jerk him up. Either that or he decided her issues weren't as pressing as her partner's – and really, she would have had to agree with that conclusion.
"We need to get out of here," David said, levelling her with a meaningful expression as Killian groaned in pain at the movement.
Dazed, Emma simply nodded as Phillip stopped in front of her and offered her a hand. She took it, letting him heave her to her feet as he asked, "You okay?"
She managed to nod a response and he ensured she was standing upright before he moved to Killian's other side, both men holding him up as his legs all but dragged on the floor. David handed her his rifle.
"We came in through the back entrance, Henry's waiting in the car," he explained with a nod down the hall, already shuffling along with Killian in tow. The three men traversed a hell of a lot faster than the blonde had been moving and she took a deep breath, disregarding the questions her team's presence prompted and instead settling on relief and gratitude that they were there. Channelling that, Emma started to jog down to where David and Phillip had entered through a large archway that led to the kitchens.
Holding the gun high, she scrutinized the room judiciously, roaming a full circle with carefully controlled movements before turning around to gesture the men to follow. They did and Emma led them towards an open door which, judging by the dead man behind it, had probably been their point of entry. She stepped coldly over the body and started making her way down towards the end of the room where one half of a set of double doors was hanging limply open.
Past them, she could see the porch that surrounded the house, the night sky glimpsing at her, calling her to freedom. A car engine was prowling somewhere close and Emma had to force herself not to make a straight run for it, the taste of escape tantalizing on the tip of her tongue.
She threw a look over her shoulder, to where David and Phillip were taking quick strides towards her with Killian held listlessly between them. She waited for them to catch up to her before moving again. The door creaked loudly as Emma shoved it open for the men to squeeze through and lifted her gun. She nearly didn't see the silhouette emerge from the shadows at the end of the porch.
"Get down!" she shouted, firing at the bald man that had rounded the corner in the hopes of catching them by surprise. The Unit Chief barrelled the other two agents forward, all but flying down the small flight of stairs as they sprinted across the lawn. Squinting, Emma could just make out a black sedan waiting for them, its engine humming almost soothingly as opposed to the punitive cracking sound of her weapon.
The man dodged her showering of bullets though, ducking back behind the wall.
Across the overgrown grass, she could see them loading Killian into the back seat, Phillip following in after him. It was David who turned around, mannerisms making it obvious he was searching for her. When his gaze landed on her, still pressed into the doorway with the rifle held close, he pulled out a handgun and started padding quietly back towards her, crouching low in an attempt to remain unnoticed by the man hiding around the corner from her.
He made a single motion with his hand at her, wordlessly ordering her to move, silently assuring her he would cover her back.
Emma nodded and put held three fingers up, swallowing a deep breath as she let each one drop as a soundless count down.
Three.
Two.
One.
When her pointer finger retracted into her palm, she took off, bypassing the stairs completely with an elongated jump. Her knees nearly buckled at the pressure and pain that blossomed in her calves and thighs as she landed, but she forced herself to keep moving.
Bullets whizzed through the air, the last guard firing after her as David shot at him. A burning pain bloomed on her right upper arm but she ignored it and it quickly numbed as she darted across the lawn towards the sedan. The air was frigid against her skin and she could feel the wind whipping past her from the speed at which she ran.
David was backing towards the car as she approached and, when she finally passed him, he turned and followed, handgun still directed at their attacker. Automatically, she headed for the back seat where the door was hanging open just enough for her to curl her fingers around it. Snapping it open fast, Emma hurdled in and nearly toppled over Killian and Phillip, the former of whom was sprawled across the white leather, his blood staining the plush material.
She didn't waste time though, slamming the door closed and lifting her partner so his head was seated comfortable in her lap, legs facing Phillip. The sound of David barrelling in quickly followed and then the car was moving, the Unit Chief's door crashing closed purely from the rate at which they took off. Emma's eyes darted to the driver's side, where Henry was behind the wheel, foot pressed all the way down so the pedal was touching the floor of the vehicle.
"Emma?" Killian's slurred query reached her and she looked down to where his eyelids were flickering, cupping his cheek with one of her hands.
"Yeah, I'm here," she assured him quietly, "We're okay."
"You're okay," he repeated softly, almost to himself. One of his hands came up to hold hers against his cheek sloppily, an expression of strange contentment crossing his face so she frowned. But she was brought back to the harshness of reality when Phillip touched her arm, eliciting a loud growl from her as she recoiled from his fingers.
"You were shot," he said when she turned to him with a glare that lacked any viable amount of heat.
Emma's eyes travelled down to her upper arm where she finally noticed a deep graze that bit into her flesh so a rivulet of blood took a steady path down her skin to her elbow. She hissed, "I think it happened when I was running to the car."
Phillip nodded a wordless agreement, "It doesn't look like you hit anything major; just a graze – I swear, you're always getting bloody grazed. You'll be okay until we get to the hospital?"
"Yeah, I'll be okay," she returned with a reassuring nod.
In the tentative safety of the vehicle, she looked around at each of them, blood still thrumming in her ears as adrenaline coursed through her system.
"How the hell did you find us?" she asked on a deep exhale, face softening.
"Ruby told us everything the second you got taken by Neal's men – thankfully, she still had the track in his car and traced you here and, well… here we are," he answered, a little too simply. There was an undertone to his voice that promised additional information of importance. But now really was not the time for the Spanish Inquisition so she ignored the clearly withheld data and focused instead on the simple facts. They were there, they were alive, and their team had literally rescued them like some kind of avenging freaking superhero team. Emma felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude and relief, her body sagging limply into the seat as she looked at her team again and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand.
When all of this was over, she would sleep for a year and then some. Her bones felt brittle and her muscles burned as though acid had been injected beneath her skin, the exhaustion wearing heavily now that she could sit down. For the second time that night, she felt grateful for all the strenuous training she'd had to endure to even become a member of the FBI. Without it, there wasn't a doubt in her mind she wouldn't have made it out of that chair, let alone out of that mansion.
Eyes fluttering slightly, she let her forehead fall against the windshield, the cool pane a welcoming contrast to the sweat-dampened heat of her face. Emma's head tilted down of its own accord as the car jolted slightly on a bump in the over-grown road.
She froze when her eyes landed on Killian.
"Jones?"
His eyes were closed, head rocking with the gentle ministrations of the car as it sped over the unkempt path.
"Jones!"
Phillip immediately swivelled in his seat, throwing a hand towards his parted lips for a split second with wide eyes before throwing it forward to search the sensitive skin where Killian's jawline met his neck. Phillip's shocked gaze darted up to wrestle frantically with Emma's terrified one, his accented voice drowning out everything else as it echoed and reverberated around her skull.
"He's barely breathing."
No.
"What about his pulse?"
"It's dangerously slow – we need to get him awake!"
The blonde whipped around and shook his wilted frame desperately, "Killian, wake up. Killian!" she yelled, unbidden by her team's presence as she cupped his enervated face with her hands, "Killian, come on. Come on, Jones, don't do this now you stupid ass hole!"
How had she not noticed his grip on her palm going lax? She should have realized the very moment she was able to use the hand that had been pressed comfortingly to his face that he wasn't holding it anymore! That's why he'd looked so goddamn content before when she'd told him she was okay; he knew she was alive so the bastard thought he could drift off into whatever awaited him in the next life.
In the front seat, David turned around, his seatbelt straining against the man's broad shoulders, "Get that shirt off him and use it to put more pressure on the wound, that bandage is nearly soaked and it's not very absorbent," he ordered calmly but firmly, "Try to wake him up and if he does, don't let him close his eye – we'll be at a hospital in about fifteen minutes."
Emma glowered irately at her superior, ignorant to the reality that her antagonism was unfairly placed, "The closest hospital is half an hour away!"
"We'll get there in fifteen minutes," Henry interrupted coolly, voice uncharacteristically low and determined. If it weren't for the way her mind was overcome with Killian's current state, she might have distantly noted the way he seemed older in the driver's seat (less traces of the kid of the team under the harsh, unforgiving light of life and death). She felt the car speed up, throwing her slightly back in her seat as they finally hit flat road with a rough jolt.
"Help me get his shirt off," Phillip instructed, already clumsily tearing away what little remained of the shredded and spoiled clothing. Both agents all but ripped it from his torso before folding it and flattening it over the wound, holding it down hard enough that he should have stirred. But he didn't, and his lack of reaction only served to introduce a fresh layer of fear and panic to Emma's overwrought emotions. Like a string being strained and pulled, frays began to appear in the blonde's self-control.
Letting Phillip's hands replace hers over his abdomen, she slapped him none too gently.
"Jones!" her voice boomed. She could see in her peripheral vision David pulling his phone out, dialling nine-one-one; his sturdy voice a monotonous buzz in the back of her head as he informed them he was bringing in a critically injured agent, adding to the incoherent noise that clouded her. Phillip was saying something too, and maybe Henry, but she couldn't hear them. She couldn't register anyone, anything, other than Killian's slack face and boneless figure still perched across the seat, head in her lap.
It was all just noise.
For once, she didn't care that she had a respective audience as she begged unrestrained, "Jones, goddamn it! We didn't come this far for you to quit on me, wake up!"
"Killian, come on!" her voice cracked.
"Killian!"
With every rough jerk of his shoulders and every desperate bid of her strangled words, nothing changed. Each time was like a stab in the chest as Emma continued her fruitless assault, the entire car ominously quiet (though that might have been just in her head) as she tried wildly to pull her partner back from the fatal oblivion he'd tumbled into.
8888
He was placed delicately on a gurney and wheeled off the moment the car pulled to a stop. A cluster of doctors, like bees to a hive, swarmed him instantly. It was a blur of white and pale blue, sterile sheets stained by ominously dark blood and bright overhead lights that hurt her head. His shock of dark hair disappeared before she could say a word, hidden behind a wall of harshly pale colours.
Plastic face, dry throat, painfully thumping heart despite the numbness coating her skin and mixing with the drying wetness on her cheeks.
She tried to follow him but they pulled her away, practically had to pry her off and drag her to another room. David's strong arms were little solace. The nurses' voices were indecipherable as she was treated for her wounds.
It was an endless expanse of nothing until she was deemed satisfactory.
All that mattered was the waiting game.
All that mattered was Killian's life dangling by a loose, dithering thread.
Reviews are Jello sent to Killian's bedside (I do love that Irish bastard, I swear! I'm not intentionally trying to kill him, it's my muse! Not me! I swear!)