Work Text:
'How much of my father am I destined to become?'
'Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?'
“Killian!”
The unexpected shout, originating from upstairs, was enough to make his head shoot out of the book in his hand, a small frown crossing his brow. It was an excited yell, almost a squeal – a noise he had never heard from Emma before – but one most certainly filled with joy, so he inferred there was no reason to panic; something of a miracle given all they had been through. Even still, the noise, the shout; it confused him.
Emma bounding down the stairs, with all the enthusiasm of her overexcited little brother on Christmas Day, only added to his befuddlement. The Emma who all-but hopped, skipped, and jumped into the front room scarcely resembled the dead-on-her-feet Emma that he had seen only an hour ago. The transformation was as impressive as it was remarkable. She had been exhausted, complaining that she felt totally drained, to the point where he had ended up carrying her up the stairs and into their bedroom, as she could barely face moving. When he had expressed his worries that her tiredness was becoming a frequent occurrence, she had shooed him out, insisting that she would be perfectly fine once she caught up on rest.
An hour had passed, and it appeared she had been correct. The short nap seemed to have rejuvenated her, turning her into a bundle of energy which was only unnerving him in that he wasn’t used to seeing her quite so animated. Emma stopped right in front of him, a huge grin on her face which met her green eyes and made them sparkle.
“Feeling better, love?” Killian remarked, raising an eyebrow at the vast improvement he saw before him.
She didn’t answer his question directly.
Instead, she drew his attention to an item she held in her hand, by holding it out towards him, and exclaimed, “Look!”
Killian did look, but he had no bloody clue what he was looking at. Every time he thought he was completely up to date with the technology and other advancements of the Land Without Magic, a new one would crop up for him to marvel at. The latest one didn’t look at all impressive, merely resembling a stick, only instead of wood it was, of course, made of plastic. It was mostly white, with a pink end to it, and an indent in the centre within which were two thin lines.
He failed to understand Emma’s excitement at such a device, it’s function most definitely lost on him. He flicked his eyes from the object back up onto Emma, finding her staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to share her excitement. The only thing he felt was lost.
“It’s…” he drew out, hoping for a hint or, even better, a sudden realization.
Neither came. Emma just nodded at him enthusiastically, her head seeming to bounce like one of those ridiculous bobble head dogs that people in this land liked to put in their cars.
“…a stick?” Killian finished hesitantly, aware that Emma had been hoping for a different reaction from him to what, seemingly, was nothing more than a piece of plastic.
“Well, that was anti-climatic,” Emma huffed, dropping her hand back to her side, the unidentified object along with it. “You really don’t know what it is?”
“Am I supposed to?” Killian responded.
“It’s a pregnancy test,” Emma filled him in.
They had tests for that? The scientific advancements of the Land Without Magic never failed to surprise him. He glanced at the shape of the item – the long, narrow stick – and promptly decided that he did not need to know the exact details as to how the tests were carried out.
Not immediately, at least. Clarification was more pressing.
“You took… a pregnancy test?” he checked slowly.
“Yes!” Emma nodded eagerly, her enthusiasm and smile returning. “And look! There’s two lines!”
“I have no bloody clue what that means, love,” Killian told her.
Even though he wasn’t following her at all, and still felt rather lost, there was a bemused smile on his face, simply from watching her own expressions of glee. They had fought hard, against curses, magic and various enemies, for these moments of happiness.
“It means I’m pregnant,” Emma resorted to spelling it out for him. “Killian, you’re going to be a father.”
The grin on Killian’s face faltered, and then disappeared entirely as he took the time to process the news. Emma took a seat on the couch next to him, leaning into his side, before splurging out a ton of information about doctor appointments and stages of pregnancy, none of which went in. It was all just noise to him. His only focus was on the rapid speed at which the words were escaping her mouth and the animated hand movements which accompanied them.
It didn’t take a body language expert – an actual career (that people were paid for) in the Land Without Magic, he had discovered – to determine that Emma was thrilled at the prospect of being a mother again. Killian had seen her with Henry, and he had watched her when they had babysat little Neal over the years; there was no debating that she would be a great mother to their child.
Their child.
Killian could scarcely believe it. It didn’t feel real; that he and Emma had created life, that a child was growing inside her that very moment.
Perhaps it wasn’t real?
Had he fallen asleep?
It was the only explanation which made any logical sense to him. It had to be, he decided, that he had drifted off whilst reading his book and been thrown into the nightmare unfolding before him.
Nightmare? No. Dream.
He was dreaming that Emma was pregnant because having a child would be a good thing for them… right?
“…currently about the size of a prune.”
He took in a snippet of the whirlwind of information Emma was throwing at him.
A prune to whom he would be – was – a father.
Father.
What did that even mean?
“Killian,” Emma spoke as she took his hands in hers; her light touch, and the slight coolness of her skin against his, pulling him from his thoughts. She leaned in close, her green eyes locking with his blue. “This is a good thing, right?”
His question, exactly!
He knew it was supposed to be a good thing. He knew that Emma thought it was a good thing. The one thing he didn’t know was why he was struggling with it so much.
“It’s good,” Killian agreed in a daze, resorting to forcing a smile.
Because why the bloody hell did he feel so damn terrified?
It turned out it wasn’t a nightmare – no, dream – it was his reality; a completely terrifying – no, amazing – reality in which fatherhood was heading for him at an alarmingly – no, excitingly – fast rate. Ten weeks had flown by since Emma had bounded down the stairs and broken the mind-blowing news and, all of a sudden, he found himself at the hospital with Emma, awaiting their first pregnancy appointment. The feeling of terror, which had subsided as they’d promptly returned to going about their normal lives, had come crashing back down on top of him as soon as he had stepped into the hospital.
He needed to get out of there. Fast.
It was a need which wasn’t going to get met any time soon. He sat impatiently drumming his fingers against the cool metal armrest of his uncomfortable chair. There was only so much toing and froing he could watch the hospital staff do before he became bored out of his mind. His eyes flicked to the clock on the sterile white walls, confirming what he already knew; the appointments were running way behind. They should have been seen thirty minutes ago.
They could have been out of the bloody place, already!
His eyes fell on Ella and Thomas, seated on the other side of the waiting room. The couple were expecting their second child, and both wore smiles of gleeful anticipation upon their faces. Thomas had his hand resting on Ella’s stomach as she leaned against him, presumably looking for something more comfortable than the horrible metal chairs.
Killian glanced over at Emma beside him. She had a small bump, nowhere near as big as Ella’s who was months ahead of them in the process, but it was growing by the week. Emma had her own hands placed on her stomach, an action which – if he were to go by the mountain of pregnancy books Emma had bought – marked an unspoken language of love between her and the unborn baby.
He had never carried out such an action himself. A glance back at Ella confirmed Thomas still had his hand on her stomach. Killian found himself getting hit by a wave of doubt. Was he supposed to do that? Didn’t he love his unborn child?
“Killian!”
He was nudged in the side by Emma, pulling him out of his thoughts before he could work out the answer to that question. Except, he realized immediately, there was nothing to work out. Love towards his own child was unconditional. That much he was sure of, that much he knew without having to place his hand on Emma’s stomach. He could already feel the love for that child, rooted deeply within him.
So why the bloody hell was he still completely terrified?
“Killian!” Emma snapped his name.
He turned to her, “Huh?”
“We’re up,” she told him with a small smile of anticipation.
She pointed up at the screen on the waiting room wall which was being used to call patients to their appointments. Sure enough, the name Emma Swan was lit up in bold white lettering against the blue background, accompanied by Room Four to direct them.
Emma led the way, taking off at speed as if she were in hot pursuit of a suspect evading arrest. He found himself hurrying to keep up with her as she navigated the corridors like the back of her hand. He wasn’t at all surprised at how well she knew the layout, given the number of times she had been there over the years.
They were at room four within half a minute and Emma pushed the door open, being greeted immediately by the sonographer inside.
“Oh my gosh, guys!” the sonographer – Olivia – all but squealed. “I’m so happy for you both!”
“Thank you,” Emma replied, “though we aren’t telling anyone just yet.”
Storybrooke being the small town it was meant that everyone knew everyone and, as the Savior who had saved the town, and its inhabitants, on countless occasions, Emma could barely so much as buy hot chocolate (with cinnamon) at Granny’s without everyone knowing about it. Killian was surprised that no one had figured out their latest news already.
Emma had insisted they kept it on the downlow, with a splurge of information about pregnancies being at greater risk of complications in the first trimester. He hadn’t really understood it, but he’d gone with it, mostly keeping out of all the baby stuff, content to leave it to Emma. He certainly wasn’t in much of a hurry to tell anyone.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Olivia waved a dismissive hand. “Patient confidentiality. I won’t tell a soul! Though, I will say, everyone is going to be so excited when you do announce the news! I still remember the buzz around town when your parents were expecting Neal.”
Killian hovered in the doorway, staring at Olivia, perplexed by her gushing and the level of excitement that she was exhibiting. Anyone would have thought that she was the one who was pregnant. In just a minute, she had radiated more excitement than he had felt over the past ten weeks.
He wanted that. He wanted to be excited at the prospect of having a mini-me running around, and at teaching the child to sail and how to use a sword, but something was pulling him back. Something was making it so that whenever he so much as thought about being a father, he was hit by complete and utter dread.
Looking around the room at the various devices, the function of many completely unknown to him, only multiplied the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. Since Emma had told him that she was pregnant nothing had really changed. They’d gone to work, they’d dropped by her parents’ every-so-often, and they had taken the odd sailing day trip. Other than Emma no longer consuming alcohol, buying the odd pregnancy book, and occasional musings about the nursery, they had mostly gone about their lives as normal. For the most part, he could pretend that things were normal. Standing in the doorway of the ultrasound room meant it was starting to feel real. He couldn’t push it to the back of his mind any longer. He couldn’t run from it anymore.
“Killian, come in and shut the door,” Emma prompted him.
He cleared his throat, sending her a small smile, “Right, of course, love.”
He ventured into the room, pushing the door shut behind him as instructed, and took the empty seat positioned beside the bed that Emma was lying on. She took ahold of his hand, sending him an excited smile which he did his best to replicate in return. He still didn’t feel that bloody excitement. All he felt was terror.
“Alright!” Olivia was grinning from ear-to-ear – someone clearly loved their job – as she pulled some protective gloves over her hands. “Let’s get right to the exciting part and take a look at your little one, shall we?”
Killian had no clue what it was that Olivia did next. It was the Land Without Magic so he knew that, if he asked, she would give him a scientific explanation that he would not follow. As far as he was concerned, however, it was magic, for she had rubbed some kind of potion onto Emma’s bump and then a black and white image of their child had appeared on the screen. He had done nothing but gape at the image as Olivia had determined the baby to look to be developing well and then proceeded to point out various features on the screen.
Olivia handed Emma a physical copy of the image on the screen. She passed it on to him as she started asking questions and delved into a deep discussion with Olivia over future tests and scans, nutrients, and vitamins. It all went over Killian’s head; he wasn’t listening, continuing to stare at the scan in his hand, processing exactly what was happening.
It was a picture of his child; a physical picture, their first picture, and he had it right there in his hand. The very hand that was sweating against the photographic paper.
It was real now.
His heart started beating fast, threatening to jump out of his chest.
There was physical proof of the child’s existence, beyond Emma’s bump and that stick device thing.
His breathing quickened.
There was no denying it. There was a child growing inside Emma; one that would come to depend on him as he once depended upon his own parents.
His chest tightened.
There really was no running from it anymore.
He couldn’t breathe.
He had to run. He had to get away.
He stood up abruptly. The chair legs scrapped against the floor. Two sets of eyes turned on him. He thrust the child’s picture at Emma.
“I’m sorry,” he forced out between sharp breaths, “I can’t.”
He didn’t wait around. He shot out the door like a bullet from a barrel. A series of hospital corridors. No windows. He needed to get outside. He needed air. The red exit signs lit his way. He burst through the doors, into sunlight, into fresh air. He dropped onto a bench. Closed his eyes. Tight.
Breathed. In. Out.
In. Out.
Slow.
Calm.
For a moment, for the briefest of moments; calm.
Then it was gone, as quickly as it had come, and a wave of guilt crashed over him. He had left. He had thrown the only picture of their child at Emma and ran. He’d left them.
“Killian?”
Emma. Gentle. Cautious. She placed her hand on his.
There was no running from her, from it. She knew her; she wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t run from it. He didn’t want to run from it. He wanted to do better.
In the fresh air, with Emma, so understanding and patient for an explanation, things were clearer; things were starting to make sense. He was still terrified, just as he had been for ten long weeks, but, finally, the reason for his terror was apparent. For weeks he had tortured himself for being so terrified of his own child, but he had gotten it all wrong. It wasn’t his child he was terrified of; it was himself. He was terrified of becoming the man he had hated for so long, the man he had driven himself to kill; he was terrified of becoming his father, of running from his child when they needed him most.
He opened his eyes, meeting Emma’s. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see anger or frustration in her green eyes, yet he only saw concern.
“I’m bloody terrified, love,” he confessed, allowing himself to be vulnerable with her; he trusted her, with everything.
“I know,” she replied softly. “It’s a big step, and it’s not something we were expecting quite so soon, but you are going to be brilliant.”
Killian dropped his gaze to the floor and gave a small shake of his head. He dared to pose the question, to speak the words out loud, “What if I’m just like him?”
“Like who?” Emma asked.
“I believe the saying goes ‘like father, like son’,” Killian expanded.
“No. Not you, not your father,” Emma protested adamantly. “I know you; I know the man you are. You won’t abandon our child for your own selfish reasons. That’s not you.”
“What compels you to put so much faith in me, Swan?” he asked.
“You do,” she stated. “You stand up and you fight for what you believe in, no matter the cost, no matter the sacrifice. Now, take this and look at it.”
She held out the scan photograph for him once again. He eyed it carefully and she shook it gently to prompt him to take it. He reached for it, holding it between his thumb and first finger, and dropped his gaze onto the image. It was blurry, it was black and white, but it was his child. The child wasn’t doing anything of note, just growing and developing, and yet, looking at that single image, Killian had never felt so much pride.
“And answer me one question, just one,” Emma continued. “Do you believe in her?”
Killian raised an eyebrow at her choice of words, “Her?”
“It’s a gut feeling,” Emma shrugged with a small smile. “So? Do you believe in her?”
“Aye, with all my heart,” Killian said.
Speaking to Emma, voicing his thoughts and concerns, getting it all off his chest had done wonders in alleviating his terror. Where he had once felt fear, all he felt, as his gaze returned to the image in his hand, was hope. Hope for the future, and hope for his family.
He lifted his left arm and gently guided his hook over his child’s image as he murmured, “I'll forever endeavour to do right by you, little one.”