Emma knew the ship was huge, but for some reason she didn't even consider how that would affect their search. But it becomes apparent just how time-consuming the task before them truly is once they begin exploring the spaceliner the next day. It's been hours since they've started and they've barely scratched the surface of The Swan's many levels, and hallways. It could take them days to get through even a small section, and Emma hopes it won't come to that—that they'll be able to find what they're looking for and never have to set foot in this steel encased tomb again. The cold, stiff air inside the spaceliner only adds to the feeling that they've willingly trapped themselves inside an endless, dark maze of evenly spaced doors that never seem to lead to what they need.

It's a monotonous task, checking every single room, but she's worried that if they don't, they might skip over crucial supplies, or miss locating the communications system completely. So they keep with the very thorough, but very repetitive, undertaking of checking each room they pass.

Most of the rooms are in complete chaos—torn apart by the crash landing. Things are often smashed, useless, or near unrecognizable. But the supplies that they can use, they take with them, at least the supplies that are deemed valuable and indispensable—and worth the extra weight.

Emma doesn't notice it at first, but as the day drags on she begins to suspect that Killian is hiding his hand from her. It's not surprising that it slipped her notice, considering she doesn't think it was something he had been doing earlier that morning. Sure, it was obvious that it was hurting him—evident in the way he favored his right hand, or avoided using his left altogether—but it seemed to be no worse than it had the day before.

But now she is positive he is keeping it deliberately out of sight. Tucking it behind his back as they sift through fallen crates, or holding it in front of his body if she happens to step behind him. He tries to be casual about it, his movements subtle enough that if she wasn't paying attention it would be indiscernible. But his hand and her body are like two opposing magnets—entirely incapable of being near each other, and compelled to move if the other is getting to close. Wherever she steps Killian simply adjusts his arm to keep it from her line of sight.

She nearly drives herself crazy testing this theory. She tries walking behind him, stepping in front of him, standing at his side—but no matter where she goes Killian keeps his hand hidden from her.

And maybe it's because he doesn't want her to think he's weak and incapable, or maybe it's because it's hurting more then he's letting on and he doesn't want her to worry. Whatever his reason may be, it's probably having the opposite effect of what he intended. Considering how it's now the only thought spinning in her head, considering how the fact that she can't see it is making her worry more than if she could, and considering how she's now doing nothing but fretting over it—no, him hiding it is definitely not making her worry less.

But if he notices her agitation he doesn't acknowledge it. And it's not until they are back at camp at the end of the day that Emma finally confronts him.

"Why are you hiding your hand from me?"

His look of faux confusion, eyebrows furrowing and head tilting to the side, would almost be comical if she wasn't so on edge by the whole thing.

"Your hand." she continues, her tone direct and clipped. "You've been purposefully keeping it out of sight for more than half the day."

He sighs. "It's fine, love. It stings a bit… but it will be fine. It just needs a couple days to heal is all."

He offers her a small smile, but his eyes don't reflect the reassurance of his words.

"Then let me see it." She reaches out her hand, palm up, and waits for him to place his bandaged one in her own. He hesitates, eyes darting between her open palm and her eyes. This only increases the twist in her stomach, her instinct screaming that something must be wrong.

Finally with a clench of his jaw he concedes, lifting his sore and tender hand for her inspection.

The makeshift bandage is dirtied and he'll need a new one anyway so Emma removes it. The area right around the cut is red, angry and swollen. It's not a good sign, but it's also not as bad as Emma had been imagining.

"Alright, let's clean it and soak it in some warm water before we wrap it again." She runs a hand through her hair, closing her eyes as she takes a calming breath. "But Killian, don't hide it from me, okay? I want to be able to help you take care of it, and I can't take care of it if I can't see it."

"Sorry, darling." He reaches for her arm, sliding his good hand down it before threading his fingers with hers. "I just didn't want to worry you, but I promise not to keep it from you again."

"Good." She states simply, before dragging him over to the stream so they can heat some water.

They head back for the spaceliner first thing in the morning and Emma can already tell that something is wrong. Killian isn't his usual self; he's slow and sluggish and hardly says a word. Emma has to slow her pace significantly so that he can keep up. But what worries her the most is the paleness of his skin, and the small patches of red that flush his cheeks.

Upon Emma's insistence they stop when it's only late morning, taking a break in some sort of technology lab to split a ration bar. Killian leans heavily against an upright table and mutters a quiet thank you when she hands him the bigger half.

"Killian? Why don't we stop? We haven't really had a rest day and we can get by on the ration bars we have for at least one more day as long as we find something outside to supplement it with."

It takes him a moment to respond, his eyes taking longer to focus, as though he's lost in some sort of haze. Emma's heart drops to her stomach and she feels the sharp sting of worry fill her chest.

"No." He shakes his head, and uses the heel of his hand to rub at his temple before running his fingers through his already disheveled hair.

"Killian," she admonishes. "Finding more food supplies is not what is important right now. You need rest, and I'm not going to let—"

"No! We need to keep looking." His voice is sharp despite his exhaustion, his jaw clenched in determination despite his clear lack of strength. And Emma is about to argue back when her eyes are drawn to Killian's hands. He's tugging on the bandages as though doing so is going to offer him the relief he seeks.

Emma's eyes widen as she gets her first good look at his hand since last night. Somehow in the span of time between when she redressed it and now, its condition has only worsened. His fingers hang useless from his wrist, stiff and swollen, and the rest of him isn't fairing much better. It's like his body weight is suddenly too much for him to hold upright—his shoulders hunch slightly forward, and his entire being looks as though it's being pulled down by twice the gravity. He looks feverish, and he's sweating despite the cold air of the spaceliner.

Understanding suddenly floods Emma. He's not insisting they keep going because they're running out of food, his desperation is because he needs to find the sick bay. He needs medicine.

Fear, hot and fierce, burns through Emma. Panic causing her next words to rush out of her in a torrent.

"Killian go back. Go back now, and go to bed."

He shakes his head and breathes heavily before opening his mouth to speak, but Emma doesn't let him get the words out.

"Please." She steps over to him entreating, desperate for him to listen. She places her hands against his cheeks, and hopes that he can see the seriousness in her eyes. "I need you to go back, I need you to rest, because I need you to get better. I'll keep going, I'll find the sick bay—but I need you go to back to camp."

"Emma," he whispers in a tired voice and gently wraps the fingers of his good hand around her wrist. "I can't. I'm not just going to leave you in here alone."

"I can manage. But I'm serious, you need to go back."

"You can't just wander this bloody monster of a ship on your own. What if you get hurt? And what if I don't get to you in time? Or what if I can't find you at all? It's too dangerous, Emma." His words are brimming with anxiety, but she can't let his worry about something that probably won't even happen, keep him from taking care of himself.

"I'll be fine." She rubs her thumb back and forth across his cheekbone in an attempt to quiet his distress. "But I'm not going to let you get sick from an infection because you're too stubborn to take care of yourself. I'll be careful."

His lips tighten in dislike, unhappy with the idea of leaving her. The firm set of his mouth and the determined furrow of his brow tells her that he's going to insist on staying, but he sags a little heavier against the table, and she knows she's going to get him back to camp even if she has to drag him there herself.

Taking hold of his hand she pulls him up from the table and tugs him across the small room and back out into the hallway.

"Swan…" he contests once he realizes what she's trying to do, but his voice is low and tired.

"No. There is no argument. You're going back, and I'm going to stay and find you medicine."

She's tried pleading with him, reassuring him, reasoning with him, she's tried flat out demanding him. But still he foolishly insists on staying with her, more concerned with making sure nothing happens to her then he is about the fact that he can barely stand.

She knows he's already sick, knows his hand is infected and that if they don't do something soon then they might not have the means to do anything at all. And she is not going to let that happen.

She is not going to let him leave her on this planet alone. Her heart aches and she chokes on the agony of just thinking about it. And who knows how long she'd survive without him. They've kept each other alive, kept each other going, and she needs him just as much as he needs her.

And suddenly she knows what to say to convince him—locking her gaze with his she infuses her voice with all the fervor and anguish she feels at the thought of losing him. "If you die," she breathes, eyes watering just from the possibility, "then I will too."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and Killian swiftly wipes it away. "Alright," he whispers and heavily leans his forehead against hers. The warmth of his skin only succeeds in tightening the grip of worry in her chest. "But if you're not back by nightfall, then I'm coming to find you."

Emma watches him leave until his shadow is swallowed by the darkness of the hallway, and then turning she heads to the next door as though there is fire at her heels, her steps quick and urgent.

Emma keeps searching for as long as she dares, but she's anxious to get back to Killian, fearful of the state she'll find him in.

She doesn't find the sick bay, but does come across a kitchen with plenty of food. But even the promise of finally eating something other than ration bars cannot ease the tightness in her chest. She grabs a large pot and packs as much as she can carry, hauling it back to camp with her arms straining the whole way.

The final light of day is fading just as she makes it back, and Killian is still awake but just barely. He gives almost no acknowledgement of her arrival, just a quiet grunt and a hollow stare before closing his eyes and groaning softly.

Emma is quick to make a fire and begins crafting a broth from the food she brought back, hoping that a little more nourishment will help Killian stave off the infection in his hand.

He slips into unconsciousness as the soup heats, and is not eager to wake once it's finished. Emma has to heave him up into a sitting position and he groans at the effort. Stroking his face she murmurs comforting nonsense before grabbing the soup and feeding him a spoonful. He's slow to swallow, but Emma keeps bringing the spoon to his lips until she's satisfied that he's had enough.

Collapsing back down into their bed he closes his eyes and easily falls back asleep.

Emma makes her way over to the stream close by and brings back a fresh pot of water, and soaking a portion of one of the sheets she wipes it across his brow. His skin is burning, and it's not long before the heat seeps into the fabric and she has to rinse it to keep it cool. She repeats the process over and over again, wiping his face, his throat, his chest—desperately trying to lower his body temperature.

His fever eases up a little, and with nothing else to do she crawls into bed with him. The warmth under the blankets is uncomfortable but she can't bring herself to sleep apart from him. Maybe it's unreasonable but she needs to feel his breathing, feel the steadiness of his heartbeat, or she'll never have enough peace of mind to fall asleep.

"You're going to be okay," she whispers into the quiet night air. Curling up next to him she can only pray that she's right.

Emma is wakened abruptly by someone thrashing next to her and before she registers what is going on she's roughly shoved from their makeshift bed. It's dark, and she can't have been sleeping for more than an hour or two, but her brain is slow to wake leaving her disoriented. When alertness does catch up with her she realizes that it was Killian sitting up that must have woken her.

He's awake.

She darts to the dying fire and places a branch in it, stoking the flames until they burn high enough for her to see his face.

He's awake. This has to be a good thing.

But it's not.

And the look in his eyes does nothing but make her heart sink in fear. He's looking right at her but staring straight through her. His eyes glazed over as though he sees nothing. His hair is a mess, sweat from his fever making it either stick to his forehead or stick straight into the air.

"Killian?" Emma takes slow measured steps until she can kneel in front of him.

He murmurs something incoherent as she places the back of her hand against his forehead—it's still burning with fever.

"I'm going to get you some water," she tells him while reaching for the canteen. He takes only a few sips when she presses the mouth of the bottle to his lips before he weakly turns his head and pushes it away.

"Come on, just a little more."

He obliges and takes one more drink before he chokes on some of the water and coughs. Once his airway is clear he gives his head a shake and looks directly into Emma's eyes. After blinking a few times his eyes seem to focus, and Emma feels the tiniest bud of relief spring to life in her chest.

"Liam?" he rasps.

That relief is uprooted as quickly as it sprouted. "N-no, it's me. Killian, it's me. It's Emma." She sounds desperate. She is desperate. But mostly she's terrified. If his fever is high enough that he's hallucinating then she doesn't have time to wait—or sleep. She needs to do something now.

"I've missed you, brother." Tears well up in his eyes before he drops his head forward, resting his forehead heavily against her shoulder.

"It's Emma. Killian, I'm right here, I haven't left you."

"Ever since you died I've tried so hard to make you proud," he mutters against her shirt, "I-I think you would be, or at least I hope are."

Her already frayed emotions tear just a little more at the pain in his voice. He's never told her how his brother died. And she doesn't want it to come out now, not while he's sick and hallucinating. She wants him to tell her when their curled up together under the stars and she can feel the strength of his arms around her. She wants him to tell her when he's healthy; she wants him to tell her because he wants to, not because his fever is making him hallucinate.

She softly hushes him, rubbing his back in comfort before taking hold of his shoulders and guiding him back down onto the bed.

"I feel awful, Liam," he groans.

"I know," she murmurs, giving in. "I know you do. Just lie down and try to rest, okay?" She runs a trembling hand through her hair and then presses it against her mouth and chokes on a single sob. "I-I'm going to try magic. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay."

Killian's already drifted back into unconsciousness, and so she whispers the last sentence to herself before kneeling at his side and hovering her hands above his injured one. Inhaling deeply through her nose she closes her eyes and focuses all her energy on healing Killian. Her hands shake, trembling from the combination of the intensity of her fear and worry, and the desperate exertion in which she's trying to summon her magic.

But nothing happens.

Nothing happens, and her shaking only increases, the dread that's consuming her soul distracting her. She can't do this—she can't heal him.

"Come on," she begs clenching her fists, trying to calm herself down before trying again. But still nothing happens and her desperation increases with her shaking. Emma screams in frustration and the flames of the fire burst higher, emitting an explosion of sparks.

If she can't heal him, she sure as hell isn't going to sit here and wait until the light of day to do something. Scrambling from his side she locates the flashlight and Killian's pack, emptying it completely in case she needs to carry things back with her.

Leaning over him she brushes his hair back from his face then gently places her forehead against his. "I'll be back." It's a promise breathed against his skin, but it's also a plea—that he'll still be here when she does come back.

And so with only the light of the stars to guide her, Emma rushes back to the wreck descending once again into its depths.

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