The idea for this came from a general prompt list, and written while I was in a rut with my WIP.
"I'm sorry, you said she wants me to look at what?"
The receptionist looked down to where she was shuffling her feet nervously, before saying again: "A fish, Doctor. A goldfish." Her tone dripped disdain. "Can you please deal with her; she's getting huffy, and insisting that she has to see—"
Killian ran a hand down his scruffy face. Less than half an hour til closing, and some most likely hysterical, infirm elderly woman thought he could work miracles on an animal that had a blink-of-the-eye lifespan. Still…he'd never been one to turn away any pet owner, no matter the circumstance. "Alright. Alright, send them back." The receptionist gave him a brief nod and shoved the clipboard with the owner's info on it into his hands.
He double-checked the examining table, making sure there weren't any cat hairs still stuck to it from his last appointment, turning around when he heard someone clear their throat obnoxiously loud.
His first thought, as his eyes settled on the large glass bowl cupped between a pair of hands, was that his receptionist really hadn't been pulling his leg—not that the dour-faced wench so much as cracked a smile most days.
His second thought was, as his gaze trailed up smooth, pale fingers and a cream-colored sweater (that ran over magnificent curves, if he was being honest), up to a face marked with sharp green eyes and a tumble of blonde curls, was that his client was definitely not elderly.
He didn't realize he'd been staring until her brows scrunched to the middle of her forehead. "See something interesting, Dr. Doolittle?"
"I—er—" he flipped the front cover open so fast, the clipboard nearly fumbled to the floor. "Miss Swan. It's—you've brought in your…goldfish?" Killian leaned down, peered into the bowl again to confirm that it was, in fact, just a goldfish. It was, though definitely a Godzilla of its kind. It looked as though it had possibly eaten its brethren in whatever feeder fish tank it came from, and absorbed their body mass, only to keep growing from there—though now was certainly not a time to ask, especially going by that quiver in her lip she was desperately trying to control.
Emma delicately settled Flounder's bowl onto the steel table with a soft clink. "Great, you can read," she snapped flippantly, almost immediately flinching at her own tone, and growled, "sorry" in the vet's direction. Her fingertips started drumming nervously in the space beside the fishbowl. "He's, well…Flounder won't eat. He hasn't for two days, and he loves to eat"—here she caught a muffled snort from him—"and—and he floats up on his side up to the top, but then he starts swimming again like normal, over and over, and…well, there it is." Emma finally looked up past the pocket stitching on his lab coat her eyes had been boring a hole in—K. Jones, DVM—and kept looking. She hadn't really given him much of a glance when she first walked in, but the man was gorgeous. And not just for the obvious physical reasons, though he wasn't short on those. But in the depths of those impossibly bright blue eyes, she could see something that wasn't there in the four other vets she went to today: kindness and sympathy. She'd expected another blustery type who stomped around like she was wasting their time, an annoyed edge to their voice. Emma just hoped it wasn't a ruse that would be exposed once he opened his mouth further.
"Miss Swan," he was saying, looking down at the patient, a hand on either side of the bowl. "I'm not exactly a fish specialist, more the four-legged friends type. Isn't there a fish and reptile vet down on—"
"There is," Emma said carefully, eyes dropping back to his pocket. "I took him there already."
"And?" Emma jumped, startled. When had he moved right in front of her?
"H-he said that…Flounder had 'run his course', and I should accept it and f-flush him down the toilet once it happened, and go get five more goldfish at Wal-Mart." Dammit, she could feel her lip start to shake. She absolutely would not cry, especially in front of a hot veterinarian with soft eyes and a lilting accent, so she just kept rambling. "And then I went to another vet, and they—okay, I'm going to just let you know, Dr. Jones—I've been to four other vets today, and they've all given me a variation on that first vet's answer: 'it's just a goldfish, what's the problem?' B-but he's not just any fish, he's five years old, and the only pet I've ever had since I won him at the carnival in Tallahassee, and moved where I've moved, and…and you're my last hope." The last word ended on a whimper, a jerky hiccup escaped her throat, and she scrunched her fists into her eyes, knowing it was too late now—she was going to lose it. When the first sob bubbled up, she felt herself guided backwards; when her calves hit a pair of chair legs, she sat down clumsily.
Well…this was a new one. Of course, Killian had had to put down many old or sick dogs, cats, even rabbits during his practice's tenure, but that was to be expected. Having some beautiful woman come barging in, thinking he could save her fish—no, never. He felt wholly out of his element. But it obviously meant a great deal to her, and for others in his field to tell her otherwise was just cruel.
He'd sat down in the folded chair next to the one he'd settled her in, though it was proving unnecessary. Her grip on his coat collar was so tight, she was practically sitting in his lap, her face buried in his neck as her tears smeared over it. His hand settled around her shoulders as best he could in the awkward position, while the other cupped her head. "Miss Swan…Emma…I'm sorry, lass. I'm so sorry." It was all he could say.
Once her cries had dimmed to sniffles, she lift her head, swiping at her red-rimmed eyes. "Oh my god, sorry!" she burst out when she noticed their positions, pushing off him like she'd been burned, and setting her elbows on her knees. Her head dropped into her hands.
"Well…that wasn't fucking embarrassing at all," she quipped, roughly swiping the back of her hand across her face.
He tried not to focus on the loss of her warmth. "What've you got to be embarrassed about, lass? That you love something, care greatly for another creature? Never be embarassed of that." He turned her to face him. "You should never have been told what you were at those other clinics. And on behalf of my profession, I apologize for those wankers."
"Not needed on your part…but I'll accept. Dr. Jones—"
"Killian."
"Hmm?"
"Well, I think once one has left a fair amount of snot and spittle on another's lab coat, they ought to be on a first name basis." That finally earned him a bemused eyeroll, and he was grateful for pushing away even a tad of the gloom surrounding her.
"Fair enough. So!" She hauled herself to her feet, slapping her palms to her thighs with an exaggerated perkiness. "Sock it to me—is it good news or bad?"
"I'd say a bit of both. Prefer one or the other first?"
She bit her lip. "Bad."
Killian reached out to grip one of her limp hands in his. He could tell she wasn't a type to stand for the truth being softened, but she could still do with the support. Plus…it had been nice holding her. "Emma, I'm no expert with fish—as I've said—but he's, well, quite old for what he is. My professional opinion is…he's on his last legs—er, fins…as it were. Sure you don't have an overprotective mother sneaking into your house, replacing your fish every few months?"
A flicker of a smile ghosted over her lips. "Pretty sure, since I don't have a mother."
Bollocks. Excellent work there, Jones. "I apologize, love, I—"
"What's the good news?"
"Er, well I wouldn't say it's good per se," he admitted, scratching at his ear in that nervous tic he'd never managed to shake. "But I noticed on the sheet you filled out you live in an apartment, and from what you've said, I take it you're averse to going the toilet graveyard route when…when the time comes, and—"
"Spit it out, Killian."
"Well, perhaps you'd…liketoburyFlounderinmybackyard?" he finished in a nervous rush.
"Really? I—I don't know. That's kind of going above and beyond…."
He crossed to a drawer, and took out a wallet-sized card with the "Rainbow Bridge" printed on one side in small type, flipping it over and starting to write. He kept a small stack, handing them out when needed. And he was sure when the time came, the Swan girl would be glad to have both sides of the card.
"My cell, love," he said finally, holding it out to her when he was done. "Should you like to take me up on my offer."
Emma looked down at it, then up at him with a small grin. "I thought it was, like, against the rules or something to meet personally with a patient."
"You're my client," he stated, wagging a finger. "I'm sure if I tried to meet up personally with my actual patients—you know, the tail-wagging, fur-covered lot—I'd be arrested and straitjacketed with haste." He closed her fingers over the card, trying his best to ignore the little spark travelling up his arm from the skin-to-skin contact. "At least consider it?"
she allowed her hand to linger in his a moment longer than required before nodding. "I will." She gathered the bowl under one arm, and tapped the corner of his card against his shoulder as she headed for the door. "You're a good egg, Jones."
Later, Killian can't recall how long he stared after her with a stupid grin etched on his face— not even his receptionist glaring daggers at him for staying after hours registered.
She called two days later, showing up with dry eyes and a flocked jewelry box.
"All I had," Emma said with a wobbly smile, allowing Killian to guide her out to the yard with a hand on her back, his husky, Balto, on their heels.
He tapped the trowel over the freshly churned earth (it had only taken five scoops for a large enough space; for all the recently departed's girth, it was still a goldfish) and let—all right, offered—his arm for Emma to link hers through, turning to head in only after she took the lead.
She wavered only slightly at his offer to stay for dinner, Balto's well-timed hand nudge sealing the deal. And over pizza and rum (he knew when someone needed the hard stuff), she told him more about bounding around the country, and asked when he'd moved there, and laughed at his more outrageous animal stories from his veterinary school days—"Forget Dr. Doolittle, I should call you James Herriot!"—and when her head drooped onto his shoulder after a little too much rum…well, they might have met under less than ideal circumstances, but he can't complain about where things have ended up.
Killian thought it might be best to try the 'play it cool' route—after all, he'd only seen her twice, and only once by invitation. He lasts one day of trying to contain himself, and ordered a dozen roses to send her on his way to work. Well…eleven roses, minus one to take back and lay on the newly minted grave in his backyard. Killian Jones never thought he'd have a bloody half-dead goldfish to thank for bringing a stunning woman into his life, but he knows to pay credit where credit's due.
And he can most assuredly feel something special brewing with Emma. And when she's back at his place by the weekend and spots the blackened rose head on the small mound from the kitchen window—well, he just pretends not to know what prompted a most thorough kiss out of the blue.
A/N: I hope it wasn't too weepy! Just DO NOT read that Rainbow Bridge poem if you know what's good for you.