Jetlag worsened Killian's already foul mood. His flight had been awful; whichever passengers hadn't been insufferably rude had been irritatingly filled with the holiday spirit. More irked than ever regarding Christmas, he was in no mood to hear anyone talk excitedly about their plans with their families. To top everything off, he'd been seated next to a crying infant, and while its parents had been appropriately apologetic, that didn't stop the poor babe from screaming for half the flight.

He'd hastily taken a Benadryl tablet at takeoff, but it had done him no good thanks to the amount of noise on the flight. And of course, it left him so groggy upon his arrival at Heathrow that once he'd cleared customs, he took a quick nap at one of the gates before heading to find his rental car.

Once he reached his hotel room, he quickly called Belle, who informed him that she had let Graham and Jefferson know of his predicament, and asked whether or not Swan had called him. It had taken him several minutes to get her off the phone once he admitted he had not in fact given her any of his contact information; it was only when Wendy tried to call him that he convinced Belle to leave him alone on the subject. Unfortunately, he had to end the call before he could explain that he had left Swan with something; he hoped that Belle wouldn't show up at Swan's door herself with an explanation.

And then, of course, Wendy was frustrated to hear that he wouldn't be heading to the hospice immediately. He tried to explain that at this point, he'd been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and was not fit for anything besides a nap, but she'd simply grown cross and handed the phone off to her brother, John.

John, while much more level-headed about the situation, was just as frustrated that Killian wasn't already on his way to see his father. "Killian, I don't know if Wendy made it clear or not, but this is something that's going to happen extremely soon. And with the limited holiday hours, if you don't get down here before the end of the afternoon, he might pass before you get a chance."

"John, I tried to explain to Wendy, I'm in no shape to drive there right now."

"I thought you had public transit in the States."

"I don't have a damn Oyster Card anymore, John."

"God, Killian, then just get a cab. You do know how to catch a cab, don't you?"

He grimaced in frustration. "I already spent the money on a rental car," he began, but John cut him off.

"This is disrupting our lives, too, and you don't hear us complaining about costs." Killian bit his tongue to avoid reminding John that he knew for a fact the hospice wasn't costing any of them a cent. "Now look, man, I know your father is persona non grata after all the shit he put the family through, but he's still family, and you know how Wendy is about that. Just get your arse down here and stop whinging about it." And then he hung up.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw his phone against the wall and watch in satisfaction as it shattered (it probably wouldn't shatter entirely, though the screen probably would). He wanted to get right back in his rental car, back to the airport, back to the States. He shouldn't have come in the first place.

But no: the Darlings had taken care of him for those two years after Liam had died, and he was never going to get out of that debt. He called down to the front desk to arrange for a cab, went to the lavatory to splash water in his face, and then headed downstairs.

"Oh, good," John said as Killian approached him at the hospice. "I told you it wouldn't be that hard."

Killian had no reply, and fortunately did not need one as Michael Darling came striding down the hall. "Killian! Mate, how've you been?"

"Er, better," he replied.

Michael chuckled. "Stupid question, I suppose."

"I suppose. I've been doing well, though. You?"

"Can't complain, can't complain."

"Is he here?" Wendy came out of the room they were huddled outside of. She looked nearly the same as she had when she was twenty-three years old, when Killian had last seen her, waving goodbye to him as he'd gotten into a cab to Heathrow on his way to the States for university. The only indication that fifteen years had passed were the fine lines on her face and the gray at her roots. "Thanks for coming, Killian."

He resisted the urge to point out that he had not wanted to come, not at any point, and so to thank him as though he'd selflessly come rushing to his father's bedside was infuriating. Instead, he mentally reminded himself that there was no use arguing. "I'm not sure what you want me to do," he said instead.

"He's not lucid right now," said a nurse, who'd followed Wendy out of the room. We've got visiting hours till three o'clock today, though, so if you stick around for a couple more hours, you might be able to talk to him."

Killian meant to speak up, to tell the nurse that it was fine and he'd just come back another time, but Wendy spoke first. "Thank you, we'll stay. Would it be better for Killian to sit in the room with him, or should we go to the waiting room?"

The nurse seemed to realize something that the situation was a bit fraught. "Uh, well, what would you like to do, sir?" she asked, directing the question to him. He hesitated: his honest answer was that he would like to be anywhere else on the planet besides this hospice, but he knew that anything that wasn't agreement with Wendy would be poorly received by his cousins. Instead, he opted for a middle ground.

"What are your hours tomorrow and the day after?"

"Noon till three on Christmas," she said, smiling a little. "Gives people some time with their loved ones without asking staff to miss their Christmas mornings or dinners. Boxing Day, we're back to our regular hours."

He felt validated, hearing the hours and seeing Wendy's expression towards John, who winced. "Thank you, miss. Is there someone I can leave my phone number with? I'll plan to come by Saturday, but if he starts to fade, I'd like to know."

"Of course." The nurse seemed surprised that he was even asking. He followed her to the front desk where he made the arrangements, while the Darlings went to the lobby to wait for him.

"I'm sorry, I really did think they'd have more limited hours," John insisted. But even without Michael rolling his eyes and Wendy looking guiltily at the floor, Killian would have known he was bluffing.

"You sounded quite convinced, mate," he said darkly.

"You're really not going to see him?" Wendy interrupted, changing the subject. Now, of course, it was about how he was a disrespectful son, instead of about how John had deliberately misled him.

"Wendy, stop it," Michael said.

"He's his father, he might not have another chance!"

"I said I would come back Saturday," he protested angrily.

"He was right there in that room, and you didn't even peek your head in!"

"Wendy, stop it," Michael said again.

"You're just sore because he tried to steal from you," John cut in.

"Bloody hell, John, it's not as though the man did it by accident."

"Stop it!" Killian hadn't meant to shout, and he garnered some disapproving looks from nearby nursing and support staff, as well as a few other people in the waiting room. "This is all pointless bullshit. I don't want to see him right now, so I won't. I'm coming back Saturday, and if that doesn't satisfy you, then enjoy being left unsatisfied. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm leaving. Happy Christmas."

He managed to hail a cab, and he had the driver drop him off at a grocery store near his hotel. He had no plans to cook (impossible, anyway, given that his hotel room had a fridge but no microwave), but it would be cheaper to have some snack food in the hotel room than to venture out for each and every meal. And given how miserable he was, he knew he'd hardly have an appetite all week anyway.

He also stopped by a liquor store for wine, rye whiskey, and Angostura bitters. He wouldn't be able to stay up as late as he'd need to in order to watch Home Alone or It's a Wonderful Life at the same time that Swan might do so, but he would still try. He needed it for him. To pretend that everything was all right, and that he was still enjoying his plans with his beloved.

His beloved. He loved her.

After returning to the hotel room, he made sure to put everything away as neatly as possible: alcohol and perishables in the mini-fridge, non-perishables on the desk next to his laptop and electronics, and his toiletries in the bathroom. He hung up the suit he'd thought to bring (just in case), but otherwise, his clothing remained in his suitcase. He wasn't sure how long he'd be here, but putting his clothes in the drawers of the small bureau felt like admitting defeat, as though he'd planned to stay for a long while.

And he did not.

He called Belle after spending a few hours napping.

"So?"

"Happy Christmas Eve to you as well, love."

"What happened? Come on, you hung up on me pretty quickly."

"Wendy was calling to tell me to come down to the hospice."

"Already? But you'd only just checked into your hotel."

"She didn't care."

"Killian."

"I know."

"Did you go?"

"Did I have a choice?"

She let out a slow breath. "So … was it as bad as you'd feared?"

"I didn't go in."

He was expecting a reaction similar to the one he'd gotten when he'd admitted he hadn't given Swan his phone number or email. But instead, Belle replied: "I don't think I would have either."

"He wasn't lucid anyway," he added. "At least, according to the nurse."

"Do you think you'll go back?"

"I don't know. I said I'd come on Saturday. Gave them my number in case he got drastically worse."

"Killian, what's going on, exactly?" Before he could reply, she clarified. "I mean, not with your father. With your cousins."

"They just …" He sighed heavily. His head still felt as though it were stuffed with wood chips now that he'd taken a nap, and it was hard to articulate himself. "My family was always very big on obligations. Wendy especially was raised that way. It's difficult for them to see me not wanting to patch things up with … well, you know."

"There's no right answer," she said reassuringly. "Whatever you need to do, you should do. I'm not going to tell you that you'll forever regret trying to see him or talk to him. Because in the end, it doesn't matter. It won't change the past."

"No, it won't." His eyes felt hot; he changed the subject. "Anyway, are you looking forward to Elsa's party tomorrow?"

She chuckled. "As much as I can. Anna's going to be so disappointed to hear that you're no longer an eligible bachelor for her to set Elsa up with."

"You didn't already tell her?" But he was chuckling.

"Speaking of which," she said, segueing immediately into the conversation he'd hoped to avoid. "So you didn't leave your contact info? Why not?"

"I—" He had no idea how to bring up what he'd done.

"Killian?"

"I can't explain, but I've done something that might not endear her to Killian Jones, apartment 305," he said finally. Maybe he'd eventually explain what had happened, but he was unwilling to do so today.

"What? What the hell did you do?"

"Calm down. It wasn't anything terrible. Just enough that … look, I'm already rather stressed, as you can tell. But rest assured, I did not leave her with nothing, or with no idea what's become of me. She knows I'm home dealing with my father's death."

"Okay, sorry." He could tell that she was trying very hard to let the subject drop. "I'm sorry. I trust your judgment with your own relationship."

"Thank you."

"When do you think you'll be home?"

"I've a flight that should get me back to Boston by early evening on January 1st. I'll let you know if something comes up and I have to stay later. I'm going to settle as much as I can before I leave, though. Honestly, there can't be all that much to be done. The man has nothing." His throat suddenly felt very tight. "It's not as though he has a will or assets. I suppose I'll just need to handle whatever debts he has and then be done with it."

"That sounds reasonable. Just keep me posted. Shall we talk tomorrow?"

"Maybe." He wasn't sure he'd be in a mood to talk to anyone tomorrow. "Thanks for letting me talk about all this."

"Of course. I love you, you know. In a friend way."

He chuckled. "And I you, love. Have a lovely Christmas."

"You, too."

He didn't. He polished off the whole bottle of wine while watching Home Alone that evening, and after making one Old Fashioned the following evening, he drank the rest of the whiskey straight from the bottle as he watched It's a Wonderful Life. He missed his home bar, which was waiting for him with his favorite rye whiskey, and brown sugar cubes.

He missed Swan.

Emma.

He loved her.

He held that feeling in his chest as he arrived at the hospice on Boxing Day, as though it were a protective spell. A very understanding hospice worker sat down with him and went over all of the end-of-life information he would need. He was pleased to find that besides a few small debts that needed to be settled (which he could do the next day, very easily), there wasn't much that needed to be taken care of. Just as he'd told Belle, his father had no will or assets—nothing to his name except his debts and the destruction he'd left in his wake in his personal life.

To his surprise, and dismay, his father had several friends (barflies, the lot of them) who were asking about whether or not there might be a funeral. But he had enough saved up that he didn't care about the expense: whatever it took to make this nightmare end, he'd pay. And then he'd finally be free of his past.

He'd resolved to leave after the meeting, but then a nurse poked his head into the room. "Excuse me, you're Edward Jones' son?"

His heart sank. "Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "I just wanted to let you know, your father is conscious and lucid right now. If you want a chance to talk to him, this might be it."

He didn't move right away, his body locked up with indecision. But then he thought of Swan.

He would return home and face her in person for the first time. Did he want to arrive home to tell her that he'd never even seen his father, that he'd essentially left her behind for nothing?

No. He needed to face his fears. He couldn't leave his love behind only to hide in a hotel room for a week. She would want him to be courageous, and so he would be. He felt his love burning in his chest as he stood and followed the nurse.

Had he not known the man in the bed was his father, he would never have guessed. His vague memories of Edward Jones had been of a man who'd looked so similar to Liam, with brown curls and an easy, wide smile. This man's hair was limp and gray, his face wrinkled and gaunt, and his skin tinged yellow with jaundice. But no, this was his father. Bleary eyes met his own.

"Didn't think you'd come." His voice was slurred, as though he were still drunk. It was his voice that was still recognizable; there hadn't been a time when it had sounded any differently.

"I didn't think I would either," Killian replied, happy to be able to be honest.

"Better you than Killian."

He blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Your brother was always too sensitive for his own good. Probably still pissed at me."

Liam. He thought he was talking to Liam. Killian didn't know whether to be proud that he was being confused for his brother, or ashamed. "Probably," he managed to croak out.

"I wasn't going to get it right, you know."

"I—I'm not sure I know what you mean."

His father lifted his hand weakly, as though to wave away the subject. "Bloody bullshit, never mind. Look, it would never have worked out anyway. Better you than me."

"For what?"

"Liam, always asking questions. Doesn't bloody matter. You can tell him that."

Tell him what, he wondered, but, as his father would say, it didn't bloody matter: his father had lost consciousness.

As he left the hospice, a well-meaning nurse, the same one who'd called him to his father's room in the first place, wished him happy holidays and said, "At least you got to talk to him," as though that were cause for celebration.

The following morning, they called to tell him Edward Jones was dead.

What a nice time Killian had in London!

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