He was a hell of a painter, a true-blooded artist if ever there was one.
He even had his own gallery back in London, a respectable agent, a sizable and steady income, a semi-detached three up, three down terraced duplex loft overlooking the Thames, with a studio the size of a small ball room and a beautiful family that inspired him to no ends. He had a boat; he loved to sail and feel the breeze on his face, bypassing the river cruises and small cargo ships.
Perhaps in past life, Killian Jones had been a sailor or a pirate… who knew.
His wife of six years, Milah, their daughter Megan and their six month old son, Patrick, enjoyed the upscale life but were still a tight, beautiful little family.
When they first met, Milah was a freshly signed divorcee. Mister John H. Gold had been somewhat of an abusive spouse to her so Killian's kindly and caring affections were just what she had always wanted and the two fell in love rather hastily. Not two months after meeting, they were wed; and three months after that, she was pregnant.
As Killian's paintings gained more and more notoriety and his career took flight, Milah found herself in a lifestyle she had never imagined. Not only was her husband a skilled and successful artist, but making use of his unbelievably good looks, he also advertised for various sponsoring companies as a model, making a few generous extra pounds that he usually spent purchasing things for his family.
For six years, six perfect, wonderful years, life could not have been better. No man on earth had ever been as blessed, happy and complete as Killian Jones.
All that was before the accident.
Before he moved.
Before.
The day started like any other; he got out of bed, paced barefoot down to the kitchen to set the tea and the table. He woke his wife with a musical "Milaaaah!" as he warmed milk for the little girl. His wife sat up in bed and breastfed their son while little Megan stirred out of her own room, Kissed mom and brother and then joined her father in the kitchen.
That day, he was to take his family on a sailing trip, a common thing with the Jones family. Killian was a skilled operator; no one in his family boarded their little boat, "Jolly", without a life vest. The man was a licensed vessel captain and he knew his way around the boat like a professional. There really should have been no reason for anything to go wrong.
He seriously didn't know what had happened to his faithful Jolly that horrid morning… a morning as crisp and clean as any early June day, a day where the sun was especially bright and the sky was especially blue.
They had been on water for at least an hour; Milah tended to the children while Killian chatted and smiled confidently from his little helm. Of course he saw that tourist cruiser a mile ahead! Of course he would have steered clear away.
The helm, however, suddenly did not respond.
He and his family sailed straight ahead, head on, to collide with the speeding cruiser.
Screaming tourists scrambled around the ship as they tried to locate the little crew that had been scattered out of the Jolly, which had been smashed into little pieces by the stem of the massive cruiser.
Killian was the first to be pulled from the water in a state of shock, his only words being a stuttering and almost indiscernible: "The children! The children!" He was badly wounded, too; his left arm was cut up in several places and his hand was shattered to the point of seeing his bare bones and missing all fingers.
Second one that made it alive, albeit stunned and tearful, was five-year-old Megan. She clung to her daddy like there was no tomorrow; the captain of the ship had his first mate provide immediate first aid, first to Killian, who was fast bleeding out, and pretty much saved his life with a tourniquet.
The kid would probably be shocked for life, but had little more than a few cuts and bruises.
Milah came next. She had been holding little baby Patrick.
All she had in her hands was a blood-stained blanket now.
The pull from the propellers of the ship that had overrun them, had been too powerful. Killian had only managed to pull little Megan away with one hand and Milah with his other; the suction generated by the propeller was strong, however, and Milah had been unable to hold on to the little one. Killian had tried to save the little child as well, but he was long gone and he lost his hand in the process. He was lucky to survive at all: The engines had just been shut down and hence, Killian was not shredded by the propellers. patrick, however, hadn't been so lucky. The remains of the infant were so scattered, only a foot and a hand were ever found.
The three were hospitalized; Killian lost his left hand entirely, the amputation reaching a spot only two inches below his elbow. Milah and Megan were shocked and depressed, but otherwise did well, and all were released two weeks later, once all investigations cleared mister Jones of any charges of negligence or alcohol influence. All had been attributed to a malfunction of the helm engine and the incident deemed just a horrible accident.
Nevertheless, they had missed the funeral of their own son.
Milah's depression worsened… she was unable to hold on to her little boy., she claimed. Why would she have let him go? Why? And not a day passed when she didn't blame herself for not being able to hold on to her little Patrick.
Killian had tried with all his might to keep her at his side, to lift her spirits, to clear her from any trace of guilt. But three months after the accident, she left her bed early, too early. Only a note was left behind. "Be good, be happy. I love you both."
They picked her body from the river a week later.
Killian never sailed again. Nor did he paint. He had a commission for a wall in Picadilly… he never attended. His success faltered and soon enough, he was no longer making a decent income. Megan was still provided for, clothed and fed… but her father was lost to an ocean of woe, anger and rum. Copious amounts of Rum.
How could a picture perfect life fall apart in an instant? More importantly, why? Why Milah? Why the little boy? Why Megan? Why him? WHY?
His brother, Liam, had seen the mess Killian was in; he knew that if he continued along those lines, he'd probably lose Megan to child services soon and then, his little brother would probably also be as good as dead. As his older brother, he offered to help out by introducing him to some of London's most prominent artists.
Killian showed up drunk and blew the whole gig.
Next thing, Liam moved to America; as one of London's most acknowledged specialists in child psychology and psychopathology, he was offered a highly well paid position at Mass General in Boston, the world's leading Hospital in child psychology and psychiatry. He'd heard of some people there that were avid Killian Jones collectors; many of his younger brother's paintings had been purchased by them through online and telephone auctions, and he thought that perhaps, meeting the artist might give Killian a push in the right direction.
It all started well enough; Killian and Megan made the move to America.
All was sold; the remains of his paintings, the duplex, his two cars…
Upon arrival, he found the promising patrons to be incredibly judgmental and rude; Killian was desperate for some money, so he accepted a couple of commissioned paintings for them. But as soon as he was done, he collected the money and chose a spot, not too far from his brother but far enough not to see him every day, a town where perhaps, isolation and silence would provide some peace for his still ailing soul.
Storybrooke, Maine.
And… Who was he now?
Nobody, as far as he was concerned.
And an unemployed nobody, most of the time, except for the occasional task, carrying heavy boxes and loads or repairing the harbor ships, overlooking and sometimes night watching them, both missing the feel of the water underneath the wobbly sensation of a rocking boat, and sometimes cursing it, loathing it, blaming it for his losses.
One day at a time; a life for the here and now. No future, no plans, no dreams...
Living and breathing only because… well, because Megan.
Now, he looked at the tumbler of rum before him as he twirled it in his hand, wondering what the hell he had just done to that poor Swan woman.
"Daddy?" Emerged a sleepy figure in the hall of their (very) small apartment; still overlooking water, except it was a cold beach.
"Darling, why are you still up?" He stood up and waked to his now ten-year-old daughter. "Bad dreams again?"
She nodded and her eyes were drawn to the glass on the table. "Daddy… are you drinking again?" She pouted.
Killian furrowed his brow. Shame on you Jones, he thought, shame on you for not taking care of your family; for not checking your boat, for allowing death to claim your son and your wife and for being too damn weak to beat this pathetic habit and breaking your little girl's heart.
"No, my love." He lied with a fake grin he managed to muster up. "I just have a bit of a sore throat, is all." He crouched before her and cleared the hair from her sweaty brow. "What was it this time, Meg?"
"Mommy…" she whined. "She was in my room… and she jumped out the window."
Killian sighed and held his daughter in his arms, trying hard not to let tears come to his eyes. "It's fine, my love… It was just a bad dream, is all. Come on. Let's take you back to bed, shall we?"
As he tucked her back in, Megan raised her eyes to his father's. "Daddy?"
"Yes, m'girl?" he grinned as he placed a stuffed toy elephant under her arm.
"I didn't mean to get Henry kicked out of school. I didn't."
"I know you didn't, sweetheart."
"Do you think he will be ok? He's not mean, he was never mean to me before… he's just sad." She shrugged. "Besides, I was mean to him first. Will they be ok?"
Killian gulped. "I wish I knew, Meg, but I don't. His mother was pretty cross."
Megan nodded. "I didn't mean to."
"Of course not, my darling; but you can't be worrying your head with this all, right now you need to get some sleep, or you'll start nodding off in Miss Blanchard's class." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I love you."
"Good night, daddy…" She mumbled, already closing her eyes as he slowly stepped out if the room, closing the door behind him. He reached the kitchen once more and sneered at the tumbler on the table. He paced and took the glass in his hand, pouring the contents down the drain, the amber liquid falling in unison with the previously unshed tears in his eyes.
It seemed that even here, in this bumfuck, podunk corner of the world, he was unable to run free from his past.
Milah still haunted him; probably hated him. Why hadn't he checked the rotor? The helm? The sails?
All the more, he just desperately wanted her to forget, to let go... to be happy... and the nightmares were clear evidence that she wasn't.
"Oh god…" He wept. "Not my little girl… please not her…"
He held on to the edge of the sink, one hand and one stump, his head hanging as his wretched sobs broke his dashing figure down, shoulders shaking and convulsing.
Guilt.
He may have been deemed not guilty by the courts of London; but he was guilty.
And now there was the whole situation with this innocent boy whose father had just abandoned both he and his mother, and a woman struggling to feed and clothe him… and now that her son was without school, she could not look after him.
How many more lives would his reversed Midas touch wreck?
CSCSCSCSCSCSCSCSCSCSCSCSCSCS
Emma Swan kicked off her shoes and relished with the feel of the cold mosaic beneath her feet; after a whole day waiting on people and arriving after ten at night, the cool of the floor was a delightful relief to her swollen toes. She sighed as she placed her large purse on a chair and pulled off her scarf, raised her eyes to the couch and found Henry had fallen asleep by the television.
That was all he had been doing for the past week; watch television… all day. All alone.
Emma furrowed her brow and pinched that weary spot between her brows that was starting to pound harder than a migraine.
Perhaps they'd have to move to Portland; perhaps the feel of the city and knowing there were more schools to choose from might give them both a little bit of hope; but then… she remembered.
Neal.
She could never go back there.
As she sighed, she paced over to her son, wondering what her next move would be; and that's when she noticed…
The boy was holding a small flask of vodka.
It was empty.
She gasped in horror as she took the bottle from his hand.
"Oh, god… oh god, no… Henry..." she wept
He's a child. Why should he pay for the sins of his mother and the slacking ways of his father?
She sat beside Henry, on a couch, and sank her face into her hands, crying as her heavy head fell over her palms.
She then remembered the offer Mr. Jones had made of, perhaps, recommending her to his brother, Liam. Seeing a ten year old boy lying dead drunk on her couch suddenly made her desperate, and desperate times called for desperate measures.
Emma only hoped Liam Jones wouldn't charge too much.
And she also hoped Mr. Jones didn't hate her after the way she had spoken to him.
She stood and ran to the door, tapped on her neighbor's window and begged her, pleaded her to please keep an eye on Henry, explaining to her that the situation was crossing the line from bad to "dire".
It was actually no lie.
After stopping at a phone box to find Mr. Jones in the phone book, she rang. There was only one Jones: K. Jones.
The phone sounded three times before a groggy, sad male voice answered. "Yes?"
Emma swallowed hard. Not only had her son hurt that little girl, but she had all but insulted her father, even in light of what was obvious to Emma to be a man with a frail, aching soul.
She frowned.
"Hello?" the voice insisted.
She was about to hang up; but the image of Henry, the idea that her little boy, whom she had cared for and loved all her life, had managed to guzzle a half-full bottle of vodka while being home alone, was far more powerful than guilt and pride.
"Hello… please don't hang up… Mr… Jones?"
"Yes… who is this?"
Emma swallowed a thick lump of saliva and bile. "Hi… Look, I'm sorry to call you so late, I just… I was wondering if I could… meet you? I am Emma, Emma Swan. My son hit your daughter and we were at the principal's office and…"
A large huff sounded through the receiver. Emma could have sworn he sounded relieved.
"Miss Swan, how are you? I am so, so sorry…"
Emma frowned and wondered if, perhaps, this man was mistaking her for another person. "I really need to talk to you… about what you said to me that day. Your brother?" She shrugged. "You said he's a child therapist?"
"Aye, he is…"
She tried with little success to contain a sob. "I really need help and I have no one to turn to. The mayor and I here, we don't… see eye to eye and… Well, perhaps, your brother could… I mean, it's Henry, he…"
Killian could hear her breaking down and he stood straight up. "Miss Swan, where are you?"
Emma sniveled. "At the phone booth; three blocks down from Granny's diner. You know it?"
"Aye. Stay there. I'll be right over." He hung up and after rushing for jacket and keys, he briefly woke Megan to tell her he'd be out, placed the telephone by her side, and ran to the streets.
Ten minutes later, he found Emma pacing, a line of cold steam leaving her lips as she twisted her hands hard.
He caught up with her. "Good evening…"
Emma sighed shyly." Hi. Look, I don't… I hate to impose and to bother, but…"
"No, no bother at all…" he grinned and tilted his head to the diner ahead. "We could both use come coffee, I think. Cold bloody night."
Emma grinned sadly. "Ok."
They walked next to each other, both with their hands shoved into their pockets and long lines of steam leaving their lips as they hurriedly paced to the diner; both needed to talk, whether it was for redemption or for hope, it was yet to be seen.
As he pushed the door open for her, the sound of the bells tinkling above them reminded Emma of her morning shift at the little diner. She chuckled and grinned as she sat down. "You have to appreciate the irony…"
"What irony might that be?" Killian sat in front of her, a mild grin tracing his lips.
She sighed and looked at him. Her deepest thoughts appreciated his physical appearance; he was far too good looking to live in a town like this, for sure. What the hell was this guy doing here, anyway? And what was with that accent?
"I work here, the morning shift. I wait tables." She sighed. "Afternoons, I go to Tony's and finish at nine."
"Tony's?" He frowned. "The Italian place?"
"Yep."
Killian nodded. "I went there once. Pleasant enough place."
Emma chuckled and shook her head. "Yeah, if you don't work for Mr. Tony Dinapoli, it is."
"Tough boss?"
"He's a complete asshole." Emma nodded, pressing her lips hard. "I'm able to bring Henry here in the mornings. Granny Lucas is a sweetheart. She lets Henry do the dishes for five bucks while I work. But Tony bit my head off and told me that if I ever…. And I'm not paraphrasing here, if I ever brought that brat back into his place of business, he'd shove my ass into the street so hard my head would spin." She chuckled. "I'd probably shove HIS ass into the dumpster way before he ever got to lay a finger on me, to be honest, but…" She shrugged. "I need the job."
Killian laughed softly. "Aye, some employers are like that."
Emma blinked and swallowed. "What's your story, Mr. Jones?"
"Killian, please."
"Killian…" she raised her brows. "Interesting name."
He smiled. "Irish. My mother and father were Irish, from Dublin. Technically, I should be Irish too. Liam was born in Dublin, but they all moved to London later and that's where I came to be." He chuckled. "Bloody hilarious how I am the Englishman in a family of paddies."
"I don't know much about national rivalries there, Killian." She held her hand out. "Emma."
He smiled earnestly. "This is far better." He shook her hand gently. "Pleasure, Emma."
She sighed deep. "Look, I'm terribly sorry to bother you, I know… you probably think I'm a real jerk; believe me, I'm not, I just..:"
"I don't think you're a jerk." He grinned and looked up at the waitress who had just caught up with them. "Coffee please. Emma?"
The waitress smiled at her. "Fancy seeing you as a patron."
Emma smiled back. "Cocoa for me, Ruby. Please. Cinnamon."
"Anything else?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Me neither, love, thank you." Killian nodded.
When Ruby reached the bar, she turned to Emma and mimicked a "way to go" and a thumbs-up.
Emma just chuckled.
"Listen, I'm sorry about my attitude the other day." She shook her head. "It's just been hard. I don't know what to do." She sighed deep. "I came home tonight to find a drunken ten year old boy slumped on a couch."
Killian looked stung. "Drunken?"
"Yup." Emma nodded. "Since that prick Dinapoli won't let me take Henry with me to work, I've had to leave him home alone after the morning shift." She stuck her hands in her hair. "What else can I do?"
Killian gulped hard. "I suppose he found a bottle and decided to just… give it a whirl?"
She nodded silently and he saw the vacant, saddened look in her eyes. "I grew up in the system. I know what it's like to be raised in foster care, so I know what that's like. I've my hands full with work, keeping a child isn't cheap. When we first came into town the Mayor and I had a bit of a fight. She doesn't approve of unmarried single moms. So if she finds out about what happened, and that Henry's not going to school… she'll probably call child services on us and…" she swallowed, pain visible on her face. "I just don't want anyone to take my boy away from me. I'm trying so hard…"
Killian's heart shrunk; He felt Henry and Emma's pain all too well, except that this time, they weren't talking about a grown up with guilt issues, but a little boy who had no business taking that road so early in life.
He sighed a long, drawn and painful sigh before he spoke again. "I am so, so sorry, Emma." He finally spoke. "We never meant to cause you and Henry any serious trouble, I…" He shook his head as he looked for words. "We moved here, Meg and I, one year ago, from Boston. I really don't want to dwell too deeply into our motives, but… " He shrugged. "I suppose we were just looking for some peace when we arrived in Storybrooke and, well, when she came home with a bloody nose and crying, I was just terribly distraught and…"
"Like I told you before, Killian, I can't blame you." Emma cut in. "I'm not… proud of what Henry did." She looked into Killian's cerulean eyes. "He's a good boy. He has a good heart, he's sweet and thoughtful." She grinned. "But it's not been easy. We've been alone for a year and his shitbag dad doesn't even send alimony because we weren't really married when he left. Hell, I can take care of the money, but not even a hello or a call for Henry, and…" She shrugged. "Henry blames me. He blames himself too, I suppose, I don't know…" She shook her head. "It's been hard."
Killian nodded. "Single parenting. I know of it."
"Widower?"
He frowned. "How… did you know that?"
Emma smiled sadly. "What you said at the meeting; That you and Megan had been through enough already. And I heard what she said to Henry, that she understood because she doesn't have a mommy either." She shrugged. "Not hard to put two and two together."
Killian stared straight into her eyes and licked his lips. "Aye well, it's in the past. Five years now. But sometimes she still wakens with nightmares still fresh behind her eyelids. Poor, darling child. So trust me… I know how feel. Nothing hurts more that seeing your little one suffer for things she shouldn't have to endure at her age." He shook his head. "We can probably read each other like two open books, you and I."
Emma tilted her head to the side. "And where do you work?"
"Here and there." Killian shrugged with a twist of his lips. "At the docks, for the most part. Checking and repairing boats and ships. Not easy keeping a steady job."
"Why? You got a record, or something?"
Killian smiled and raised his stump. Emma shuddered. "Wow. Hadn't noticed that. Sorry."
"It happens. It's against the law of this country to discriminate because of a mild handicap, but apparently, no one can call you on it if you claim to just be..." He laughed ironically. "Unsatisfied with the candidate's profile and work experience." It's a load of bollocks if ever I heard it; I know it's because I'm one handed."
Emma looked at him and once again felt she was staring at a mirror image of herself.
"Where does your brother live?"
"In Boston." He nodded. "Head of child psychology and psychopathology at Mass Gen."
"I'd… have to move to Boston?"
"No." He chuckled. "Chances are he's bound to come over, if I ask him to." He sighed. "We are very…close, my brother and I."
Emma frowned. "but how is Henry supposed to have some follow up if…?"
"Look, he will know what to do. Trust me. I'm sure he can recommend someone who's closer by or perhaps just provide you with tips to help you with your boy."
Emma held his gaze, hoping to read more into him.
She saw kindness, love for his daughter… and pain. Heaps of if.
Ruby arrived with the coffee and the cocoa and placed them in front of them. "Listen, guys? Don't mean to be rude, but we're closing in ten minutes."
Emma smiled kindly. "It's ok, Ruby."
Killian placed a ten-dollar bill on the table and nodded kindly at the girl before turning back to Emma. "Where do you live?"
"Here on Main. I rent the loft right over the Nolan's."
"Nolan's?"
"Yeah." She smiled and shook her head. "Mary Margaret Blanchard, Henry's former teacher? She's kind of my best friend. She's married to the sheriff…"
"Oh, David Nolan." Killian smiled with a nod. "Yes. Him I know. He's all right." He looked up into Emma's eyes. "Miss Blanchard is Megan's favorite teacher…"
"She was Henry's as well." Emma saddened.
Killian studied her face, trying to figure her out; while she had let him in on some measure of information regarding her life with Henry, she also seemed to have walls taller than Jericho.
Walls were his area of expertise; he could also hold his own when it came to walls.
"Look…" He reached for a paper serviette and then into his jacket pocket for a pen. "This is my home number, and my mobile. Call me tomorrow after ten a.m., I will have spoken to Liam by then, so I will have an answer. I'm sure we can reach an agreement for you two to meet."
He handed the paper over to Emma, and she grinned as her fingers, clad in open-fingered gloves, pulled the paper to herself. After studying the numbers, she looked up into his eyes and a sad, lip-pressed grin illuminated her face. "Thank you…" She whispered with a nod.
Killian threw his hands (hand) up. "It's the least I can do. The boy's going through a rough time; he deserves a chance." He swallowed thickly. "Even Megan thinks so."
The diner closed and Killian accompanied Emma one block and across the street to the door of the apartment building where she lived. She turned and exhaled. "Killian, I just… I can't thank you enough and I can't stress enough how embarrassed I am after…"
"Hey, hey, it's fine." He raised a hand and shook his head. "I just hope something can be done before that snooping Mayor of ours gets a whiff of your situation." He swallowed.
They both stood in awkward silence, till Emma finally broke a smile and bit her lower lip. "Thanks for the cocoa."
He tilted his head to the side. "Thanks for the company. I needed a bit of it tonight."
After Emma let herself in and closed the door with a grinning 'goodnight', he turned tale, hands deep in his waterproof green parka, and made the walk home to the beachfront.
For a brief few minutes, he stood by the water, simply losing himself in the sound of it as it swayed back and forth from the vastness of the sea to the shore, and he sighed as the first sincere grin of the evening shone through. Perhaps this time, this one time, he'd be able to undo the blasted mess he had caused. Or hadn't caused.
Nevertheless, he had to make things right; for his sake and for the sake of that poor mother… who by the way, was probably the finest-looking woman he'd met since…
He shook his head and turned back to walk home. As soon as he let himself in, he felt the warmth of the apartment caress his face. He closed the door and locked it and then went to check on Meg. The child had kicked off her blankets and was sleeping soundly, the toy elephant on the floor.
Killian leaned against the doorframe and grinned, staring at the precious little head of long, dark curls that dangled from the edge of the bed…
She was a sight; beauty and peace in one. He stared at her in her sleep, eyes gently closed and peaceful, the two year old girl wrapped around her bosom like the little monkey she was. He should have taken a snapshot of the moment with his mobile, but instead he chose to keep the memory in his mind, deciding on whether or not to make a hasty run to the studio for his sketchpad and charcoal. Milah probably felt the stare from the door as she gently blinked awake; at first aware of the two year old baby girl asleep and clamped to her like a magnet, and second, of her husband, who looked at her, arms crossed and a dimpled smirk on his clean-shaven face; his hair, as always, was standing all over the place and he had paint spots on his nose, cheeks and chin, not to mention his hands. She chuckled and spoke softly. "Just how long have you been staring at us?"
He blinked and huffed softly. "Just over three minutes. I was just thinking about dragging my sketchpad over and capturing this magical instant."
Milah smiled at him. "You, sir, are ridiculously romantic."
He shrugged. "What can I do, love? I'm a bloody artist, I'm spoiled by life and fucked by love…"
"Killian!" Milah widened her eyes and signaled with her head to their sleeping daughter. "Language…"
The painter giggled and paced to his wife, his arms unfolding and running a hand through his hair. "Do you really believe she will grow up chaste enough to never, ever cuss? I was talking like a sailor by the time I was ten."
He sat by her side, still smirking, and Milah reached for his arm, caressing it. "Yeah, well, you're Irish; it's a moot point."
He rolled his eyes playfully. "Not… by… birth."
"Swearing and drinking's in your blood."
Killian blinked. "I don't drink at all, darling; you are stereotyping me."
The woman shrugged playfully. "You might one day, who knows?"
The handsome artist sighed and leaned over for a chaste kiss. "Only if you drive me to it."
She smiled and succumbed into a long, deliciously prolonged kiss… and little Megan stirred. Killian groaned and smiled as he pulled away. "I'll take her to bed. You, hold that thought. I will be right back." He gently lifted the girl, who moaned ever so softly as her father cradled her head with his hand. "Come along, you little sea monkey…" He smiled and kissed her cheek. "Let's get you to your bed, love…"
He shook his head.
He then proceeded to pull the cover back over her little body and lifted the toy elephant from the floor, placing it back beside his daughter's arm. He then caressed the heavy head of wavy locks and grinned. "My little sea monkey…" He kissed her temple and left the room.
After quietly closing the door, he walked to the little whiteboard on his fridge and jotted down 'Call Liam, 8:30 am'.
For some reason and in spite of the earlier events of the evening, he slept soundly that night.
Emma, on the other hand, nursed a sickened boy as he threw up his earlier libations. She held his head, cleaned his sweat, threw out the buckets of vomit and went right back to the start before Henry finally succumbed to sleep.
He'd probably have one hell of a hangover in the morning. Granny Lucas would understand if she called in to ask for the shift off.