#Wake Doctor's pants w/ the second dye channel in metallic blue

[humblemooncat]

I'm blue-

Vanguard finally deigned to drop the Viper top for me, so of course I had to take some celebratory photos. :3c

[euphoric-melancholyy]

On Sleepless Roads (1/3)

This fic is a love letter to the characters of Emma Swan and Killian Jones. It is a fic that has been in the works for over nine months and I am so excited to share it with everyone. It started with filming spoilers of our favorite female protagonist being stabbed on a dark, foggy night in Storybrooke and it grew from there. Season 6 Canon divergence. 

(Tagging @acrobat-elle and @lovebecomeshim upon request.) 

Ao3    FF   Part 2  Part 3

One night of peace is all they were granted before the next crisis began. One night to recover from the aftermath of darkness and secrets, hell and death, before Mr. Hyde made his presence in town known. But with Killian by her side, it didn’t seem to matter in the long run. The moment she saw him above the place his body had been laid to rest, a question in the call of her name, she decided to fight for her own happiness. Maybe the savior could have a happy ending as well. Maybe this was it.

That was what she had believed before she found herself here.

“Ah, the infamous Savior. Do you really think yourself a match for me?” She can’t see his face, the cloaked figure that’s far too reminiscent of past Dark Ones. With the edge of his blade threatening Henry’s throat, she draws her sword, sighing in relief when the action grants her son’s release. Killian grabs Henry the moment he’s near.  

Cold air bites at her skin, slips into the gap between her sweater and back, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She tightens her grip on her father's sword. “I think you’ll find yourself surprised.”

“Perhaps. But you can’t fight wounded.” She feels the ground give beneath her first - knees stinging with a thud as they hit concrete. There’s a thick sticky crimson covering her hands where she’s holding them at her side and oh god -

The dagger poking out of torn flesh burns - a hot searing pain that stifles her breathing. It hurts. It aches, throbbing with a sharp pain paralleled by nothing she has felt before. Her cry is a high pitched wince as her body curves into itself and dammit it hurts. She tries to focus on the roughness of the unpaved road at her knees, but she can feel the sensation fading, can feel herself fading with it. The moment she moves, a small shift as her legs give out, it comes back with a fury.

Muffled words grow louder as the world around her comes back into focus, Killian’s panicked voice the only thing she can hear.

“What’s wrong? Emma, Emma, love talk to me!”

Her eyes burn too, and she tries to blink against the dust clouding them, moaning in pain at the knife lodged into her side. “Killian,” she breathes, leaning into his chest as his arms wrap around her. Magic pulsates beneath her palms but does nothing to heal the wound or stop the bleeding. “Son of a bitch.” It's gritted between closed teeth, and she tries again to no avail.

Killian’s hand is cold as it roams across her shoulders and down to her back, frantically searching for something he can’t seem to find. He repeats her name, a panicked fear she can feel rise in his chest with every inhale.

“I’m-” His hand finds hers with calloused fingers pressing further into the wound - adding kerosene to what might have been a dulling spark. She reels forward as the lights flicker on, an anguished cry at the contact. It seems to summon Henry, the absolute last person she wants to see her in this state. But before she can tell him to leave, he's scavenging for keys as Killian lifts her into his arms. Her request would have fallen on deaf ears anyway.

“Come on, Swan. I’m getting you to a hospital.”

-/-/-

She wakes to white, blinking in finally clear vision. The persistent beeping from machines and wires twisted around her arm only add to her disorient and she hears more than feels the familiar crinkle of leather shifting next to her. Curved, cool metal rests atop her hand that she now registers as being interlocked with Killian’s. It’s a second of blissful peace - another stolen quiet moment that only a couple nights ago, she thought they’d never have again. She turns her head to his, thumb reaching up to smooth the worry lines etched into his forehead. Reality, however, is setting back in, and with it is a rising panic. “What happened?”

“Your faithful pirate and son brought you in a few hours ago,” Dr. Whale begins. She wants to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he seems to be Storybrooke’s only doctor. In the end she settles for avoiding eye contact. “You were pretty out of it, something about being stabbed. But whatever it was, you were in a lot of pain. So, I sedated you and ran some tests.”

“What are you talking about? I was stabbed.” She looks to Killian, the confusion furrowing his brows creating a deep anxiety in her chest.

“Hook, would you like to tell her what you told me?” Whale asks.

Killian nods, squeezing her hand just a little tighter. “Love, what do you remember?”

“We were in front of Gold’s shop and Hyde had one of his minions there, a guy in a black cloak, so I couldn’t see his face. He threatened to hurt Henry, so I pulled my sword and the next thing I know, he stabs me. Then you brought me here.”

“Emma,” It’s barely a whisper, his face breaking. There’s an unease that settles in the silence that follows. It’s the first chance she gets to really look at him. His leather jacket is hanging on the arm of his chair, and instead he’s donning a pair navy pajama pants she bought him with a plain white tee. His hair is a complete mess and she itches to run her fingers through it, tame what sleep and worry has done. He gives her a soft smile, saddened blue eyes staring into emerald, and she bites her bottom lip. “We were sleeping- you woke up screaming. . .You weren’t stabbed.”

“Oh.” It’s all she can muster. When Henry first came to her door, telling a tale of a cursed town and parents that loved her and sent her through a magical wardrobe to protect her from the doom they were to face from the Evil Queen, it was the first of many times where Emma Swan had difficulty in discerning reality from fantasy. Everything she knew was flipped on it’s axis, and yet her gut told her it was right. But this. . .

She would have put everything she had on it being real. How could something so vividly painful not be? It’s not as if Emma is unfamiliar with nightmares-- she spent the majority of her life learning to differentiate between the shadows in her dreams and the ones in her waking hours.

Maybe her sanity was left in the Underworld.

“You’ve been through a lot lately, between all that drama with your parents and then becoming The Dark One. Not to mention losing our boy here-”

“What exactly are you getting to, Whale?” She interrupts, the fear and anxiety shifting into anger.

“Maybe I’m not the doctor you should be seeing. Maybe, and I’m not a psychologist, but maybe your subconscious was channeling what happened with Hook, how he died, into your dream. You’ve been under almost constant stress. Saviors aren’t exempt from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Yeah and doctor’s aren’t exempt from bad dye jobs.”

“Emma! You're awake!” Snow exclaims as she walks into the room with David. Dr. Whale takes their entrance as a chance to exit and Emma sighs. As welcome as her parents interruption is, there are still questions about what the tests read that she would like answered. But mostly she dreads telling them it might have all been in her head.

“Is Henry okay?”

“He’s fine.” David replies, sending a small smile in Emma’s direction.  “A little freaked out and worried, but we all are. How are you feeling?”

“Better...Can we go home now?”

Her eyes find Killian’s at the end of the question, her heartbeat evening out at the understanding reflected back. It’s their own secret language, reading beneath the surface of what words are not spoken. The words that are laced with worry and anxiety, that say I’m scared and tired. She wonders if he feels it too.

“Aye, love. But first,” he unhooks her from the machines that keep her bound in the small, fluorescent lit room. “We wouldn’t want to take this bloody, beeping contraption with us.”

“Are you sure?” Emma can see the hesitance written on her mother’s face before she speaks. It's obvious by the bags under her eyes that Emma isn't the only one who’s had difficulty sleeping lately. “I mean, what did the doctor say?”  

“It’s nothing.”  Emma knows they’re worried for her; even with it being nearly quarter to five in the morning, she doesn’t miss the pinched expression flash across her mother’s face. But her head is swimming and her stomach churns with what she’s afraid to admit and all she wants is Killian’s lips pressed to the base of her throat, his arms tightly wrapped around her middle, holding her together from a wound she didn’t receive. “Can we just talk about it in the morning? I’m really tired and I want to get out of here.”

“Uh,” Snow nods, glancing over at David before continuing.  “Sure. Why don’t you two come stay with us tonight? I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”

“Rain check? I kinda just want to go home. But I’ll see you all later, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long night.”

She hugs her parents before departing with her arm snaked around Killian’s waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

They move slowly through the streets, Emma leaning her full weight against her pirate. He keeps his arm tight around her, though her grip is tighter, humming softly to her as the birds wake and harmonize. It’s not until he’s helped her up the stairs, his kisses soft against her hairline and his fingers moving deftly to disrobe her jacket and clothes, that she realizes it’s a lullaby. She wants to ask him where he heard it, if his own mother sang it to him, if there are lyrics, but he lifts her into bed and lies down next to her. She forgets her questions and shuffles until her ear is pressed against the hollow of his throat, his pulse replacing his tune as her own heart starts to beat in time. It’s enough.

-/-/-

He finds her in the kitchen, fingers tapping against her coffee mug - the one with an anchor and “a pirates life for me” embroidered in black. She had bought it during their six weeks of peace, offering it to him with a bright grin and a terrible impersonation of his accent as she asked him “What do you think of this one, love?”. He wishes she still wore that infectious smile now and not the worry and exhaustion lacing her brows. He had fallen asleep once they returned home, but she had not succumbed, choosing instead to curl up in his arms long after the first sign of light shone through the window.

“You made breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s still warm,” she sets the mug down to place the plates she had prepared on the table. He’s by her side before she reaches her destination, hand clasping around her wrist, thumb gently circling around the ink of her tattoo.

“Swan, talk to me. Trust me, drowning yourself in your thoughts never ends well.”

“What if Dr. Whale was right? What if I'm just slowly going insane and that's my fate as the Savior?”

He frowns at this, fury mixing with a sharp ache. Confessions made in the dead of night and mused with tales of her past create a chasm of self doubts as deep as his own. Still, it takes him aback to see how easily she discharges her own credibility. It was real. The pain she was in as real as the house they now stood in.  And he tells her as much. “I was right there with you, remember? That pain was real. I’ve seen magic do terrible things. We might not have been able to see it, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t feel it.”

“You think this was some sort of dark magic?”

“Aye.” He smiles at her, trying to convey his belief in her, but she sits a bit warily and he thinks he might’ve missed the mark. He drops to the table and swirls the fork in his hand. “Perhaps we could take a trip to Regina’s after your parents.”

Emma’s shoulders drop and she nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

-/-/-

Regina's house is surprisingly clean, considering. In the small amount of time between leaving the Underworld and Zeus reviving Killian, Emma had managed to tear her own house apart. (She had been able to keep herself together during the day as she searched, but nightfall crept in, with every inch of pain singing of a lost future, a lost true love, and grief consumed her. With the evil half of Regina gone, she can only imagine how she’s coping.)  

Henry nearly knocks Emma over with the force of his hug (When had he gotten so big?) and she laughs, ruffling his hair. “Hey, kid. Is Regina around?”  

“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen. Are you feeling better?”

“That’s actually what I am here to talk about. Can you hang with Killian for a bit?”

Henry nods before leading Killian upstairs, likely for another pop culture lesson. She can’t help the smile that brightens her face whenever her true loves are together. It’s small miracle, she thinks, that two of the most important men in her life have formed such a strong bond. They seemed to have developed their own language, with jokes she doesn’t quite get and secrets shared while drifting away at sea. Killian has become such an integral part of Henry’s growth into a young man and it warms her burdened heart to know that no matter what Henry has Killian to lean on.

Emma grants herself one last look up the grand staircase before trekking through the house in search of Regina. She finds her elbows deep in a sink brimming with suds and dirty dishes. “I thought you’d be too refined for dishes.” Emma remarks, offering a small smile.

“Yeah, well I’m a mother too. And mother’s don’t get the privilege of skipping these tasks.” She fidgets with the faucet until the water comes to a stop, drying her hands on a towel next to her. “So,” Regina pauses, noticing the downcast expression on her face. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

“It’s. . .Do you know anything about a dark magic making a dream feel real?”

“Like a sleeping curse?”

“Not exactly. More like, if you’re injured in a dream, once you wake up, you can still see and feel the effects of that injury. . .”

“Did you go to the hospital last night over a nightmare?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know what it was. I thought I was stabbed until Killian told me I wasn’t. Whale wrote it off as PTSD and stress, but I’m not crazy. I know what I felt, what I saw.”

“Start from the beginning.”

And she does. She tells her of standing in the street with the black cloaked man, her family behind her and the knife to Henry’s throat. She describes the best she can the unbearable pain that took over when that same knife pierced her side, the blood pooling at her hands even as Killian had lifted her into his arms, the blade still lodged into her flesh. She recalls how she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through dust that blocked her vision and burned in her eyes and -

“That doesn’t fit. You wouldn’t feel dust burning in your eyes from a stab wound.” Regina interrupts, her eyes widening as she pieces together a possible diagnosis.  “In the storybook Henry took from the library, there was this one story that I could have sworn was merely legend. What do you know of the sandman?”

“Oh Mr. Sandman bring me a dream, make him the cutest I’ve ever seen?” Emma singsongs.

“In the book, the Sandman is a generational curse. I bet you those dreams don’t have to be happy.”

“Wait, so you think that the Sandman is haunting me?”

“There are so many new residents in town, Hyde and his untold stories...it has to be him.” The former queen bounces out of her chair before making her way to the other side of the room. She reaches up onto a shelf, pulling out a book similar to Henry’s. “Take this.”

“Thank you.” Emma replies. It feels inadequate as she stares at the eloquent writing across the cover of the book - Once Upon a Time - knowing that a piece of Regina’s happiness has been so recently ripped away. And yet, she’s still helping, not retrieving into grief as Emma had done.  “Seriously, thank you. And if there’s anything I can do-”

“Just go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“Yeah, okay.”

-/-/-

When sleep comes, so do the monsters. This time it’s magic slamming her against the clock tower, her head throbbing with an intensity that carries past the dream and into the real world. Killian awakes to the sound of her soft moan as she rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door.

“Swan?”

“Go back to sleep, Killian. I’m just getting some ice.”

Instead of listening, he runs after her, helping her down the stairs to retrieve the treasure she was seeking, sitting her down on the couch. She feels warm in his arms, almost as if she could succumb back into slumber once the pain dulls. (She knows she won’t, but hopes Killian does.)

Maybe that’s the Sandman’s plan.