warnings :- fever, clingy!killian, a lot of coughing, established relationship. pairing :- killian jones x fem!reader (takes place in storybrooke, killian has a fever :( and our reader takes care of him, aww. i read a fic like this somewhere and wanted to recreate it, can u blame me-)
SAFE HARBOUR
Killian lay paralyzed, pinned to the mattress by an invisible weight that felt like iron. Every muscle in his body didn't just ache; they thrummed with a deep, rhythmic agony that synchronized with the frantic pulse behind his eyes.
His head was a forge, an anvil being struck by a relentless hammer, while his throat felt as though he had been forced to swallow a handful of rusted needles and thorns. His tongue, dry and leaden, felt too large for his mouth, and his lips were so parched they threatened to split at the slightest twitch.
His body was a furnace, radiating a heat that turned his nightshirt into a damp, suffocating second skin, yet a primal, bone-deep chill made him shudder so violently his teeth rattled. The thought of moving to reach for a glass of water, let alone food, felt like a feat reserved for gods or madmen.
On the bedside table, his phone—a device he still regarded with the cautious suspicion—screamed with insistent, discordant digital chirps. Each vibration was a physical blow to his senses. He wanted to hurl it into the ocean outside, but he lacked the strength to even lift his hand. The heavy velvet drapes in his room were drawn tight against the world, he couldn't tell if the sun was high or if the moon was silvering the waves outside.
He was drifting back into a feverish, uneasy stupor when the heavy silence of the cabin was shattered. A frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed off the mahogany door, followed by a voice that managed to pierce through the fog of his delirium.
"Killian! Open this door right now!"
He let out a fractured sigh, his eyes remaining stubbornly shut. "Who is it...?" he groaned, the words barely more than a dry rasp that tore at his throat.
"It's me. I'm coming in."
(first name) didn't wait for permission. She turned the brass handle and stepped into the dim, stifling room.
"Killian Jones, for the love of all that is holy, I have called you around fifty times—" She stopped mid-sentence, the sharp edge of her frustration dissolving into a cold pool of dread as she approached the bed.
The man before her was a ghost of his usual swaggering self. His rugged features were pale, his skin took on a sickly, translucent sheen, and his raven hair was matted with sweat.
"Love," he murmured, his voice a ghost of a sound. He tried to offer a rakish smirk, but it came out as a pained grimace. "I’m... sorry. I’ve been somewhat... inconvenienced... since the sun rose. Or perhaps before. It’s hard to say."
He squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of vertigo washed over him, his breath hitching in a way that bordered on a sob. The indignity of being brought low by a mere fever grated against his pride almost as much as the pain.
"Hey, hey... look at me," (first name) whispered, her voice softening instantly. She moved to the edge of the bed, her hand reaching out to brush against his forehead. She gasped, pulling back for a second as if scorched. "Killian, you're burning up."
"I am usually... much more resilient," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving. "A pirate’s constitution... usually scoffs at... such—"
A violent volley of coughs cut him off, racking his frame and forcing him to curl into himself. Each shuddering breath seemed to ignite the fire in his lungs and sharpen the knives in his throat.
"Stop talking, you stubborn man," (first name) chided, though her eyes were bright with worry. She went to work with practiced efficiency. She clicked on the ceiling fan, its blades beginning to stir the heavy air, and hurried to the washroom. She returned with a basin of ice-cold water and a soft linen cloth.
As she pressed the freezing compress to his brow, Killian let out a long, shuddering moan of relief. The contrast was divine. He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering as he tried to anchor himself to her presence. While he lay there, she worked to untangle the damp, knotted heap of blankets, smoothing them over his shivering form to provide some semblance of organized warmth.
"You are a vision, love," he muttered, his voice thick. He reached out, his hand trembling as he caught her fingers, anchoring her to the bedside.
"And you," she replied, her voice a mix of tenderness and exasperation as she brushed a stray dark lock from his temple, "are entirely too careless. You've been lying here for hours, haven't you? Dehydrating and suffering in silence because you’re too proud to ask for help."
She looked down at him, and for a moment, the guard he usually kept up was completely gone. His cerulean eyes, usually so sharp and full of fire, were glassy and vulnerable, searching hers with a raw, desperate adoration.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, her heart aching. "You’re not out of the woods yet. You need fluids, and you need something to eat before I give you any medicine."
"I suppose... you’re right," he relented. With a herculean effort that drained what little color was left in his face, he hauled himself into a seated position. He swayed dangerously, the room spinning like a carousel, and he immediately began to shiver again now that he was out from under the heavy covers.
"I'll be right back." (first name) murmured, leaning forward to press a lingering, worried kiss to his flushed cheek. She started to stand, intent on heading to the galley, but her sleeve was caught in his firm, if shaky, grip.
"Stay," he pleaded. The word was small, devoid of the bravado he usually wore like armor. He looked up at her, his pride having evaporated the moment she walked through the door. "Please. Just... stay a moment longer."
"Killian, I have to get you water. You’re parched, I can hear it in your voice."
"I am perfectly fine," he lied, his voice cracking even as he said it. He laced his fingers with hers, holding on as if she were the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark. "I feel better already, and I'd much rather have the company of the woman I love than a glass of water."
"Flattery won't lower your temperature," she teased gently, though she didn't pull away. She saw the way his eyes struggled to stay focused, the way his chest labored with every breath. He looked smaller like this—not the indomitable pirate, but a man who was simply exhausted.
"It isn't flattery if it’s the truth," he whispered, his grip tightening ever so slightly. He pulled her hand toward him, pressing a dry, feverish kiss to her knuckles. "The water can wait. Just... five minutes. Let the fever claim me if it must, so long as you’re the last thing I see."
"Don't say things like that," she said, her voice trembling. She sat back down on the edge of the bed, realizing that his physical thirst was currently rivaled by a desperate need for comfort. She pulled the duvet up higher around his shoulders, tucking it in to trap the heat he so desperately needed to break the fever, while keeping the cool cloth pressed to his forehead.
Killian let out a long, jagged breath and slumped forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder. He was heavy, his body radiating heat like a dying star, but he let out a sound of pure contentment that broke her heart.
"There," she whispered, wrapping an arm around him to steady his swaying frame. "Five minutes. But then I'm bringing the strongest broth and the coldest water this ship has to offer. Understand?"
"Aye, Captain," he murmured against her neck, his eyes finally closing in a sleep that looked a little less like suffering and a little more like rest.
---
The five minutes stretched into ten, then twenty, as Killian’s breathing shifted from the jagged rasps of a man in pain to the heavy, rhythmic thrum of sleep. Slowly, she slipped out from under his weight and eased his head back onto the pillows.
The galley was a stark contrast to the stifling, heavy atmosphere of the captain's quarters. It was cool, smelling of salt air and seasoned wood. (first name) moved with frantic efficiency, filling a tall glass with water from the chilled pitcher kept on one of the shelves, dropping in a pinch of sea salt and a squeeze of lemon—an old sailor’s trick for dehydration that Killian himself had once taught her.
Next, she set a small pot over the stove. She didn't reach for anything heavy. Instead, she prepared a clear, chicken soup, seasoned with ginger to settle his nausea and a heavy hand of garlic for its medicinal bite. After half an hour of cooking, she balanced a wooden tray carefully as she navigated the swaying corridors back to his cabin.
"Killian," she whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand. She replaced the now-lukewarm cloth on his head with a fresh, freezing one. He jolted at the touch, his eyes snapping open, though they were unfocused and wild.
"Easy, sailor. It’s just me."
He blinked, the glassy sheen of his eyes clearing just enough to recognize her. He leaned his head against her shoulder, his body trembling so hard she could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Water," he wheezed.
She held the glass to his cracked lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid spilling down his chin and wetting his nightshirt, but she didn't care. He finished half the glass in one go before sighing with relief.
"Slowly. You'll make yourself sick," she murmured, wiping his chin with her thumb.
Next came the broth. She blew on a spoonful, testing the temperature before offering it to him. He looked at the spoon with a flash of his old disdain, his pride flickering back to life for a brief second.
"I can... manage a spoon, (first name)."
"You can barely manage to keep your head upright," she countered gently, pressing the spoon to his lips. "Humor me. I've spent the last hour thinking I was going to have to bury you at sea. Let me play nurse for one night."
He relented, his eyes closing as the warm, savory liquid hit his scorched throat. The ginger took the edge off the burning, and the heat of the broth seemed to soothe the tremors deep in his marrow. One spoonful became ten, then twenty, until the small bowl was nearly empty.
"There," she said, setting the tray aside. She reached for a small vial of medicine she’d taken from the infirmary—something to break the fire raging in his blood. "One last thing, then you can go back to sleep."
He took the medicine without protest, his strength spent. As she lowered him back onto the damp sheets, he reached out blindly, finding her hand once more. This time, he didn't try to pull her down; he simply held on, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over her knuckles.
"Don't... the drapes," he whispered, his voice fading. "Open them... just a crack. I want to know when the light comes."
(first name) nodded, her heart swelling. She stood and moved to the heavy velvet curtains, pulling them back just enough to reveal a sliver of the midnight sky. A single star hung over the horizon, reflecting in the black glass of the ocean.
When she turned back, Killian was watching her, the fire in his eyes dimmed but no longer desperate.
"The star," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his chapped lips. "It looks like you."
"You’re definitely delirious," she whispered, walking back to sit in the armchair she’d dragged to his bedside. She tucked her feet under her, prepared for a long night of changing compresses and monitoring his breath. "Go to sleep, Killian. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"On my life."
He exhaled a long, shaky breath, his features finally softening into a true rest. (first name) watched him for a long moment, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She reached out, checking the damp cloth on his forehead; it was already warm from the heat of his skin. She refreshed it yet again, and took out her phone. She stepped toward the far corner of the room, keeping her voice a mere shadow of a whisper as she dialed.
"Mary Margaret? It’s me."
A frantic gasp came through the receiver. "Oh, thank god! We’ve been calling for hours. Is he... is he alright? What happened?"
(first name) looked back at the bed, where the dim light of the lantern traced the now peaceful silhouette. "He’s fine," she breathed, though her voice caught slightly. "He’s got a fever—a bad one. I think it’s a mix of exhaustion and some nasty bug he picked up at the docks. He’s sleeping now. I’ve managed to give him some water, soup and medicine."
"Do you need anything? We could call Dr. Whale—"
"No," (first name) said, her gaze softening as Killian let out a low, peaceful sigh in his sleep. "No, he just needs rest. I’ve got him. Tell the others not to worry."
After she hung up, she moved back to the bedside, pulling a heavy armchair close to his pillows. She didn't want to leave him, even for the comfort of a proper bed. She watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
The ship felt different when its Captain was down. It felt hushed, as if the vessel itself were holding its breath.
As the hours ticked toward the deepest part of the night, (first name) found herself mesmerized by the small details of his face.
She reached out, gently lacing her fingers with his. In the stillness, she leaned her head back against the chair, her eyes never leaving his face. She would be there when the sun finally broke through the drapes, and she would be there when the fire returned to his eyes. She would be tired in the morning, her own bones would likely ache from the position she was curled up in, but as she sat there, staring at the man she loved, she knew she wouldn't have been anywhere else in the world.
fin-
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