FIC: For Love And Revenge, PG-13, Killian/Milah
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Killian Jones, Rumpelstiltskin
Word count: 2867
Summary: "His arm throbs in time with his pulse and his heart aches, and he can't tell if that's an emotional pain from losing the love of his life or a real remnant of the Dark One's attempt to rip out his heart." Killian tries to come to terms with losing Milah and his hand. Tag to 2x04.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
A/N: I'm back, everyone, and since the OUAT community on FF.net seems to be dead, I'm posting this little story here as well in the hopes that somebody will read it. And hopefully you even find some enjoyment in it. It was quite fun to branch out with a different character, and write in a different setting.
For Love And Revenge
“Even demons can be killed,” Killian is aiming for a threatening snarl, but his voice cracks, “I will find a way.”
“Well, good luck living long enough,” replies Rumpelstiltskin, somehow still managing to taunt him even with a hook stuck in his chest, and he disappears in a dark red cloud.
The hook clatters to the deck. Of course it couldn’t have been that easy to kill him, else the Dark One would never have left himself open to such an attack. Killian’s balance feels off as he picks up the hook. Anger and fear can only drive a wounded man so far, and Killian quickly realizes he's reached the end of its capacity to keep him going. And suddenly his legs don't want to hold him up, and he feels like he's going to be sick. He stumbles to the rail of the ship. He doesn't vomit though, and after a brief interval wondering if he will or not, Killian turns and slumps down to the deck, his back against the railing. His first mate, John, is at his side in a moment.
"Get me something to tie off his arm!" calls John, raising Killian's left arm to slow the bleeding.
There's a flurry of movement. Killian's eyes are drawn back to Milah's body. He reaches for her but she’s further away than he thought. He’s suddenly desperate to have her back in his arms, but someone is holding him down and a scream of rage and grief builds in his throat. He doesn’t even have the strength to voice it. A strange coldness has taken over him. He feels as though he’s in a dream. John is tying something tightly around his forearm. Maybe a belt.
"You're gonna be alright, Captain," John says, "But I need you to stay awake, you understand?"
"Aye," murmurs Killian.
He has every intention of staying awake, but when he's pulled to his feet, the world slips away from him.
He dreams of crocodiles and hooks and Milah dying in his arms. He wakes with her name on his lips.
"Easy, now," says a stranger, "Don't be moving around just yet."
Killian recoils, not recognizing where he is, nor the man leaning over him. He’s also none too pleased to realize that he’s shirtless. Lurching sideways, he rolls off the table and he's on his feet in a quick movement. The action awakens all sorts of aches and pains in his body, dizziness suddenly overwhelming, and he reaches for the edge of the table with his left hand to steady himself. There's a brief moment of sickening realization, but it's too late. Killian goes down hard and barely avoids smacking his head on the table on his way. The fall jars his wounded arm, sending shooting pains from his wrist to his elbow and Killian barely holds in a scream.
"Oi, what did I just tell you?" the stranger says, sounding annoyed.
He hauls Killian to his feet and deposits him back on the table with ease, uncaring of the discomfort the further abrupt motion causes to Killian. The stranger is a big man, Killian thinks, and one he could not take in a fight in this condition. So Killian stays where he's put, cradling his burning left arm, hoping that his carefully measured breaths will quell the churning in his stomach. His head is pounding. If Killian didn't know better, he'd almost believe he'd had too much rum the night before. But he does know better, as his mind helpfully supplies him with the vivid memory of Milah going limp in his arms as the Dark One crushed her heart into dust. Killian’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head a little to dispel the image.
"Drink, it will help with the sickness," says the stranger, his voice gentler now that Killian’s being compliant.
Speaking of rum…Killian takes the offered cup and sniffs it cautiously before taking a sip. It’s not rum, of course. It's hot, spicy, somehow feeling both warming and cooling in his mouth. He finishes it quickly and his stomach does feel calmer having done so, so he risks a closer look at his... He was going to call it his hand but it's not anymore, is it? Well, whatever. It's wrapped tightly in thick bandages, blood peeking through faintly, and he can't quite believe that his hand is really gone. He can almost feel his fingers, imagines that if he tried, he could still clench his missing hand into a fist. But obviously when he tries to do that there's no response from his phantom hand. An uncomfortable shiver runs down his spine and Killian swiftly forces his attention outward.
“I assume this is your handiwork?” he asks of the stranger.
"Yes."
“Then I believe you’ve saved my life. You have my thanks.”
The physician only grunts in response and drapes a rather scratchy blanket around Killian. He’s thankful for the security it offers. His shirts are in a blood-stained pile on the floor, except for his leather coat, which the physician has kindly hung on a hook by the door.
“The wound was partially healed already, by magic, I’m told,” the physician explains, “You are a lucky man, Captain. Whoever did this to you wanted you to live.”
There’s a clear question on the man’s face, although he doesn’t voice it and Killian would refuse to answer anyway. A lucky man. He’s the furthest thing from lucky. He’d rather be dead than live a day without Milah. But he had sworn he’d find a way to kill the Dark One, and Killian’s tired misery slowly ignites to anger again. There are footsteps outside the door, and it swings open to reveal John, carrying clean clothes.
"Captain," John says in greeting, and he looks as though he would say something further but thinks better of it.
“If you’re going to ask me when he can leave, the answer is when he can stand up without falling on his face,” the physician declares.
Killian bristles at that.
“I’m fine,” he growls.
And to prove it he forces himself to stand again, though he’s prepared for the dizzy spell this time, and remembers to balance himself with the right hand. But even after the dizziness abates, it’s still a struggle to remain on his feet. Everything hurts. And the physician only raises an eyebrow at Killian’s efforts, clearly not convinced of his ability to leave.
“And without using the table as a crutch?” he asks, even daring to smirk a little.
Killian wants to punch the man for taking that tone with him. Instead he grits his teeth and lets go of the table, clenching his hand into a fist to try to stop it shaking. He doesn't need help. Putting on his shirt and coat proves a little tricky with one hand and his centre of balance refusing to settle, but a warning glance at John keeps his first mate back. He doesn't need help.
“Make sure he gets plenty of rest,” the physician tells John, not Killian, as though John has any say in what his Captain does, “His body has been through a lot. And if he gets feverish--”
"Got it,” snaps Killian, heading for the door before the physician can make any more demands, probably to do with leeches or something.
The walk back to the Jolly Roger is miserable and Killian quickly regrets turning down John’s offer to find him a cart to ride back in. Now he can’t hear John’s words clearly over the rushing sound in his ears that grows louder the further he pushes himself, and eventually John stops trying. Killian’s too focused on walking in a straight line to care what John has to say anyway. His arm throbs in time with his pulse and his heart aches, and he can’t tell if that’s an emotional pain from losing the love of his life or a real remnant of the Dark One’s attempt to rip out his heart. Finally the ship comes into view. Killian steps onto the deck, planting his feet firmly, forcing a smile at his relieved crew. But he knows his body is moments away from betraying him. He mumbles an excuse and quickly heads for his quarters. He barely makes it down the ladder and when he steps off onto the floor, Killian nearly collapses right there. It’s an effort to stagger the last few steps to the bed, and he barely avoids landing on his wounded arm when he flops onto the mattress. He hates being so weak.
Killian's not sure how long it's been before he feels recovered enough to rise. He must have lain there all night because shortly after the fog in his mind dissipates, John brings him food and water, and reminds him that it's time to change the bandages. Killian can’t bring himself to eat. He takes several mouthfuls of rum instead and his eyes dare John to say anything about it. John wisely keeps his mouth shut on the subject.
"Tommy had this made for you," John says instead, and he deposits what appears to be a pile of leather on the table before leaving Killian to his unpleasant task.
Carefully, Killian unwinds the bandages from his… he still catches himself thinking hand. But looking at the swollen, disfigured mess that is the end of his arm for the first time pushes that thought out of his mind. It’s obvious that Rumpelstiltskin’s magical healing had been carefully designed to keep him alive with no regard for anything else. A horrible cold feeling washes over Killian and he can barely hold his right hand steady as he pours some of the rum over his wound to stave off infection, the agony of it nearly more than he can take. There’ll be no leeches around here, just a waste of good rum. It’s a small price to pay. When the pain eases and Killian can see clearly again, he risks standing and examining the item John had left for him. It’s a leather sleeve of sorts designed to fit over the stump of his arm. It has a hole in the centre so Killian can attach a tool of his choice to it, in place of a hand, and straps to hold it firmly in place. He's seen several men with similar fashions. He never dreamed he'd wear one himself.
Once he’s sure he can walk straight, Killian returns to the deck, wounded arm still tucked close to his side. It feels better though, now protected by the leather. The deck has been well scrubbed clean of his blood and… other things. Milah’s crushed heart, Killian’s cruel mind reminds him, ignoring the attempt he’d made to not think of that. But he slips easily back into his role as Captain, barking out orders and shortly they are heading out to sea. Preparing Milah’s body for her burial is a tricky thing with one hand, not helped by the fact that his one hand won’t stop shaking, but the crew has wisely and unanimously decided to leave him to it.
"I will avenge you, love," Killian murmurs to her, emotion choking his voice, "I promise."
Moments later her body is gone, committed to the sea. Killian straightens his back, clenches his jaw. The need for revenge burns in his soul and gives him strength. He knows exactly what he’s going to use in place of his left hand and where he’s going next. Neverland. He’s going to make sure he lives long enough to follow through with his threat of killing Rumpelstiltskin.
Neverland's weather is settled, almost too warm but with a cool breeze that offsets the heat in the sun. Killian finds himself wondering if it does ever change, as he sits on a wooden crate on the Jolly Roger's deck and sharpens his hook. It was already quite sharp to begin with, but Killian wants it to be more so. He imagines how it will now slice into the crocodile’s chest even smoother than the last time and he feels a flicker of satisfaction just at the thought of it, although whether or not this is a weapon he can actually kill the Dark One with remains to be seen.
Killian’s crew treats him differently now and Killian hates it. They didn’t question his decision to come to Neverland, at least not to his face. But he notices their whispers, their looks of sympathy, and he hates how they always rush to help him pull a rope or lift something heavy before he can even attempt to do it himself. And he really hates how he keeps forgetting that he doesn't have a left hand anymore, although he could swear he still feels it there at the end of his arm, and he'll hold out his "hand" for a crew member to pass him something, and when nothing happens, he will turn to them in confusion and a bit of frustration, and they'll be looking back at him with pity because he's reached out with his hook instead. And he will snatch the item out of their hands with his good hand (his only hand) and shout at them to bloody do something else, anything to stop them looking at him like he's broken. Like he's weak. Like he needs any help at all.
Several hours later Killian finds himself regretting ever increasing the sharpness of the hook, as he sits at the table in his quarters with blood streaming down his cheek. He'd gone to scratch an itch there, distractedly and once again forgot for a moment that his left hand was gone. He'd only remembered when he saw shiny metal coming for his face, but it was too late to stop the motion completely, only to lighten the intended touch. Otherwise the damage would have been a lot worse. With a growl of annoyance at his own stupidity, he grabs a clean kerchief from the drawer and presses it against his face. Killian feels like a damn fool. What will his crew think? They already see him as an invalid. No, Killian thinks, they'll never know the truth of this. Because he's a good liar, he knows, falsehoods always flowing easily from his tongue. The cut doesn't bleed much, thankfully, and when Killian looks in the mirror, he can tell it doesn't need stitching. Another thing to be thankful for because while he's sewed his own wounds before, trying to thread a needle with one hand could prove difficult. And that pulls his thoughts to the times where he'd stumble back onto his ship after a long night, sometimes bleeding, sometimes bruised, usually just tired but whatever his condition Milah would be there to piece him back together. Milah. The memory of her smile and her gentle touch on his skin washes over him like a wave of warmth and peace. But in a moment, Killian's traitorous mind decides to remind him of the last time he saw his love, shattering what little comfort he previously found in his thoughts of Milah. Killian's jaw clenches hard and he turns away from the mirror, taking several large gulps of rum to chase down the lump in his throat.
When Killian finally returns to the deck, he's radiating such a dark fury that none of the crew dare to ask what happened to his face, so Killian doesn't get to spin a story. Although, the way he's feeling now, he'd likely threaten to make them walk the plank just for asking, so it's for the best. Killian’s terrible mood isn’t helped at all by the fact his hand, his missing left hand, keeps seizing up with imaginary cramps at all hours of the night. Killian assumes this secondary torment has been deliberately inflicted on him by Rumpelstiltskin’s magic to further his suffering. As if it’s not already enough that the crocodile killed Milah and crippled Killian. Killian spends many hours lying on his bed in the dark, face pressed hard into his pillow to muffle his groans and whimpers and curses, holding his aching arm close to his chest. It's all too much and Killian feels as though he may go mad with the anger consuming his soul, a raging fire that will burn him right down until there's nothing left, if he can't get it to simmer down. He stares out to sea, breathing in the salty air deeply, trying to calm himself. The sky and sea meet unhindered at the horizon, except for the spot where the island is. There’s still not a cloud to be seen. The wind feels warm now.
END