It's not fair to tolerate discomfort to make someone else comfortable. You're not less deserving of joy, rest and happiness than anyone else. You don't have to prove yourself worthy to have the most basic things in life, and I am sorry someone has made you feel like you should be perfect. You don't have to put up with so much only to prove you're not a burden on others. I hope soon you can let go of all this guilt and shame you have for simply existing. I hope soon you will feel more alive than ever.
If you're not treated right, your first response should not be "let me prove how valuable I actually am, they just don't see it yet". That mindset is toxic and you're going about it the wrong way. Instead, your response should be "they don't see my value, that's on them. Clearly, we don't resonate. I have nothing to prove. Time to replace them with something/someone who does". Your response should be walking away from anything that is not nourishing your spirit.
*not a new story, I just can't find it on my tumblr lol so I'm reposting to tag it correctly 😆
Fandom: Once Upon A Time (Captain Swan)
Author: cosette141
Words: 6k (oneshot)
Summary: After getting her hand broken in Neverland, Emma is struck with the realization of just how debilitating Hook's life has been since losing his hand. In more ways than just physically. oneshot
"Ow!"
"Sorry, sorry," said Mary Margaret, and Emma winced hard as her mother prodded at her hand. "David?" she called nervously, and within seconds, the leaves rustled as David broke through them, sword drawn.
"What's—" David began, then halted when he saw Emma and Mary Margaret sitting on the ground.
Emma, who was still trying feebly to steal her hand back, since her mother's—however delicate—touch was making the pain a million times worse. Sneaking a look at her hand, Emma felt her stomach clench, and the pain nearly tripled.
The group-just the four of them since Regina and Gold had taken off-had been ambushed by the Lost Boys, and had ended up split up as they fought. Somewhere in the middle of said fight, Emma lost Neal's cutlass in an attempt to block a hit, and she shifted to the type of fighting she knew best: one that involved her fist.
What she hadn't been expecting was for one of the Boys to be ready for her fist, and duck, inches in front of a very unforgiving tree.
The moment she struck it, more than one bone snapped in her hand and wrist, making her nearly scream. Seconds later, an arrow whistled through the air as Mary Margaret came to her quite literal rescue.
Now, looking at her hand, it was cut up from the bark and bleeding slightly at the knuckles, but her wrist and three of her fingers weren't situated right at all. For once, Emma was glad to have grown up on the streets, as she's seen many a gruesome sight.
Not that seeing it on herself made it that much better.
And especially not when the pain was like a fire beneath her skin, springing tears to her eyes that she desperately tried to blink away.
"Emma!" breathed David, concern bright in his eyes. He was still breathing heavily from the exertion from the fight; luckily he didn't look any worse than winded. Sheathing his sword, he quickly knelt by her. He sucked in a breath when he saw the state of her hand.
Emma's teeth clenched hard, stopping a groan when the pain randomly spiked. David gently reached out to handle her hand, but Emma once again tried to pull her hand from their grasp. She gasped when it sent another jolt of agony through the broken bones.
Another rustle from the trees had David releasing her, grabbing the hilt of his sword, but he released it when Hook burst into the clearing, his own weapon drawn.
When he saw Emma surrounded by her parents, he paled slightly. "Swan?" He approached them fast.
"I'm fine," said Emma harshly through her teeth, pain sharpening her words.
"Her hand is broken," said Mary Margaret to Hook, who came to stand behind David, sword still drawn since they were figuratively and literally not out of the woods yet, with regard to the Lost Boys. Emma watched Hook eye her hand, wincing at the sight.
"How, pray tell," said Hook, seeming unable to tear his eyes away from her mangled hand, "did that happen?!"
"I brought a fist to a sword fight," muttered Emma. When the three pairs of eyes still shone with concern, Emma felt her heart race, hating every bit of the spotlight. She looked to David, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. "I dropped my cutlass somewhere."
"That can wait," said David gently. "What can we do for this?" asked David to Mary Margaret.
"Once we find Regina, she can heal it." said Mary Margaret.
"Can Emma use her own magic?" asked David.
Having already been trying that, Emma muttered tightly, "Bone setting wasn't one of Regina's magic lessons."
Mary Margaret smiled something almost reassuring. "Don't worry. We'll at least stabilize it for now. We're going to need something to keep her hand and wrist immobile, something to brace it against, like… tree bark," she said, eyeing the trees.
"I can get that," said Hook in a strange, almost gentle voice that made Emma look up. Hook isn't gentle. But before she could get a read on him, he was striding across the clearing, sword still in his hand, and hacked at a tree with his hook.
"And something to tie it with," finished Mary Margaret.
Immediately, David grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt and ripped a few inches of material from the bottom.
"You didn't have to—" began Emma, feeling even more the urge to lick her wounds alone.
"My daughter finally needs me," said David with a small grin. "Let me take full advantage of the situation, Emma."
"I don't need—"
"Will this do, milady?"
Mary Margaret took the bark from Hook. It was fairly thick, and about the length of Emma's forearm. "It's perfect."
"How do you know so much about splinting?" Emma found herself asking, shutting her eyes briefly because god, it hurt.
"I was a bandit on the run from Regina," she said, breaking off part of the bark to make it narrower. "I had to do a lot of my own nursing. Someone caught me in a net and I broke a finger in the fall."
David winced. "I did say I was sorry."
"I know," she said with a grin to her husband. To Emma, she said, "Okay…" Giving her a wince in sympathy, "this is going to hurt a bit, but it should feel a little better once we get it in place."
The sudden feeling that she was a helpless child bloomed in her chest. Emma bit down on a response as her mother carefully took her hand, slowly pressing the bark to the underside of her arm, from her fingertips to nearly her elbow. When it made the bones shift a little, Emma sucked in a breath.
"Shh, almost done," said Mary Margaret, then quicker, "David, wrap it."
He started to wrap it tightly around the bark, and it took every ounce of Emma's strength to keep her pain silent. But she couldn't help the slight cry as he tied the knot tightly, squeezing the broken bones in place. He whispered an apology that seemed to pain him.
Emma breathed hard through clenched teeth, the pain white-hot.
"Emma?"
"Sweetheart, are you okay?"
"Do you need help standing?"
"I'm fine," she huffed out, finally able to take her hand back from Mary Margaret's grip. Discomfort chose her words, snapping out, "God, I'm not four years old! I can handle getting hurt; I dressed my own bullet wound when I was twenty-three for god's sake." Their concern was suffocating and damn it she didn't need coddling.
The stricken look in her parents' eyes could have easily been about learning the fact that she'd been shot—grazed—or her refusal to accept their help more than absolutely necessary, but Emma didn't wait to try to figure it out. To more than prove she was fine, she stood on her own, holding her splinted hand close to her chest. Her parents followed after, both looking like they wanted to do something more.
Emma went to put her hand down at her side, but lowering an inch it sent stabbing pain through her arm. She halted it with a clenched jaw, and reached her left hand for the scabbard still strung around her torso. She carefully put her right arm through it like a sling.
Both Mary Margaret and David looked like they wanted to say something more, perhaps question her about that bullet wound, but more rustling made them all turn.
Hook stepped back through the trees, and Emma hadn't even realized he'd left. His sword was sheathed and he was holding her cutlass.
"You found it," said Emma, glad to have something to break the tension.
"Aye," he said, offering the hilt to her. She took it in her left hand, the weight of it feeling unsettlingly off balance. She'd never trained lefty. Something uncomfortable stirred in her gut.
"That's not all I found," Hook went on. "There are a few Boys still looking for us lot. We shouldn't stay here."
The prickle of danger at her neck made her tighten the hilt of the cutlass, which felt heavier and weaker in her non-dominant grip.
God, she missed her gun so much.
"Let's go," said David, brandishing his sword as Mary Margaret pulled an arrow from her quiver.
Emma stared at her shaking grip on the sword.
Henry needs you.
You need to be strong.
This is no time to be weak.
You're the Savior, remember?
She set her jaw.
Hook walked ahead of them all, cutting down forestry to make way. Emma was quickly sandwiched between them all, both her parents at her front and back. She tried tightening her grip on the hilt, attempting to familiarize her left hand with the weapon as much as possible. But she knew it was futile to try to pour a lifetime of familiarity into her left arm. She'd just have to rely on strength more than finesse.
They were walking for less than an hour, Emma cursing every movement that jarred her arm, when the group was crossed through a silent clearing.
Hook and Mary Margaret were attacked at once.
Hook's surprised shout mingled with Mary Margaret's. One Boy jumped out of the trees, tackling Hook to the ground, another burst from the darkness and did the same to Mary Margaret, knocking her bow and arrow from her hands as she hit the dirt.
"Mary Margaret!" cried David, making a move toward her, but three more Boys suddenly appeared in the clearing. Hook was busy wrestling with the one that had attacked him, and Mary Margaret managed to retrieve her arrow, stabbing the Boy in the chest.
"Stay with Emma!" cried Mary Margaret.
David stepped in front of Emma. Anger boiled in her chest. She was not weak.
"I'm fine!" she found herself growling, even as two of the Boys approached her and David at once.
"Emma, stay close to me!" said David firmly.
Enough of this.
Grasping the sword as hard as she could, she swung it widely at the Boy approaching her, and he ducked with a cocky grin, but she grinned back, and kicked him in the face. Hard.
David whirled around after taking down his own opponent, a wild look in his eye as he found Emma. With satisfaction, Emma watched his brows raise in impressed surprise.
"Told you," she said breathlessly.
He smiled back, and Emma suddenly paled at the flash of a blade behind him. "David, watch out!"
He managed to spin around just in time to block the blade of a Boy, and Emma felt her clenched heart release a little.
But not before another blade caught the moonlight and a Boy was advancing on her.
This one had a cutlass similar to hers. He swiped at her, making her jump backward, the blade's tip nicking her waist, making her hiss. Encouraged, the Boy slashed at her again, and Emma blocked it with hers, but the difference in strength from her right arm to her left made itself painfully known. The Boy grinned wickedly, his dark eyes shifting from her face to her injured arm and back. He grinned wider.
She'd managed to block the blade, but the Boy's strength was overpowering. Her own blade quivered and shook with the muscles in her arm, and the sharp edge of the blade stood inches from her face.
She couldn't kick him in this stance. Her mind raced, and she quickly shoved all the strength she had into her own blade, at the same time staggering backward. The movement surprised the Boy, but only made the predatory glint sharper in his eyes, a hawk learning their prey was weak. He advanced on her, and she took faster steps backward. The clink and brash sound of metal hitting metal filled the whole clearing, and a flick of Emma's eyes showed David and Mary Margaret in a fight for blood, each against a Boy of their own, and Hook fighting two at once.
Not that she was looking for help.
Not that she needed it.
She didn't need saving, she was the Savior for chrissakes.
Trying to swallow down the fear, Emma staggered back again, hating that she was fricken retreating, and the Boy kept advancing on her, sword toward her chest, only a few feet separating him from her. He was moving slower than she knew he could, and he was doing it on purpose. He knew she was vulnerable and he knew she was scared-two things she hated feeling more than anything in the entire damned world-and he was toying with her.
Her heart thudded, and she realized the clinks of metal were quieter, and with fear she wondered how far she's strayed from the others.
With a shaking breath, Emma abruptly stopped her retreat, and jumped forward, slashing her cutlass at the Boy's throat. But though she took him slightly by surprise, he managed to get his blade up fast enough to not only block her strike, but knock the sword right out of her hand. She fell back another step, her back hitting the trunk of a tree.
Emma panted, watching her sword fly into the black jungle. The Boy let out a dark laugh, raising his blade.
Emma stood, effectively trapped, heart beating in a frenzy, staring at the blade that was seconds from ending her life.
Then, the Boy lunged, the sword slicing toward her throat.
Emma screwed her eyes shut.
That was, until the air shifted with the unmistakable scent of saltwater and rum, and metal clanged against metal so loud and hard it rung her ears.
Her heart still in her throat, Emma forced her eyes open, seeing the black leather coat inches in front of her face.
Hook.
His back was to her. His blade was raised, blocking the Boy's cutlass. With a grunt of effort, Hook shoved at him, making the Boy stumble back.
"Hook?" whispered Emma breathlessly.
He lifted his left arm out as if to stop her from moving ahead of him, tilting his head slightly toward her and just as breathless as she was, he said, "Stay behind me, Swan!"
As much as the pride in her wanted to scream at everyone to stop treating her like a helpless damsel, she couldn't quite find her voice. The image of the Boy's sword as he nearly killed her was burned into her mind's eye, racing her blood through her veins.
The Boy let loose a wild cry, swinging his sword at Hook's chest, but the captain easily used the Boy's momentum to knock him off balance and slid his own sword through the Boy's ribs. He slumped to the ground and lay still.
The clearing fell silent, save for Emma's and Hook's quick breaths.
He stared at the Boy for a moment longer, as if making sure the brat was dead, before turning to face her. "Are you all right, love?" he said, still out of breath, and Emma realized he must have been running.
She nodded, still too numb to speak.
If he hadn't come, she would be dead.
If he'd been even a second late, she would be dead.
"Your parents and I realized you were gone and we separated to find you." said Hook. A smile tilted his lips. "Am I bloody glad I did."
Her adrenaline was wearing thin and pain suddenly laced sharply up her arm from her fingers to her elbow, and she gasped. Her right hand had fallen from the makeshift sling at some point, and the bark had slid toward her elbow, the material having loosened enough for it to move. Now free, the broken bones grated on nerves and she cradled it to her chest, tears springing back to her eyes.
"Swan," whispered Hook, watching the pain on her face with growing concern in his. He stepped forward. "Let me-"
"No, just stop!" she growled, stepping away from him. "I don't need your help and I don't need you to fight for me, damn it! Everyone needs to stop looking at me like that because I can take care of myself!"
Hook's brows shifted, and he opened his mouth like he was very much about to contest her claim that she didn't need help-because she was certain he knew how dire the situation was when he got to it-but he stopped himself, seeming to think better of it, and instead said, "I know you can, love." A small flick of a smile that he probably meant to be more flirtatious, but the concern hadn't quite left his eyes. "Allow a man a dashing rescue once in a while, will you?"
Emma tried to move the bark back into place, but once it shifted, blinding pain shot through her whole arm. Her teeth caught a groan of pain that was pathetic to her own ears.
"Swan," whispered Hook, stepping forward again, and she stepped back.
"I can take care of myself," she repeated, but the words were empty and hollow.
That Boy would have killed her.
And she can't even touch her hand without wanting to cry.
"I need to be able to take care of myself," she whispered, altering her statement with a heavy sense of defeat.
Hook paused at the raw honesty in her voice. His blue eyes were rich with concern, and something new she couldn't quite read.
"I can't fight like this," she whispered. "I can't save Henry, I can't even save myself," she shut her eyes, blaming the sting of tears on the pain.
"Yes, you can."
Her eyes snapped open, suddenly and ironically angry with him for insinuating that she can take care of herself. Eyes red with fear and pain she snapped, "I can't do anything with one fricken hand, Hook!"
She saw him stiffen, and she suddenly realized to whom she was speaking. Emma winced, this time not from the pain. His expression was unreadable, his eyes not on hers, and instead on the ground.
His left arm flinched.
Guilt battled with the fear and the pain coursing through her hand and wrist. How hadn't she noticed how her injury mirrored him? "Hook, I didn't mean—" She swallowed, eyes jerking to the ground. "I just meant, it's my… dominant hand. I never learned to fight with my left."
"It's all right, love," he said quietly, and she cautiously lifted her eyes to meet his. Emma was surprised to find her lie detector silent. "And believe it or not," he said dryly, "I used to be inclined to my left hand."
Emma felt her brows lift.
He was a lefty?
"You were?" she asked in a small voice, now kicking herself for indirectly insinuating that he was lucky for losing his left hand as opposed to his right.
"Aye," he said, a flicker of amusement making her relax slightly. "Now," he said softly, "will you please let me help you?"
Maybe it was the careless words that made her nod, maybe it was the fact that she'd already lost her pride when the Lost Boy nearly took off her head and Hook had a front row seat. But either way, she couldn't splint it back herself; that was painfully clear.
"Here, sit down," he said, in that same non-Hook gentle voice she'd heard earlier. He guided her a few feet away to a large rock. She complied, and he knelt beside her. Without the immobility from the splint, every micromovement killed. Her face pinched white, her jaw clenched tight.
Carefully, she pulled the knot free with her fingers, wincing harder when the bark and material fell away, and the bones shifted again.
Hook took the bark first, sliding it gently under her forearm like before. Emma hissed a little. His brows creased and his touch lightened. Once the bark was in place, she watched his eyes flick from her arm to the material in her lap.
He smiled a little, not looking at her, and the smile held nothing but a twinge of sadness. "As heroic as I'd like to be," he said quietly, almost like an admission, "I'm going to need your help to help you."
Looking where he was looking, Emma realized he couldn't hold the splint in place, and tie it as well.
"Isn't this ironic," said Emma with a shaky smile, trying to diffuse that sadness in his eyes.
Since when did she care if he was sad?
Her comment made his small smile fractionally less sad. "That it is. If you'll hold this in place…" She did, using her left hand to hold the bark gingerly to her arm, face going a bit whiter as it lit up more pain. Hook took the length of David's shirt and placed the end of the material by Emma's fingers, where they held the bark in place. When he paused there, she realized after a half a second that he needed her to hold that in place as well. Quickly she did, and caught the small flick of that sad smile at his lips.
She was suddenly struck with the realization of just how debilitating Hook's life has been since losing his hand.
With the way he carried himself, he never seemed like the kind of person who struggled with simple, everyday actions. And when he wore the hook, she's only ever seen him without it twice, he seemed nearly more capable, more imposing than a man with two hands.
She looked down at her broken hand, watching him tighten the material around the splint. She'd had to deal with the loss of the use of one hand for an hour at most, and already she could feel just how difficult life would be without it. She'd struggled with the simple task of unscrewing the cap from her canteen earlier. She couldn't even fathom the endless list of other things that would be hard to impossible to do with only one hand. A list of things that she'd unfortunately have to deal with until they found Regina or she suddenly learned how to use her magic to heal herself, which seemed unlikely. It felt debilitating enough being a temporary injury. She couldn't imagine it being permanent.
Suddenly, she wanted to skin the Crocodile.
Emma's eyes shifted to the pirate, seeing him in a different light. Suddenly she found herself impressed beyond belief with how much he's adapted, in such a way that she often forgets he's lost a hand.
Emma continued to watch him wrap the splint, playing back his rescue of her—loathe as it was to call it that—to his help now. The two words were on the tip of her tongue, gratitude the pirate deserved, but she couldn't manage to force them out.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice him pause at her fingertips.
"If you would, darling..."
Emma looked down, and realized he hadn't tied the knot yet because he couldn't. The leftover length of the material wasn't quite enough for him to attempt using his teeth, like he'd done when he fixed up her hand the last time, on the beanstalk. Something flared in her chest at the way he refused to meet her eyes, the way he seemed to loathe having to ask the words.
"Oh," she said quickly. She removed her left fingers from the brace where she'd been holding it, and reached for one of the ends of the material. Hook lifted himself from his knee to shift a little behind her, angling his arm around her right side. Emma felt him over her shoulder, and a shiver ran down her spine.
Probably just the chill of the forest.
They both held one end of the material, and together they tied the knot, their fingers working together seamlessly as if she was tying the knot with both her own hands. She felt the warmth of his fingers as they finished the knot, pulling it tight. His thumb hesitated over hers for a half a second before he pulled away. A strange, soft static feeling traced over her skin where his met hers.
"We make a good team," he said softly over her shoulder.
Emma tried hard not to think the same, realizing how naturally they did fit, especially in the physical sense of her left arm and his right. Something nagged at her, suggesting that wasn't necessarily the only aspect of the two of them that seemed to fit.
She swallowed, not trusting herself to speak, nor wander too far down that road.
Instead, she looked down at the splint, glad it was tied a bit tighter than David had. She slipped it carefully back through the makeshift sling. When she looked back toward Hook, she was surprised to find that he was no longer behind her. Her heart beating a little faster, she quickly stood, only to find him walk back through the trees, once again, with her cutlass.
He smiled at her, pressing the hilt into her left hand. When she took it, he didn't let go. Instead, he moved to stand over her left shoulder, his right arm slipping in the space between her arm and side, brushing her waist, and a tingle shot up her spine. His fingers curled gently around hers. His shoulder pressed slightly to her back, and Emma felt another chill despite his added warmth.
Emma was about to call out the obvious flirty move, but she stopped when she heard him say, "Grip it a little tighter than you think you should." Her brows lifted. She'd expected some innuendo, some flirty tone, but any of his usual charm was absent. Instead, his voice was even, serious. Surprised at it, she complied, gripping the hilt tighter beneath his fingers. "This arm is not as defined as your right," he went on. "Small movements," he said, lifting her hand in his, directing the sword through the air, "over large ones. Because it's not as familiar to you, your initial reflex will be to move your arm widely. Focus on moving your wrist more than your arm. You'll have more control. It's…" He hesitated, stilling the sword in her grip. "...something to get used to." His words had quieted to an almost-whisper.
Emma suddenly realized this was the first time she'd heard him speak—even indirectly-of the qualms of his disability.
He released her then, and slowly, she moved the blade in a striking motion, noting how much more control she had when she focused on the smaller movements, relying more on her wrist.
"That's it, love."
She found herself smiling at the praise, then glad he couldn't see her face.
And suddenly he was touching her again. This time, he shifted behind her, his right hand on her right shoulder, his left arm cradling her own left arm to guide it, angling his hook away from her fingers. He tugged a little on her right shoulder, guiding her to step backward with her right foot. At the same time, he angled her left side forward. And for some reason, she let him.
"Face your opponent with only your left side," he said. "Never let them at your unprotected side. Your left arm can't cover a blow that comes from the right half as easily as your right would. Keep moving." He shifted her backward a step, but held her angle. Then stepped back, each new step turning her around in a circle, but each kept her left side facing the imaginary enemy. He stopped them in place, but didn't let her go. "Enemies will see you only for what you lack, assume you are weak and grow arrogant. Let them. It will be their undoing." His left arm flinched the slightest bit, so small that Emma only noticed it through their touch. "Though they may consider you less of a threat," he said quietly, "you are not."
Emma stood in his hold, stunned into silence. His words held such a heaviness, such a rawness, such pain. Since she'd known him, he's always been a cocky bastard, slipping in innuendos about the things he could do with one hand. But this was the first time he merely even alluded to the idea that his lack of a hand made him feel less, somehow. Even two hundred years later.
Before she could stop them, words slipped from her lips.
"I never thought that you having one hand made you less of a threat."
He stiffened suddenly, every muscle going taut, and with a spurt of unease, Emma realized that Hook hadn't expected her to catch onto the fact that he was talking about himself.
He quickly let her go—a testament to his discomfort, since he'd never normally let her go that easily—and Emma turned toward him.
Hook was staring at the ground, and Emma could practically feel his unease.
His left arm fell to his side quickly, hook nearly hidden beneath the material of his heavy leather coat like an instinct.
Emma was frozen to the spot.
Because Hook nearly looked shy.
She blinked at the sight.
He managed to lift his eyes to hers, and she and he both seemed to flash back to their meeting, Hook disguised as that poor, one-handed blacksmith. Emma hadn't trusted him even an ounce, pulling her dagger on him the moment he failed her lie detector. Hook knew as well as she did that he didn't even have his hook, and she considered him as much of a threat as Cora herself.
Emma suddenly wondered what possessed her to tell him that.
There was a look in Hook's eyes, almost like an innocent confusion. A disbelief. And somehow Emma knew she meant more than not viewing him as less of a threat, she wasn't viewing him as less than anything. And it was there in Hook's eyes, a puzzlement at the thought that she hadn't thought less of him for it, and it was a reaction that was so real and so unlike him.
And suddenly Emma was seeing another version of the man before her. The real one. Him.
It was no longer Hook standing before her, staring at her like she was an utter enigma.
It was Killian Jones, the man that lay beneath the walls and the innuendo and the hook.
And just as suddenly, Emma felt a sweeping urge to know him.
But just as quickly as it came, she was shoving it back down, because this was still Hook and what the hell was she thinking?
Hook seemed to compose himself just as she did, with a tilt to his lips as he said, just as quietly, "Nor did I think you any less a Savior when I saved your life."
Emma felt a heat rise in her cheeks, holding his unwavering gaze.
And with her own sense of awed disbelief, her lie detector remained silent.
He wasn't saying that to make her feel better.
He meant it.
"And," he added, even quieter, "I believe your parents would be of the same mind."
Sudden guilt swam through her veins, remembering how she treated her parents when they attempted to help her.
She smiled, a little shyness at her own lips. "Right. About... that. I never thanked you for saving my life, did I?"
And suddenly his trademark smirk made an appearance. "I might be able to think of a way you can show your gratitude."
Emma rolled her eyes, but smiled, and instead of taking him up on his request, she whispered, "Thank you, Killian."
His smirk fell from his features in surprise.
She's never called him by his name.
Suddenly, after today, it didn't feel right to solely refer to him by the attachment that replaced his hand.
She could see past the hook, through his facade. She had seen the man underneath.
Surprisingly, the flirtatious glint that had been in his eyes a moment ago was gone, and if possible, the use of his name touched him in a way the kiss he wanted would not have.
He gave her a rare, soft look that belonged to Killian. "It was my pleasure, Emma."
The moment suddenly a little more intimate than she was ready for, Emma cleared her throat. "We, uh, we should probably find my-Mary Margaret and David."
Hook blinked, as if he suddenly remembered they existed. "Aye... that we should."
They found her frantic parents not long after, and Hook watched them grab her in a-gentle-embrace. Emma let them fuss without complaint other than a roll of her eyes, and over their shoulders, she shot him a little grin. Her attention was taken once again by her parents, yet he continued to watch, something warm stirring in his chest at the sight.
Emma's words suddenly played in his head.
Thank you, Killian.
The last person to call him by his given name was Milah, the day she died. And still, it haunted him, how Milah might have reacted if she had lived to see his lack of a hand, the nightmare of her leaving him for a man who was whole…
To know that Emma had seen him nearly at his most vulnerable in that infernal hospital, devoid of even his brace, having met Hook and still stuck around long enough to meet Killian…
It touched him more than anything could.
He found his gaze falling to his hook, the sight usually a heavy, stark reminder of loss, in every sense of the word.
my favorite kind of fanfics are “canon divergence” because it’s always like handing back a reviewed essay with comments like “I enjoyed the strong beginning but here is where you lost me, I’ve made some notes”
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