A/N: I've left canon to play in different streams of possibility. From here, on, is all mine. Fair warning: a good bit of pain, whump, characters being hurt/injured is on the way, so if that bothers you, please don't read it. There are also some brief thoughts of suicide, but nothing happens, I promise. There's a heaping dose of comfort to balance out the pain, don't worry. Thanks for sticking with me, and remember, reviews make my happy and happy writers write better, so... *hint hint*

Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT, or the characters, or the locations, but they are a lot of fun to play with.

Chapter Five

Killian awoke slowly, the roar of the ocean filling his ears. He could hear a bubbling sound as the waves crashed against the sides of the Jolly Roger, and it sounded…

Wrong.

The gurgling was too regular, too predictable a pattern to be the ship he knew so well. Almost like… breathing. But why was it wet? And where am I? Working harder than he should have had to, he managed to open his eyes, but the dim light burned. He let his eyelids fall closed and just listened to the wrongness of the ocean.

Slowly, his other senses started to return, slipping into his consciousness one by one. He could feel the soft mattress pressed against his cheek, the cool bite of air across his exposed torso. There was a crushing feeling of a hand pushing hard against his back, pinning him to the bed; a flash of panic as he struggled to draw a breath through lungs that didn't seem to work, the taste of hot metal in his mouth, a wetness that dripped from his lips. The icy chill that seemed to spread from the middle of his back that contrasted sharply with the heated sweat that stood out on his face and the damp coolness of a wet cloth against his forehead, mopping it up.

Unfamiliar voices filtered in, fragments that made no sense, from people he didn't recognize.

"... to stop the bleeding..."

"Where's Whale? He should have been..."

"... more bandages, there's too much ..."

"... ssh, it's ok, just breathe, please!"

The sound isn't the ocean, he realized in alarm. It was the sound of his pulse, rushing through his ears, as he slowly drowned in his own blood.

He couldn't pull in enough air. He could feel his fingers twitching against the sheets, clawing at them in his desperate attempt to breathe. It hurt, every movement of his chest sent shocks of ice through his back. He didn't remember why he hurt so much, all he could remember was the lashing, and it never had been like this before. He wanted to cry out, to scream, but he had no strength for either. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye and ran down his nose as he concentrated on breathing.

Sleep, eternal rest, grabbed relentlessly at him, trying to pull him under with each pause in his breathing. Each gasp of air he managed to pull in his battered lungs pushed the darkness farther away, but it hovered, always there, on the edges of his consciousness. He didn't want to fight anymore, he didn't want to hurt so much. Stop, he thought, just stop, it's not worth it. He wanted so badly to rest, to just give in. The blackness clawed at him again, and this time he was ready to let go.

Small fingers touched his just then, wrapping around his hand and squeezing him gently. He tightened his fist around it as best as he could and pulled his eyes open. A young girl sat near his face, her hand held limply in his weak grasp.

"He's awake," she said, looking up to the man next to her, the man he could only assume was responsible for pushing on his wound. Killian sucked in another gasping breath, the darkness receding once more.

"Good," he replied. "Try to get him to keep breathing, I need to keep pressure here. Red!" he called out suddenly.

At the edges of his vision, Killian saw a woman step into the doorway, red cape wrapped around her shoulders. "Whale's on his way, Jefferson," she said as she dropped an armful of bandages at the end of the bed before rushing from the room.

The girl squeezed his hand again, and placed her other palm on his cheek. "Please, you have to breathe," she whispered, brushing his sweat-soaked hair from his eyes. Her brown eyes glittered in the low light. "Please. We need you."

They need me?

He had no idea who these people were, or why they'd want to save him, but at that moment, this child anxious for him to live was just the push he needed. He swallowed hard, tasting the blood that oozed into his mouth from somewhere down his throat, and shakily gasped in another mouthful of air. The pain was incredible, his entire chest screaming in agony, but he forced the air back out and breathed in again, clenching her hand as tightly as he could. The darkness pulled back even further from his vision. It wasn't much, it wasn't nearly enough, but it was a start.

Just then, the door to the room burst open. A white-haired man walked in, a sack in his hand. "Do you have any idea the kind of healthcare equipment available in this 18th century mudhole?" he said as he quickly came over to the bed. He rummaged through his bag a moment, pulling out a blue vial. "This was the only thing I could find that might be of some help right now, but there are only a few drops left." Killian grunted in pain as the new stranger's hands touched lightly across his back. "Let me see the wound," he said.

The man - Jefferson? - released his hands from Killian's back and stepped away, tossing a blood-soaked rag onto the floor on a small pile of black fabric - the remnants of his shirt, he supposed - and more bloody strips of cloth.

My blood, Killian thought in horror.

In a flash, he remembered, he could feel the black knight's dagger slamming into his ribs as… Emma… The young girl tugged at his hand, reminding him to breathe again. Without the pressure of Jefferson leaning on him it was easier, but just as painful. Emma, where are you?

He felt the white-haired man gently probing the stab wound, he could feel the movement of skin against muscle as he tried to shift away from the blossoming agony. "Hold still," murmured the child, running her hand across his cheek. The man put his ear against his back, tapping lightly at his ribs, listening as Killian pulled in painfully slow gasps.

"Whale?" Jefferson asked from behind him. "Will it work?"

Whale nodded, uncorking the small bottle. "It should. But I wasn't expecting so much damage. His lung is punctured, he's bleeding into his chest. The internal damage alone could kill him, not to mention these gashes that haven't healed yet, and I have no idea how effective these Middle Ages potions are." He held out the vial. "What I wouldn't give for a normal operating room," he muttered as he spilled the contents into the wound.

Killian could feel the liquid dripping into the hole in his back, running deeper and deeper into his chest, setting of what felt like an explosion in his lungs. He cried out sharply, clawing desperately at the girl's hand, neck arched off the bed, as the sheer sensation overwhelmed his every nerve. The girl was gripping his fingers, saying something, but he couldn't hear anything over the fire that was shooting through him.

It stopped just as suddenly. He sagged back onto the mattress with a huff, energy spent, sleep pulling at his eyelids.

But he could breathe. Not deeply, definitely not painlessly, but there was more air going in each time than before. He could feel some of the darkness dissipating as the oxygen slowly filled his lungs. He still gasped, still struggled with each breath he took, but not nearly as much. He coughed, spitting some of the fluid from his mouth onto the already bloodied sheets.

Whale grabbed a cloth and quickly wiped his lips, looking at the blood Killian had just expelled. "Better," he said, nodding. "It's not as thick as before." He put down the rag and replaced his ear on Killian's back, tapping again at his chest. "Lung sounds are better too. Not great, but I think he'll be ok."

Whale leaned over and looked right at Killian.

"It's easier to breathe, right?" he asked.

Killian couldn't answer, he just squeezed the girl's hand weakly and blinked slowly.

Whale grinned. "I'll take that as a yes. Let's get you cleaned up and we'll get you off your stomach, you'll be breathing even easier." Killian blinked again, too exhausted to do more.

Jefferson came forward and peered at his back. "It's still going to need sutures though," he said quietly. "The potion only took care of the internal injuries."

The white-haired man had pulled out another vial, yellow this time, and uncorked it, sniffing at the contents. "Yeah, I know. Except I can't do that while he's awake, the pain alone will finish him." He grabbed a clean bandage from the pile and tipped some of the liquid on the cloth.

Killian saw his hand coming closer, but he couldn't move, couldn't escape as the cloth was clamped firmly over his mouth and nose. He wanted to struggle, wanted to fight the feeling of suffocation, but he had no strength remaining. Why? he wondered frantically. Why kill me now? He breathed in the sticky-sweet smell, panic in his eyes. After a moment, the darkness he'd been fighting against with all his strength reached out and wrapped around him, pulling him under as he passed out.

Whale dropped the moist cloth to the ground and leaned back on his heels, wiping the back of his bloodied hand across the sweat on his forehead. The crude form of chloroform had worked quickly, and he was sure the pirate had enough strength now to keep breathing even sedated, but he was still anxious. This was the only chance they had, ever since those damned bells went off earlier. He watched Hook for a moment, measuring the rasping breaths he was managing without as much effort as before. It would have to be enough.

The signs of a recent beating had thrown him off. The man had clearly been whipped, and not much more than a day ago, the raw stripes cut into his back were barely scabbed over, surrounded by a fair amount of bruising. The effect on his recovery would be noticeable, he knew, as the greater damage would be hell on his healing time.

When Ruby- no, Red now - had come running to him and said Hook had been stabbed, he had anticipated puncture wounds as he rummaged through the basic supplies that filled his newly acquired hut. Thanks to the Author, he was set up in this world as the village medicine man, but being denied 21st-century surgical equipment made the job so much more difficult. He guessed at half the things on the shelves, grabbing the nearly empty blue vial marked 'Healing Potion' at the last moment. And he was glad he did - without modern medicine, that was the only thing that could have healed the pirate quickly enough for him to survive.

He still couldn't figure out why he and Jefferson had all their memories when everyone around them had been fully immersed in their new lives. Even Jefferson's daughter, Grace, who sat beside the still pirate wiping at his sweaty brow, had no recollection of her life in Storybrooke. He supposed it was because he wasn't actually from the Enchanted Forest, so there was no identity for him to resume, and Jefferson… well, once cursed to remember, always cursed.

"You need help stitching him up?" Jefferson asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

He shook his head and stood. "I think I'll be ok from here. You have to go, or you'll miss them."

The younger man nodded and turned to his daughter. "Grace, I'll be back as soon as I can," he said gently, patting her shoulder.

Grace smiled, still holding Hook's hand. "I know, Papa. Hurry. I'll be fine here with Red."

"I'm sure you will, sweetheart," he murmured and kissed her head. "Bye." He turned and left the room. Whale could hear him packing up a bag of food from the kitchen before leaving the house.

Red walked in just then, carrying a chair from across the room.

"I thought you might want this," she said softly. "I can help, if you need." She paused and bit her lip, eyeing the man asleep on the bed warily. "Is he going to be ok?"

"I hope so," said Whale as he pulled out a rudimentary sewing kit from his bag. He reached for the jug of whatever passed for whiskey around here, hoping it would be enough to sterilize the needle he held in his hand. "I really hope so."