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Healer Of Souls
It starts with a headache. Just a minor one, an ache somewhere behind Killian’s left eye, making him lethargic and irritable. He brushes it off. He’s had headaches before, some far worse than this, and tolerated them fine. But by noon, around the same time his skin starts to feel tight and raw, it’s blossomed into a full migraine. Killian’s carefully constructed façade is moments from shattering to pieces and he quickly excuses himself. He just needs to sleep, he’s sure.
Thankfully none of the people he passes on his way to Granny’s seemed to notice his discomfort. By the time he slips into his room, Killian’s ears are ringing and his head is spinning. His clothes feel too rough against his heated skin and he strips down to his underwear. The straps of his brace seem to bite into his arm in a way they haven’t since the last time he’d had to replace the worn out thing, before the new leather became soft and supple once more from so much use. His fingers tremble as they work to unlatch the buckles and he almost whines with desperation, before it finally releases him and he can collapse into bed. But unfortunately, despite how drained he feels, sleep doesn’t seem to be something he can do right now. He can’t get comfortable. Too hot, too cold, and his head won’t stop pounding. Killian drifts in and out of a restless doze, his mind clouded, feverish thoughts running rampant. He ends up on his back, blanket drawn up to his chest, and he can’t bring himself to move again even though he’s broken out in a sweat now and his bare skin prickles where the blanket rests on it. He’s panting softly, an involuntary reaction to his distress, but he dares not make a sound beyond that, lest he draw attention to his pathetic state.
“Killian?”
The voice draws him back from torturous visions twisted from pain and fever. There’s a knocking sound at the door.
“Killian, are you in there?”
Emma. The door isn’t locked. He’d been too focused on throwing off his clothes and collapsing into bed to even think of locking it behind him; an oversight he’s severely regretting now. A cough rattles up through his chest and he can’t stifle it. Bloody hell. Now she’s definitely going to come in and see him, all sweaty and trembling and weak and there’s nothing he can do about it. He slips his left arm under the blanket.
“I’m coming in,” Emma warns, and the door swings open slowly.
So predictable, his Swan. She peeks around the door, like she’s worried about what she’ll find. But somewhere between her glance at the garments on the floor (lingering just a little too long on his discarded brace, sending a chill of anxiety down his spine) and then at him lying in bed, the caution drops from her demeanor and morphs into concern. Pity. He hates to see it. Emma slips inside the room and the door latches closed behind her.
“Killian? Belle said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m alright,” Killian tries, but his quiet voice rasps painfully in his dry throat and does not convince Emma at all.
She is next to him now, the back of her knuckles dragging lightly over his forehead. He detests how soothing the touch is. How long has it been since he’s been treated with such affection on his sickbed? Not since Milah. And he doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he’s done.
“You’re burning up,” she says, her voice sharp with accusation.
The noise reverberates through his aching head, but Killian can’t bring himself to complain. This is what he’s earned. Her anger. Her hate.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.
Emma moves away, like she’s leaving, and Killian feels both relief and a terrible sense of loss at the thought. But either she didn’t hear him, or she’s chosen to ignore him, because she doesn’t leave the room, and momentarily, she returns to his side with a damp cloth. The bed dips as she sits beside him, and the motion seems to rattle all his bones. Killian grits his teeth to keep from giving away how much it hurt, but when Emma rests the cloth across his forehead, the cool feeling of comfort is too much and draws a soft moan of relief from Killian against his will. He feels his already fever-flushed face heat even more with embarrassment.
“Feels good, huh?” Emma asks with an amused smile.
He doesn’t want her here. He just wants to be left alone. Her touch is more than he can bear but at the same time, he craves it more than anything else. He doesn’t answer her.
“Is your head hurting?”
Her voice is soft now. Her hand rests gently against his chest and it burns his sensitive skin. He fights the instinct to recoil from it.
“A little,” he lies.
It has subsided from what it was, Killian justifies as his conscience rails against him.
“I’ll get you something for it,” Emma says.
And jostles him again by standing up. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, tries to hold down the cough tickling somewhere in his lungs.
“You’ve probably got the flu,” Emma says distantly, and he hears a cupboard open, something rattling, water running, “It’s been going around.”
And then she is back again, and she takes the cloth off his forehead.
“Sit up.”
Killian’s honestly not sure if sitting up is something he’s capable of doing. Or something he should be doing. But he can’t refuse her. As expected, when he pushes himself up, his head throbs mercilessly, dark spots dancing across his vision. The blanket falls to his waist. The room slides away. Emma catches him, stopping the motion. It was him sliding away. Not the room, of course.
“Whoa, easy,” she says, a little bit of alarm in her tone, her hands holding him too tightly.
The pain drags a pathetic whimper from his throat as he slumps helplessly into Emma’s arms. His blunted wrist is exposed to her for the first time, and he feels more naked right now that if he truly was naked. I should have left the bloody brace on. Humiliation coils in his chest, but he’s too weak to move. His pulse is too quick, pulling fire through his veins.
“It’s okay, Killian,” Emma’s murmuring, soothing him, her voice tethering him to reality as he fights for control, “I’ve got you. It’s okay. Is it your head?”
She isn’t paying any mind to his scarred wrist. And he’s too far gone to hide anything anymore. He’s both finding and losing himself in her scent, her arms, her voice. His hand trembles where it rests on her forearm. His forehead catches itself on her shoulder.
“Yes,” Killian admits miserably, “And my… everything else.”
“Okay,” she says, “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s take a minute.”
He wants to take much more than a minute. He wants an hour. A day. An eternity in Emma’s embrace. If only he didn’t feel so unwell and he could fully appreciate this moment, how he’s pressed against her like this, instead of just seeking comfort from it like a child. And then Emma’s shifting, her body close against his side, her arm across his back.
“Swallow these,” she says, pressing some pills into his hand, “Don’t chew them. And I’ve got some water here to wash them down.”
He swallows them quickly, but his hand shakes quite badly when he picks up the glass. Another wave of shame washes over him when Emma has to help him bring the cup to his lips. And more when she assists him to lay down again. He hasn’t felt so vulnerable in a long time and he curses his body for its fragility.
“Get some sleep, Killian,” Emma says, pulling the blanket back over him.
When she steps away, he closes his eyes and thinks that’s the end of it. She’ll walk through that door and finally leave him alone, which is nothing less than what he deserves. But instead she returns with the cloth again, freshly soaked in cold water, and lays it across his forehead once more. His body slowly melts into the mattress, pain pulled away on the tide of medication and comfort.
“Thank you,” Killian whispers.
END