Give Me Love (Like Her) Chapter Nine, an once upon a time fanfic

A week and a half later, Killian was reading Swan's morning letter when his cell phone rang. He frowned and pulled out his phone, but the number wasn't one he recognized. He knew for sure it was a personal call—clients, or potential clients, would not have access to the number—and given how Spencer felt about personal calls in the office, he felt justified in letting it go to voicemail.

He quickly swiped to silence the ringer and went back to the letter, which was also not a Spencer-approved way to spend his lunch break, but it was certainly worth breaking a rule or two. Swan was having a grand time describing how her friends were hoping that he might give them another brunch trip (BIL is suggesting it would make a good Christmas present, he's so desperate for another meal there!); he went to check the restaurant's website and see if they were perhaps open the day after Christmas.

As he opened his browser, his office phone rang.

"Killian Jones," he answered.

"Killian? It's Wendy."

For a moment, he wondered Wendy who? and began to think of some of his past clients and one-night stands. But then it hit him like a clichéd ton of bricks: Wendy Darling.

"Wendy, love, how are you?" He could feel the strain in his throat. Wendy never called him. Ever.

"I … well, I suppose you've guessed I'm not terribly well," she said.

"Yes, well … what's going on?"

"It's your father."

His body felt numb. "What about him?" The last he'd heard of his father, the man had been trying to take advantage of Wendy's brother, Michael, before going on welfare and struggling to find steady employment.

"He's … he's in hospice. It's his liver. They want next of kin."

Hospice. Next of kin.

"Wendy, I can't just drop everything and—"

"Killian, he's dying." He could tell she was trying very hard not to burst into tears. "They're saying he's not going to make it to the end of the week. I know you hate him and you don't want to deal with him, but I just can't and you are his son, and you're a bloody solicitor for god's sake!" Now she really was crying, and he lowered his head in shame. "You're an adult and you need to come home and be one."

"I can't leave," he said, choking out the words. "I've … my girlfriend."

"Bring her with you if you have to." He could hear her wiping her face. "Look, I have to go, hospice is calling again. You have my email?"

"Aye." The walls felt as though they were closing in on him.

"Send me your itinerary and hotel?"

"Very well."

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"I'm really sorry."

As though it mattered.

He was still staring at the phone when Spencer strode into his office. "You all right, Jones?"

"I—I have to go to London," he replied hoarsely.

His boss' eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but concern. "What happened?"

"My father is on his deathbed."

It required no more explanation. "I'll have my secretary handle your calendar and clients. Take as long as you need." And then he was gone.

Killian's hands shook as he looked up flights. He could hardly think. His bloody bastard of a father was dying. He was going to have to go to London. Leave Swan.

As if Christmas weren't already his least favorite time of year. It took effort to resist throwing his coffee mug against the wall—of course this would happen when he thought perhaps this year might be different. Of course when he finally could enjoy this damn holiday, and have everything he thought he could never have—

Fine. He would go to London. Wendy hadn't clarified, but he'd understood that he was expected to put his legal acumen to good use and settle his father's affairs (never mind that he was able to practice law in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, not internationally). And so he would do just that, then leave.

He called Belle, who was enjoying intersession between semesters and would be free to take the call.

"Killian, what's wrong?"

"Do you still have the keys to my flat?"

"Yes, why?" she asked suspiciously.

"I …" It was painful to think about, but he'd already agreed. "I have to go to London."

"You—why?"

"It's my father."

She was so quiet, he was about to ask if she was even still on the other end. But she spoke before he could. "He's dying, isn't he?"

"Aye." Belle knew him well enough to know: that would be the only reason he would be going to see the man.

"You need me to get your mail?" she asked.

"Very perceptive, yes."

"What about … your girlfriend?"

"I … I don't know," he admitted.

"Killian." He could tell by the shift in tone that she was about to (probably correctly) tell him what he should do. "I think it's time to call off the whole anonymity thing. You can't just leave her hanging for a week."

"I wouldn't leave her without telling her," he replied hotly, offended that Belle would even think him capable of doing such a thing.

"I just mean, you need to give her your number or email or something."

"I guess so," he admitted. "I could give her my number."

"Do you need me to meet you at your place? Help you pack?"

"No, but thank you, love. I should have time. I just need to finish up a few tasks here, book my flight and hotel and such."

"Hotel?"

He chuckled weakly. "Well, yes, darling. They're these incredibly convenient buildings with lots of little rooms you can sleep in for as many nights as you need."

"I just mean, don't you have family there?"

He clenched his jaw. "Belle, I can't impose on the Darlings. Besides, it's not just a few nights."

"But it's not imposing, exactly," she argued. "And besides, your father's dy—well, it seems cruel for them not to at least offer to put you up."

"I'm not exactly their favorite cousin, and I wore out my welcome quite effectively when I lived with them after—look, Belle, it's complicated."

He rolled his eyes when he heard her gasp. "Oh my god! This is why you hate asking anyone for help!"

"Belle!"

"No, it's all making sense! I knew there was a reason you didn't tell anyone of us you were living on your boat all those years ago."

"That's different!" he protested. "I didn't know you or Graham very well, and Jefferson was dealing with Priscilla's death. I couldn't impose."

"Impose? Killian, you were homeless! I still can't forgive myself for not realizing it."

"Belle, I can't talk about this right now." Or ever, he added mentally. "I have to go—I need to book this flight. Will you please stop by during the week and bring my mail up? I don't have time to deal with the post office."

She sighed. "Of course I will, Killian. Call me when you land, okay? I don't care what time it is when you do."

"I will. Thank you."

And then he opened up his word processor.

My beloved Princess,

This morning, I received a call from a family member imploring me to return home for the holidays. I will be forthright: my selfish bastard of an estranged father is on his deathbed, and the remaining members of my extended family are certain that he will not survive much longer. As I write this letter to you, I am in the process of booking transportation home; I am his next of kin.

I am so sorry, love. I don't want to leave. I cannot be without you, even for a week.

Would it only be a week? He quickly went to check flights. And bloody hell, with Christmas and New Year's, everyone would be on holiday. Unless he stayed through the first, he was likely going to be unable to reach any of the appropriate entities to deal with his father's affairs.

The thought was sickening, and his stomach churned. He regretted the coffee he'd been sipping.

Fine, till the first, then.

But no longer than that, he resolved. There was nothing else for him in London; he would deal with the messy business of death and get the hell back to the States. He clicked to confirm the best flights and erased that line of text in the document.

As it stands now, I am due to return on January 1st. Obviously, the circumstances I'm in are not so clear-cut; I've no way to know when (it has been made very clear to me that this is a "when, not if" situation) my father will pass, and if I will have to stay longer. But the thought of beginning the new year without you is unsavory at best, and unbearable at worst; if I plan to be home by then, then perhaps fortune will see fit to show me favor.

In the meantime, I cannot go a day without you. This anonymity must end.

I'm Killian. Please give me a call or email me, I don't care which: 617

He stopped, mid-phone number.

Shit.

He hit delete.

I'm Killian. Yes, the man who asked you out in the laundry room. I want to explain myself to you more than anything, but for now, I just need to

No.

Delete.

Please call me or email me. Either one is fine, although of course I can't answer if I'm on the plane.

Except, would she hang up when he answered? And his email had his name in it; wouldn't she realize it then? What if she refused to speak to him?

He was going to have to wait. He sighed, wiping at his eyes. How could he still speak to her every day if he couldn't give her his contact information?

He couldn't. Or at least, he couldn't hear from her. An idea formed in his mind.

My beloved Princess,

It's bad enough that I am leaving you, even temporarily (I'm not leaving you—you know that). It's bad enough that I'm leaving at Christmas. It's bad enough that I'm ruining our plans. I feel terrible. I cannot abandon you.

So I've done all that I can do on such short notice. I've enclosed a letter for each day that I am forcibly parted from you. Because of this unexpected turn of events, I had not had a chance to properly prepare your gift; please excuse the incredibly unattractive packaging.

This turn of events has made one thing crystal clear to me: I can't wait any longer. When I do return home, love, do not expect a note under your doormat. Expect me, standing atop it, begging your forgiveness for asking you to wait this long, and for having to leave in the first place.

Already counting the days till our reunion,
Your Captain

He knew exactly where he'd left her present, still in the packing envelope; when he returned home to pack, he'd quickly deface the packaging as a precaution.

He sighed, reading over the final paragraph. He was ready. He had to be. All this faux long distance was becoming painful, and the desire to hold her in his arms finally outweighed his fear. In fact, it was hard to remember the fear; when had that happened? When had he crossed over into this new realm, one in which he wanted to be known?

He shook his head. It would have to wait.

In the meantime, he would book his hotel and rental car, and then get down to the business of giving her something to look forward to while he was gone.

Sorry for the delay! Super busy at work, and then when I got home, I had chores, and then dinner, and then 5x05. But here it is! Let me know what you think.