my medical trauma angst phm fic is now up on ao3!!
Summary:
The first time he feels the terror, he doesn't understand why. As he barely hangs onto consciousness, the soft silicon presses against his face, enveloping his nose and mouth. The spark of terror catches fire in his chest and quickly spreads across his body. It ignites a screaming inferno within his skull. He forces his eyes open. Everything is red. There's shapes above him. Pure oxygen fills his airways, stale and clinical and familiar and wrong.
Grace's memories of his unwilling medical sedation and forced sacrifice return, vivid and violent. Later, on the journey back to save Rocky, he has night terrors. The thin lines between consciousness, unconsciousness, memory, and nightmare blur.
ao3 tags below the cut:
Fandom:Project Hail Mary (2026), Project Hail Mary - Andy Weir Relationships: Ryland Grace & Rocky
Additional Tags: Angst, Nightmares, Medical Trauma, Autonomy Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, some Hurt No Comfort, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Movie canon mainly with some book details, Ryland Grace Has a Bad Time, Ryland Grace is a Leaky Space Blob, Ryland Grace Is Not Graceful, Ryland Grace Whump, canon typical medical and autonomy trauma but the focusing on it is what makes it worse, Sedation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic Attacks, Mentioned Eva Stratt, Mentioned Carl (Project Hail Mary 2026), Mentioned Yáo Li-Jie (Project Hail Mary), Mentioned Olesya Ilyukhina, Worried Rocky (Project Hail Mary), Memories
My boyfriend is wiping the kitchen counter obsessively.
I mean he cleans and all that, sure, but I’ve never seen him this maniacal about cleaning before.
The rag moves in tight circles over the marble, over and over, the lemon cleaner sharp in the air. Afternoon light spills through the kitchen window, catching in the thin streaks of water he keeps making and immediately wiping away again like the counter personally offended him.
I glance at the clock.
Three in the afternoon.
Not normally the time people decide the kitchen needs to be exorcised. Nick still hasn’t noticed me leaning against the doorway. Or maybe he has and he's just pretending he hasn't.
His shoulders are tense, hair slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it every few minutes. The rag keeps moving in fast little circles like he’s trying to polish the counter into glass.
“Nick,” I say.
“Yeah?” he answers instantly. He doesn’t look up. The rag keeps moving.
Circle. Circle. Circle.
I watch him for another few seconds.
“Did the counter… do something to you?”
That makes him pause.
Just for a second.
Then the rag resumes its frantic scrubbing.
“No.” That’s suspicious. I push myself off the doorway and wander further into the kitchen, the cool tile pressing against my bare feet. The smell of cleaner follows him like a cloud.
“Nick.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve cleaned the same spot for like five minutes.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“Uh-huh.”
I lean against the island, watching him like a scientist observing a strange animal in the wild.
He wipes. And wipes. And wipes.
“…What did you do?” The rag stops. Nick freezes.
Slowly—very slowly—he looks up at me. His eyes do that thing they always do when he’s guilty. Wide. Blinking too fast.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Nick.”
“I didn’t.”
I narrow my eyes. Then I glance down the hallway toward our room. Toward my little office nook.
Toward the desk that, earlier today, definitely had my sketchbook sitting on top of it.
A thought clicks into place. My head slowly turns back to him.
“…Nick.”
“What?”
“Where’s my sketchbook.”
The silence is immediate. Heavy. Nick looks at the counter. Then the rag. Then the ceiling.
Anywhere but me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Nick winces.
“What did you do to my sketchbook?”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says quickly.
Pause.
“…Bad.”
I cross my arms.
“Nick.”
Another pause.
“…I spilled coffee on it.”
My jaw drops.
“You WHAT?”
“It was an accident!” he blurts. “I brought you coffee! Like a good boyfriend! And then I tripped on the stupid chair leg and—” He gestures wildly. “—gravity happened.”
I stare at him. He stares back. Small. Guilty.
“…So you’ve been cleaning the kitchen,” I say slowly, “because you destroyed my sketchbook?”
Nick rubs the back of his neck. “I thought if I cleaned enough you might… not notice.”
I blink.
“…Nick.”
“Yeah?”
“You reorganized my entire office.”
“…I panicked.”
I try to stay mad. I really do. But the image of him frantically cleaning the house like a raccoon covering up a crime makes my mouth twitch.
“Is it ruined?” I ask.
Nick immediately brightens a little.
“No! I dried it! I even put paper towels between the pages! I googled it!”
“You googled it?”
“For like forty minutes.”
I sigh, already turning toward the hallway.
“Show me.”
Nick follows behind me like a very nervous golden retriever.
As we walked, our shoes squeaked at the friction of the now shining floors. The hallway carried the sound farther than usual, like the house itself wasn’t used to being this quiet, this polished. Afternoon light slipped through the windows and spread across the tiles, catching in the thin shine Nick had scrubbed into them.
The walls felt lighter somehow.
Cleaner.
I glanced around as we passed through the living room, every surface looking strangely unfamiliar in its neatness, and I had the quiet, certain thought that our house would probably never look like this again.
Not really.
This kind of thing only happened once in a blue moon.
Still, what ever Nick has in store for me, it would be fine.
A/N: I really hope you guys liked this one, I've been putting off this idea for so long so I can write it on my pace. I'm starting to get my writing flame back, and interacting with people on this platform.
It was summer of 2019, the “summer of fun” as Y/n’s parents called it. Y/n had been sent to the other side of the island called “Figure 8” or something. It was for the summer while her parents went on a summer ‘trip’ to Milan when really they just wanted away from her and didn’t trust her with their big house. So they sent her to her grandparents. She didn’t think she’s fall in love there. Why should she when its just for the summer?
“Rafe you didn’t have to-“ She gasped and covered her mouth as he pulled out a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.
“The best flowers for my best girl,” he smiled as he kissed the brunette’s cheek.
“Now sit,” he commanded as they finished laying out the picnic blanket.
“i don’t want summer to end, Rafe. I want to stay here with you,” the small girl admitted.
With one and a half months left, summer was halfway over and she didn’t want it to end. Going back to the academy on the mainland wasn’t something the girl wanted.
“You’re going to be okay, Y/n,” Rafe reassured her as he laid his arm around her shoulder.
“I love you,” she cringed at her words, neither had said the three magical words yet.
“I love you more, pretty girl.” She smiled at his words.
If only summer stayed like that for good.
“What are you talking about?! I can’t go back to the mainland yet summer isn’t over!” Y/n yelled through the phone at her mom.
Their Milan trip had been cut short as they had finished their exploration after two months.
“Honey our trip was cut short,” her mother explained.
“It’s only the middle of August,” the small girl sighed.
“I’ll make you a deal sweetie, you tell me who this mystery man you’re head over heels in love with and you can stay for two more weeks.” Y/n laughed at her mother’s proposal.
“His name is Rafe and he makes me happy mom,” She smiled and blushed at the thought of him. The way he smelled. The way he smiled whenever he saw something he liked. That little twinkle in his eye. It’d been two months and she was head over heels in love with him. And all she knew was his first name.
“What do you mean you’re going back?! There’s two weeks of summer left Y/n!” Rafe’s voice boomed off the walls of Y/n’s grandparent’s house, as they were gone for the day. They practically were as rich as the Cameron’s, if not more.
“I have to, Rafe,” she admitted as tears drove their way down her now tan skin.
“Why? You’re almost 18, can’t you stay? You can live with me and we can find a house on figure 8. We can be happy,” he spoke.
“I haven’t even finished my studies Rafe,” she argued. The short girl had one year of studies left before she could be free.
“So this is it, you’re leaving,” he glared. He was just as heartbroken as the brunette girl, if not more.
“I told you I’m coming back Rafe! I’m coming back after I finish my studies,” she cried out.
“No, you’re leaving me. But I’‘m leaving you before you get the chance to break my heart,” and with that he walked out the door of the house. Leaving not one, but two broken hearts in his path.
“Come on Y/n! We’re gonna be late for midsummers!” Y/n’s best friend, Sarah yelled up the staircase. The brunette had been best friends with Sarah since she moved to the Kook Academy from her mainland school almost 8 months ago. Sarah’s dad knew Y/n’s dad because of real estate and Mr. Cameron had sold the L/n’s one of the neighboring houses for them to move in on the Figure 8. Y/n knew Sarah had one sibling, a sister named Wheezie, but that was it.
“I’m coming! Do you know how hard it was to get these stupid heels on,” she complained as she walked down the stairs, the cerulean floor-length dress sliding with each step.
“My my, aren’t you a pretty sight,” Sarah winked.
“Oh hush you angel, you look amazing,” Y/n laughed.
“Shall we?” the blonde held out an arm as the brunette accepted it, linking their arms together.
“We shall.”
“Would you two ladies like to dance?” A tuxedo-clad JJ Maybank held out a hand.
“JJ? What are you doing here, I know you aren’t working midsummers,” Y/n asked as he danced with them, discretely passing a paper to Sarah.
“I’m on a mission and my mission was to get a secret note to kook princess number one and a kiss to kook princess number two,” he winked before placing a small kiss on the brunette’s cheek, a rose shaded blush encasing her cheeks.
“Well aren’t you the sweetest,” she laughed before two guys came up to the trio. She recognized one as Kelce, the other she didn’t really recognize.
“What’s this dirty pogue doing here Sarah?” The guy standing by Kelce demanded, JJ quietly slipping away as the the guy stared at Sarah, awaiting an explanation.
“Wait-” Y/n overlooked the blue tuxedo clad boy, “Rafe?!”
He looked over at her words, a look of remembrance crossing his face.
“Y/n?” He asked, the small girl nodding at his voice as he moved the two feet distance to encase her in his arms, swinging the two around, her contagious laugh filling the air.
“When did you get back?” he asked before Kelce cleared his throat, the couple forgetting there was an audience, “Uh I mean, nice to see your pretty ass again,” he winked as Y/n’s smile fell. This wasn’t the Rafe she knew.
“I uh moved back when school started,” she admitted, brushing a stray hair out of her face.
“Well that’s pretty cool, maybe I’ll see you around,” he smirked as Kelce clapped him on the shoulder before the two walked away.
“I hate him! I hate him I hate him I hate him!” She exclaimed as Sarah laid a hand on her arm, calming the girl.
“I’m sorry my brother is such a dick, he’s been like that since his summer fling left last summer,” she admitted.
“Brother?!” Y/n exclaimed. Sarah never said she had a brother and Rafe never said he had sisters.
“Yeah..” she trailed off.
“Hey Sarah?” She looked up.
“Yeah?”
“I’m that summer fling.”
Tagging some of my mutuals: @calumbroutledge @ssjiara @everydayimfangirling @thelocalpogue @decap-quadrant @maaybanks
Nicks looks so free right now. He leans his head out the car window—his hair being blown by the wind—his smile emitting light. Okay, that might just be me.
We're heading to the beach—our beach—where there's no sand, it's all rocks. No one comes there. Just me and Nick. Me and Nick, I like the sound of that.
We found it one time, when I was so upset I just had to get away, away from this stupid town, stupid school—stupid house.
Nick suggested this beach on the other side of town. It was... Secluded? Back then, Nick and I only knew about each other. Didn't really spoke before then. But he offered kindness.
I'd adore him for forever because of that.
We were neighbors tho, our houses opposite each other's, I'd always see him, walking out with his 2 brothers—clones? Maybe.
They'd always seem pick on each other and have fun, and their mom would drive them to school. It's chaotic, it's home. I don't have that.
Our moms were pretty good friends tho, they'd make us hang out, but I was closer to Nick than his brothers honestly. That doesn't mean I'm not friends with them tho.
Nick has always been the outgoing one, he'd have a ton of friends clinging to him. If he makes a joke everyone laughs. I'm with him, of course. But I'm in orbit—not with the group. I always think people only invites me because I'm "Nick's friend" and nothing more.
"Miles."
I shot back.
"Hey, turn up the music" Nick screams. Apparently he has been trying to get my attention for the past minute.
"Yeah" I reply as I reach for the knob of the radio. "Loud enough, monsieur?" I shoot him a look from the rearview mirror. He laughs. That amazing—spring-like laugh.
I tilt the rearview mirror to catch him better.
I mean, it's an amazing view. He's pants sitting right at his waist. A brown leather belt with a gold buckle holding it up. And—I'm not weird—he's not wearing any shirt on.
"Don't stare, creep. You'll have to have a subscription for that" he coos, mock-covering his torso. I didn't even clock that I was staring.
Guess I was.
Lovefool by the cardigans started playing, Nick's eyes got 13 times wider—if that's even possible—and started singing obnoxiously.
He continues to sing loudly until we finally arrived, the sun about to set. I park the car, close to a tree.
'We arrived at the perfect time' he claims as he opens the car door, his voice sounding like raindrops.
'The sun is about to set, what do you mean " perfect time"?'
"It. Is." He commands, leaning in a little and clapping his hand on every word.
Nick leans back a little, taking off his pants. It was brown denim, it was so beautiful. His belt, sitting at a rock—shining. He turned his head to me.
"Hey, don't peak" he claims. "I'm not, weirdo" I reply.
Nick laughs at this, his voice echoing like rain. "Can you hold this for me?" He says holding up his jeans. I take it. The denim feels rough on my skin. But it's real. It's alive. It's... Him.
I laugh at this. And I looked at him. The sun outlined his torso, his skin all orange because of the sun. The pink sky. His eyes—I swear they looked like heaven—and if it were... I was ready to do good deeds to be on it.
He has always looked this good. In his bedroom, while I'm learning to play guitar. Our drives. Our screaming fest—listening to all his favorite songs.
I know that I love him.
I have a feeling he might loves me back.
But I can't, I couldn't, I shouldn't.
"Bennett" Nick roars, he's in the water now. Watching me, still holding his jeans. "Come, quickly" he shouts again.
Bennett... He's the only one to call me that, well except for my parents of course. He always yell "Miles Bennett" like it's his. Not mine. But... I'd let him have it.
I strip off my shirt and toss it somewhere, my pants coming with it. As I ran, Nick is already deep enough. His head is peaking out and bobbing with the waves.
When my skin made contact with the water, it sent shivers all over my body—but I continue anyways.
Seeing Nick—his curls plastered to his forehead, droplets of water catching gleamers of the dying sunlight, his eyes—heaven like—looks at me like I'm the only one worth seeing.
"Finally" Nick complains, rolling his eyes a bit. But he's smirking so I know he's being himself again.
"Patience isn't really your thing huh?" I shoot back, trying to keep it light. But my heart says otherwise.
He grins at my reply, head tilting sideways a little bit. Grin on, his eyes gleaming. "Not when it comes to you"
And just like that. The world around us blurs.
It's us, and the shore, the rocks, the waves. But I don't really look at them, all I mind is this boy standing inches away from me.
He's smiling, like he knows something I don't.
The waves nudge us together, the water carrying us closer until I can feel his warmth even through the cold sea.
I don't know if it's the salt stinging my lips but I swear his laughs linger in my chest like it belongs there—that somehow, I wanted to stay in this moment forever.
what can i say, my medical horror meta got to me yk 🤷
The fic is basically an exploration of ways that Grace's medical and autonomy trauma present emotionally, both before and after remembering how he was forced on the mission. Certain medical equipment/procedures/etc. have become triggers, and later he has nightmares (that he can't be sure are based on real memories or not 😬). It's more movie canon than book canon because the movie doesn't get to spend much time on medical horror or Grace's emotional state post-remembering, and I wanna play around in that zone (and put Grace through the horrors 😈)
Here's a little snippet:
The first time he feels it, he doesn't know why. As he barely hangs onto consciousness, the soft silicon presses against his face, enveloping his nose and mouth. A spark of terror catches fire in his chest and quickly spreads across his body. A screaming inferno ignites within his skull. He force his eyes open. Everything is red. There's shapes above him. Pure oxygen fills his nose and mouth, stale and clinical and familiar and wrong.
He'd dealt with Pan for two centuries, played his games, took his demonic thrills in stride. But Killian feels the difference here and now.
Those were men, boys, mindless monsters. This is a god.
After his sacrifice, Killian Jones awakes in the Underworld and is faced with the torments of a sadistic god, his own body and mind turned against him. Memories of Killian's long life and lost loved ones weigh heavily on his soul, some sending him into spirals of guilt and despair, others grounding him and giving him hope. All he can do is try to resist the pull of darkness and oblivion until Hades bores of him; or better yet, someone he loves deems him worthy of saving.
Tags: Captain Swan, Jones Family, Underworld Arc, Character Study, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Guilt, Flashbacks, Memories, etc. (more listed on ao3)
[AO3] | Rated M | 4.1k words
Next Chapter | Masterlist
thanks to the wonderful @brucethegirl for beta reading for me!
-
Chapter 1. An Underworld Welcome
First, is the cold. The feeling of frigid stone beneath him, rough against the exposed skin of his hand and cheek — a cold that settles into his bones. Then, it's the heat. Burning, intense heat from above, like standing too close to a bonfire or forge, radiating through his flesh. Neither extreme offers any respite from the other, just further discomfort.
His eyes blink open, slow. There’s no light at first. He rolls from his side onto his back, body aching, but as his left arm finds ground, something sharp and burning presses through the fabric of his jacket and into his skin. He flinches away, grabbing at the spot, feeling the new wound. Only an inch wide, it doesn't seem too deep, but gods it stings. He's had severe wounds that felt better than this one does, and it leaves him wondering if the burning was the heat or something more insidious: a poison or an acid. His eyes are as adjusted as it seems they’re capable of in this darkness, finding no firelight to account for the oppressive heat.
He breathes stale air and gives whatever space he’s in a proper and thorough scan of his senses. There's a crick in his neck that goes taut as he stretches, limiting his movements. He'd not slept on the floor in a long while, and he always had the sense to put his arm under his damned head when he did. His mind is hazy, and while his joints and muscles ache, there's no pounding in his head that signifies he's been knocked out.
It's hard to push his senses beyond the cold and heat overwhelming his focus, but he manages. The room smells of dust, stone, rust, and metal, with an undercurrent of human stench. Something acrid is muddying the metallic taste on the heavy, still air, making it harder to determine if it's blood or not. Killian had been in a number of dungeons in his time, and this felt like an amalgamation of the worst each brig had to offer.
Every breath and movement he makes echoes through the space, proving his instincts right- he's in a small room, big enough for a person. The perfect size for a cell.
Where, then? He can't hear anything beyond the sound of himself in this damn room. Maybe the flicker of a torch somewhere far away? So much metal and rust to breathe in, but no clinking of anything but his own necklace on the floor below. It's maddeningly quiet, eerie and lifeless. For a moment he fears it's his own bloody hearing at fault, failing him, his ears damaged, but his breathing sounds just as loud as it should, as does his sigh of relief that follows that assuring thought.
He closes his eyes tightly, trying to make them adjust to the darkness, taking inventory of his own body in the meantime. His hook is sharp as ever, and the weight of his rings grace his fingers. Good. Wherever he is, he hasn't been robbed and disarmed. His hand continues inventory, he's dressed fully: jacket, belt, vest all from the magic-free realm of Emma's, and-
Emma. His hand freezes at the center of his abdomen. He thumbs through the buttons of his shirt, finding only an old scar at the base of his ribs that he's had for ages. Nothing new. No... no sign of Excalibur's cursed blade. He reaches for his neck — no cut there either. Did...? That all happened, didn't it? How...?
He reaches out with his hook tenderly, slowly sweeping it back and forth, surveying for any hazards to avoid as his mind races. What happened? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered...
Emma. Her eyes fill with tears, a pleading in her eyes that Killian has never seen before. Killian holds the sword out for Emma to take.
Her voice wavers, "I don't want to lose you."
"And I don't want to lose you." Killian is struggling, the sword pulsing in his hand. It’s taking everything he has to keep the darkness in it. He looks to Emma and knows she's his whole world. He'd do anything to save just her, and this sacrifice will save so much more than just her. "But you have to let me go. Let me die a hero! That's the man I want you to remember, please!"
Emma takes the sword, and the release of tension is short lived as he sees her arm shake with the power she is now containing. He knows she can hold it. Far better than he ever could.
"I love you." She kisses him. She's so warm and good and he doesn't let his hand find her because he knows he wouldn't be able to let go. The time feels slow but is gone so quickly.
"I love you, too." He returns as soon as the kiss breaks. Emma steps back.
He gives a small, reassuring smile. "It's okay."
Emma lets out a sob, readying the blade, shaking. He steals one last look to her family, seeing the pain and the fear in them. Henry looks scared and confused, the lad wrapped in his adoptive mother's arms. Regina's look is knowing, as is David's. David holds his wife, Snow's shock juxtaposed to David's pained acceptance, the glisten in his eyes squeezes his heart in his chest more than he'd admit to the man. He wishes he could say how sorry he is for everything, but they know already. It's in their eyes. He almost wishes Belle were here, so she could see the regret and apology in his face now, but she's better off not seeing this. He squeezes his jaw tighter and hopes that his own eyes say everything he needs them to.
With a shuddering breath, he looks back to Emma and the glimmering blade she raises. He steels himself and nods.
His body tightens to brace for the pain as Emma moves, the sob escaping her as the sword pushes through his center, and he can't hold in the cry of pain that comes out. He wanted to stay strong, wanted to make it easier for her and her family, but he couldn't. He's always been the weakest.
Excalibur, pulsing with darkness, tears into his body with a viciousness, and it's all he can feel for a moment, the overwhelming pain, his head is light and his balance teeters. Emma's head is on his shoulder, his chin on hers as he falters against the heaviness weighing on his consciousness. But he pushes it back, his vision is fogging, and he can only reach his hand up to ground himself, his forehead to Emma's, his hand finding her cheek.
He forces his eyes open as much as he can and sees the darkness leave her, the red of that jacket of hers in his peripheral. He'd smile if he had the power to. She pulls back, drawing the sword out of him and he hears his own whimper like it's coming from somewhere else.
He barely catches himself as his knees start to buckle, and Excalibur disintegrates in Emma's hold. The sword gone, Killian feels that horrible burning gash open on his neck, like it never left. Emma surges to him as he fails to hold his own weight up any longer, and he feels her ease him to the ground. His eyelids are too heavy, he's so exhausted. He doesn't have to see her to know she's with him.
It's familiar, the way he's fallen. How he's been caught. Held. Once again, his body rests on the grass, hand cradling his head as she lays him down. This time she doesn't try to stop the bleeding at his neck with magic, instead pushing sweat-matted hair away from his forehead. She holds his hand, her tears coloring his skin as she sobs into his chest. There's a tremble in Emma's hands long after Killian's own hand has stilled. He hears her crying, soft and shuddering, incomplete shapes of words in shuddered sobbing breaths. He thinks he hears "sorry" and "love" and he exhales shakily when her lips touch his forehead. Emma's hold on his hand is tight and close to her chest. He feels the heave of her breath, the throb of her heart in her chest, and he knows he's breaking it.
He wishes he could hold her, thank her, say he's sorry, say he loves her. As the end finds him, Killian is glad he could die in her arms a second time.
Killian shudders, frozen in place. Did... did she bring him back somehow, heal Excalibur's wounds? Did she find a way? Did she... did she take it back, did Emma try to-
"You have to help me, Swan. Take it."
"I can't. It should be me."
No, no she couldn't, even if she wanted, that cursed sword was gone. It'd been destroyed with him.
"Your family needs you." Killian couldn't understand how Emma could offer such a thing, her life was worth more than his ever would be. "If anyone deserves to go to the underworld, it's me."
His eyes widen. He swipes his hook imprecisely ahead of him in the darkness and shoots up to a sitting position.
The smell... Brimstone. Sulfur. Blood. Ash.
Another frantic sweep of his hook above him nearly throws out his shoulder, the hook unexpectedly catching on a chain above. He yelps and thrashes until the hook is free, rising to a crouch, not yet daring to stand. He slows, trying to steady his breathing. If he's where he thinks he is... Why is he breathing? Why does he hear his heartbeat in his ears, why does he have a heartbeat at all?
He reaches his hook higher, testing for anything above him other than the chain. Finding the chain alone, he rises steadily, the stiffness in his limbs slowing him more than his caution.
"Oh please, don't stand on my account," a voice echoes through the small space. Killian flinches, his hook raising and his hand instinctively going for his cutlass, finding nothing on his belt.
He stares hard in the direction the voice came from in the blackness and speaks as forcefully as he can, "Show yourself. Who are you?" It comes out hoarse at first but is satisfactorily strong by the end.
"Is that any way to treat your host?" The snide response comes from behind him, and Killian quickly turns to face their new position. He hadn't heard them move.
"Who are you?" He demands again, a growl in his words.
The voice laughs, deep and condescending, once again from a new location. Whoever it is, they're toying with him. And enjoying it.
"Come on, now, Hook. You knew where you were going."
"Show yourself now or-"
"Or what? You'll hook me to death?"
"I've done it a hundred times before." Killian's delivered better threats, but he's not exactly in his realm of comfort.
"A hundred? Oh, don't sell yourself short, I'm sure it was more than that. You've killed more than that, I'd wager. But never something like me."
Something. Not someone. Something.
The space alights, blue in hue and flickering from a source behind him. The room he’s in is worse than he'd imagined: dried blood on the floor, on the wall, mixed into the dust. A small dagger caked with dried blood lays on the ground — the blade that had nicked his arm.
Somehow the air is even hotter now and Killian turns to the source.
Before him, his taunter stands with arms crossed, leaning against the cell's wall. The man's scalp and shoulders are aflame with blue fire — and yet there's a cold impassiveness in his eyes. He looks at Killian like he's an insignificant speck of dirt, an annoyance.
"You're..."
"Hades, yes." The god waves his hand with disinterest. The fire diminishes, leaving a dim wall-mounted torch as the only light source. "I'm sure you're honored."
"Wh-" the start of an incomplete question escapes his lips before he has enough mind to think first. He clenches his jaw, sharpening his expression.
The god continues without pause. "I, on the contrary, am not what you'd call honored." Hades crooks his head with a frown and steps further into the cell's tight space. Killian stands his ground, glare following Hades as the god circles him.
"You have been an inconvenience, to say the least," the god assesses aloud. His cold gaze sizes up his new captive soul from head to boot and seems to find Killian more than lacking.
A shiver rockets down Killian's spine. He conceals it with a roll of his shoulders, straightening up to meet the god's height with his own, but his nerves stay balanced on a razor's edge.
"You're centuries overdue, for starters. But I could let that slide with all the souls you were sending my way." He's close now, speaking over Killian's shoulder. "Lost boys, sailors, knights, merchants, all sorts. But ooh, you really started slowing down, didn't you, Hook?"
It takes every bit of his self-control to not pull away, refusing to allow Hades to gain a single inch in this game of intimidation. Killian knows these ploys all too well. He'd used them and been at the mercy of them for centuries.
"Or do you prefer Killian these days?" Hades mocks, rolling his eyes.
Killian's mouth twitches. "Captain, to you."
Hades slows to a stop and laughs. Another shiver shoots through Killian, this one less concealed. The god turns his head to him and smiles.
Killian feels his airway close before he processes the sight of Hades grabbing his throat. He's dead, his body is back in Storybrooke, his heart pierced through by Excalibur, his blood poured out onto the lake’s shore. But he bleeds here in the Underworld, and he needs to breathe. His vision starts to darken at the edges as Hades suspends him a foot above the ground like he weighs nothing.
His hand and hook latch onto the god's arm, scratching, pushing, pulling, trying to lift himself to find relief. Before Killian's boot can make any contact, Hades sharply yanks him sideways through the air.
"I hate to tell you, Captain, I'm the only one with any titles or command around here." He throws Killian against the wall, head slamming hard into stone, clattering to the floor. "And you haven't led a crew in quite some time."
"Aye, I've not," He admits, croaking out between a heaving breath and cough, hand shielding his throat, checking his neck for anything broken. Finding nothing out of place, he recovers, rising up. Thankfully he feels nothing wrong with his movement or sensation beyond the bruising. He pushes himself up to stand.
"Hook, then. At least while I let you keep your little toy there, hm? Sound good?"
Killian's blood runs cold.
Hades smirks. "As I was saying, you've really let me down these past few years, Hook. Just not enough souls dying by your hands- or hand, forgive me." He makes a false apologetic face that makes Killian want to throttle the bastard, but he holds himself.
"Now that- that was enough for me to want to have some words with you. But this recent business, this Dark One mess?" Hades grabs him by the throat again, slamming him against the wall this time. "That requires more than words."
Killian's hook is useless, failing to even snag the god's sleeve as he struggles. But when Killian meets the god's eyes, trying to speak, the grip loosens enough for Killian to wheeze out, "I'd have thought you'd like what I got up to as a Dark One." He raises his eyebrow, shoving down the panic igniting his nerves, aiming for his playfulness in duels past. He doesn't think he's all that successful.
"Up until you went and raised all the Dark Ones out of my domain, I had." Killian must look confused because Hades scoffs. "They were my best torturers down here, whether they were working for me or not. And now? I'm fresh out of all my favorite dead Dark Ones. Thanks to you."
Killian smirks, and were his vocal cords not being crushed, he'd tell the evil bastard 'you're welcome'. Hades catches his meaning well enough it seems though, squeezing tighter until Killian's vision goes dark at the edges. Before consciousness abandons him, Hades throws Killian face first to the ground across the room. His arms don't move fast enough, unable to stop his forehead thrashing into the rough stone.
He coughs, his hand at his throat again, as if that'd help him breathe better. He pushes himself up by his hook, the metal scraping against the stone with a dreadful noise.
"Forgive me for being unaware of Dark Ones’ continued employment after death." The gravel in his voice strains painfully, but he grins up at the god as he rises to his eye level. "Would've considered that more thoroughly before I sacrificed my bloody life."
"You think you're cute, don't you?"
Killian huffs a painful laugh. "I think I'm right bloody handsome, yes."
The pure, gleeful malice that ignites in Hades' eyes is enough to make Killian's stomach turn. "Let's see what I can do about that."
Hades grabs him by the collar and pushes him down to his knees effortlessly. When the god's fist finds Killian's face, his vision goes white, his neck snaps back like whiplash from the carriages of Emma's realm — cars, or whatever. He's still reeling, his hand limply clawing at Hades' grasp, when another impossibly powerful strike collides with his face. His left eye feels like it's been crushed inside his skull. When he goes slack, Hades' grip on his collar is the only thing keeping him up. Then there's a hand in his hair, pulling, ripping him up from the freezing floor before just as quickly slamming his face to the stone of the wall and releasing him. His own dead weight drops him to the floor, where his cheek and chin take a final blow.
Killian has bested men with greater strength than his own more times than he can count. He's killed a few dozen that he'd consider more talented swordsmen than him. He bloody well held his own against a giant undead witch for far longer than anyone should've, after a 30 foot fall onto unforgiving rock. He'd dealt with Pan for two centuries, played his games, took his demonic thrills in stride. But Killian feels the difference here and now.
Those were men, boys, mindless monsters. This is a god.
He deals more force into a hit than Killian has felt before; Killian's left eye is swollen over, a pool of fire in the socket, and the surrounding structures throbbing enough that Killian fears the browbone's been fractured. The pain is blinding in more ways than one. His throat is bruised enough that every breath hurts. He swallows, forcing down a whimper at the pain of the action. Still, he pushes himself up, managing to get to his hand and knees, feeling every impact bruise across his body. He forces his breath to steady.
When Killian dares to look up to the god, Hades is watching. His hands are tucked behind his back as he leans over patiently, studying him. With Killian's face in view now, Hades grins at his handiwork. "Now, that's a start."
"What do you want from me?"
Hades' grin widens. "Why, what a lovely question! Someone's finally catching up. I thought you'd be a slow one, but here we are already!"
Killian exhales, pushing himself up and back, sitting on his heels unsteadily. He looks to Hades and waits.
"First, I want to try something. This need not be a wholly negative relationship. You may well prove to me that you can make up for all the Dark Ones you lost."
"How so?"
"I'm glad you asked."
Hades' smug face isn't one that Killian thinks he likes much. He'd worked for ship captains with that look — if you got yourself in trouble and wanted to make it to shore, you apologized, and you groveled. You asked to make it up to them, offer to work the whole night through, something grueling. Or on the rare occasion, you offered invaluable information that'd either make money or reveal a side-dealing first mate. But that was rarely all they wanted, not from a sailor that'd wronged his captain. The lash was always part of the deal.
Hades looks to the dagger on the floor. Killian's eyes — or rather, his eye, he's down to one now — follows it as the blade shoots up, handle first, into Hades' hand. The god ponders it, turning it over in his grasp. Dagger was a generous word, it's small, more a knife than a dagger.
"What do you plan to do with that?" Killian's brows raise, the left one alighting with pain at the movement. He grits his teeth.
"Oh me? Nothing. It’s what you will do with it." He places the handle in Killian's palm with a devilish look. "I'm surprised you don't recognize it, considering, well, what you've done with it before."
Killian holds it, his mind in its air-starved and rattled state sluggishly trying to piece together Hades' implication.
"Oh, I like that. Searching your mind for all the blood you've shed, looking for a time you used something as small as this. No hook, no sword, but an itty bitty knife. How personal it had to have been, right? Feel the blood on your hand, see the look in his eyes up close as you take a man's life."
Killian's heart stutters in his chest.
"Oh, there it is! Tell me. Please enlighten your audience, captain."
Killian's jaw is a vice, tight enough that his bruised throat burns. He forces the words through clenched teeth. "Brennan Jones."
"How cold, truly. Name, not relationship? That's a good sign, I'd worried you'd gone too soft." Hades grins, that vicious fire in his eyes returned. "Who was he, Hook?"
"You already bloody well know." The contempt in his expression could rival the god's.
Hades steps into his face so he's all Killian can see. The god himself burns and freezes like the cell itself does. "I want to hear it. From you."
His gaze falls. "My father."
Killian couldn't look his father in the eye as he drove the knife into him, and Hades knows it, it seems. There are very few lives he's taken with a broken gaze. He'd excused it as remaining vigilant of his surroundings, and it was. But in truth, it was simple guilt. Hades has chosen to toy with his mind, with his guilt — it's a familiar twist of the knife that's been stuck in his gut for centuries. Killian dreads the game that this god of demons has in store for him. He'd thought he'd seen the worst that the worlds' most manipulative bastards had to offer, but this was a god.
"Thank you." Hades whispers it condescendingly into his ear, before stepping back and opening his arms in a grand gesture. "Now, I have a very special gift just for you. Consider it an audition."
"For what?"
"You said it yourself, didn’t you? Dark Ones don’t get to retire." He clicks his tongue disapprovingly with a shake of his head.
"What do you want from me?" Killian spits. He's running out of patience. And sense.
"That's the spirit! Keep that energy going, you'll need it."
Killian almost lunges at the man, stepping forward with the knife raised in threat. His hook did nothing, he doubts this little thing could do any better but wielding it in Hades direction feels better than just standing around. Hades feigns surprise.
"Easy, now." The 'surprise' turns to a smirk. "Save it for your cellmate."
Killian squints, keeping the blade up. "Cellmate?"
"You didn't notice? My, my, I thought your instincts were better than that, Hook."
Hades practically pouts at him, shrugging when Killian's eyes scan the cell. The grated bars lack any door, and the other stone walls are empty. There's nothing but blood and chains hanging off the wall. He looks to Hades again who smiles, his shrug relaxes as his eyes drift up from Killian to something directly above him.
Dread fills Killian's gut. He follows the god's gaze up to the cell's ceiling and his stomach drops.
Above, wrapped in hanging chains, is a bloody mass of a man, hanging limply. His blood-matted hair hangs down and obscures his features, but Killian knows that face. He knows it anywhere. He's seen it in nightmares for centuries, seen his smiling assurance that night before he sold Killian and Liam away. He's seen that desperate dying face tell Killian he could still change and be a better man, seen it every night when he's closed his eyes. Killian's father hangs unconscious, beaten, bloodied, and chained. In hell. And Killian sent him here.
Abstract Reflections 🪞 ok I love the idea of Killians memories grounding him and giving him hope, can you give us a tease of this?
hell yeah!! let's gooo, this is some of my favorite stuff I get to do in this fic (masterlist here). Had to resist the urge to send a huuuge excerpt, cut it down to just this excerpt with the memory left out bc that'd be giving away too much lol 💕
-
Killian has had nightmares about losing his remaining hand for nearly as long as he's been without the other. Centuries afterwards, a snide remark or a half-formed threat about taking his other hand could still make his heartbeat stutter. The fear would reignite in his mind, the nightmare following close behind. It'd vary wildly in the setting, circumstances, and means by which he'd lose it, but it always ended the same. He'd shoot up, his heart pounding, grasping wildly with his hand, his missing one alive with its own false sensation and pain. He had to see his hand to confirm it wasn't another ghost at the end of his arm.
He'd been hoping the nightmare would go away completely when he and Emma settled into their new home together, into their future together. He'd had fewer nightmares when they'd slept in each other's arms, and the ones he did have were mostly about losing her. If she'd awaken from his sudden movements or mumbled pleas, she'd soothe him with her touch, sometimes with her words. Afterwards, he'd sleep soundly til morning.
She slept through her own nightmares and rarely seemed to remember them in the morning, if she recalled having one at all. When she did remember, she never wanted to speak of it. He'd found that running his hand through her hair or across her skin in soft patterns soothed her mind enough to return to a peaceful sleep. When the morning came and he'd ask how she slept, she'd smile and say she'd slept "perfect", not an ounce of hesitance in her answer.
He pictures her now, her warm expression as she lay in bed on one of the blissful mornings they'd shared.
[...]
He misses her touch, her warmth. If Hades has his way, he'll never know her touch again. He still thinks she's out there, but he has to know it, believe it, just as strongly as he had when he helped Meg escape with the message to her. Doubt creeps up his spine, but he can't allow it to win. Not if she's down here for him. He needs to be strong for her if she comes. When she comes.
