Who: Regina & Killian, with the debut of a normal Kenzi What: A pirate captain's bleeding from his face When: Today Where: Their home Rating/Warnings: None, aside from gory sickness Status: Complete!
The fever hadn’t been too awful at first, really. Just a flush to the ruggedness of his bristly cheeks, a bit of sweat beaded on the forehead, and a vague feeling of wanting to replenish with water. However, that had quickly progressed into his insides being chargrilled over a barbecue pit, his eyeballs bursting into flames with the flambéed remnants falling out of his skull, and overall his whole mood being so sour and his body being so irritated that blood began to drip from the tear ducts of those glassy cobalt eyes. In thin, red rivulets.
Well, you know what they say - stiff upper lip, mate, let’s just grab a tissue and move on.
Killian tried, he did. He rescheduled a morning meeting with a client to the late afternoon, and he thought if he sat home and worked on his laptop that he’d just push through whatever this was - distract himself, maybe get motivated and refreshed for the meeting that was due to take place. Only there was no refreshment because the blood kept coming and rather than craving water he craved death - swift and easy this time, none of this Dark One’s curse nonsense.
The idea of drinking water was abhorrent. The idea of eating anything was abhorrent, and the idea of moving was abhorrent - and yet he was attempting anyway. He’d managed to get dressed, somewhat in a zombie-like state and currently looking for his left sock, sniffling loudly to prevent any more blood from escaping orifices it shouldn’t be coming out of - upon actually finding the sock, his triumphant discovery was short-lived when good old gravity decided to fail him.
Thud, down on the bedroom floor he went. Probably sounding like a drunk elephant that had just cannonballed into the hardwood - no doubt Kenzi or Regina, maybe both, heard that downstairs. Fantastic.
It was always a terrible sign when most decorative mirrors in Regina’s home were, well, cracked - not entirely shattered to the point shards would litter the floor, not yet. It’d involve cleaning she had little time for, considering the pirate that shared her bed came down with a mysterious case of gratuitous face bleeding - very reminiscent to what his sister went through in the beginning of the year. Yet this time, no potion distilled from a basilisk corpse would cure it.
Yes, she tried with the dried remains.
Regina was in the kitchen when Killian did his valiant attempt to self-dress. Preparing some chicken broth for him to drink down - he did need some kind of sustenance - when the crash to the floor was like an anvil dropping.
“I’m on it!” was the exclamation of the sister-pirate, the real one (not the creepy little bitch that stole her face), already up the stairs; she’d been in bed herself, mostly resting from her time being held hostage by a batshit kitsune. Whatever that sound was probably wasn’t anything good and - well, yep, not good, because her eyes fell on the fallen Captain Hook. “Duuuude,” she mumbled, leveling to the ground on him to ease him up some. “What part of ‘stay in bed’ don’t you understand?”
“I don’t need to stay in bed,” the stubborn ass insisted (he was really giving donkeys a run for their money today), and it took Killian a moment to gather enough wits to hoist himself up - with Kenzi’s help. At least, he sat on the edge of the bed looking like he’d just crawled his way to Death’s doorstep. Those eyes were bleary, bloodshot, and the alarming tinge to his cheeks hadn’t gone away either - he probably looked sallow, as in, this was it. Take him now, God, if you had any mercy. Of course, the Big Man upstairs never seemed to.
He was also hesitant about Kenzi being near him - what if this random bout of Ebola was contagious? “You shouldn’t touch me, and I’m not going to breathe on you,” he added, pulling the front of his shirt up over his face and turning the material into a makeshift mask. “Regina shouldn’t either.” Instead let him die here, ladies, and remove his body before it begins to decompose.
Back on pirate ships, the common method to combat infections was to bleed the patient out. Other diseases? No problem, simply inject some mercury (always a solid plan). Well, Killian wasn’t sure what this was - he was clearly already bleeding and hadn’t been with a wench who previously hosted an armada between her thighs, so, there was only one solution.
“Just give me some rum, I’ll be alright.”
“Don’t you dare forget, I bled from my face way before it was cool,” Kenzi reminded him, a finger wagging like she was scolding - but it was playful, of course, because otherwise she’d turn into a pole of worried goo and oh god, why won’t her brother stop bleeding? One hand on her hip, and the other one was pressed against Killian’s forehead to test his temperature. “I did my time, I’ll be fine. You’re also burning up, and you should really, really lay down.”
Stairs were for the peasants right now. All it took was a twist and tug of magic in the air, the cloud of purple, and poof! In comes the queen, with a tray of liquids that were, for once, not brewed beneath the house. “Rum’s going to dehydrate you more,” Regina sighed, setting it all down on the nightstand to free her hands. “Listen to your sister, Killian.”
Kenzi whispered dramatically as she pushed him a little to lay down. “You’re at our meeeercy. Shhhhhh.”
Under normal circumstances, Killian would have gladly eaten what Regina had on that tray. It looked good. It smelled good - again, in theory. But currently, he had nothing but the delightful taste of copper, iron, and bile on his palette. Blood and vomit, such a lovely combination.
Because, truly, he was going to throw up in about...oh, two seconds.
“Mmmphh,” was all he said (and that didn’t even count as a word), resisting his sister’s gentle shove all for her own good and bolting up from the bed, only to stumble to the toilet which was connected to the master bedroom. He didn’t have anything in his stomach but something was coming up regardless - a very odd pink colour that was both blood and phlegm. Killian had felt better in his life, let’s just say.
And what was so wrong with drinking rum, he wondered, as he rested his cheek against the cool porcelain of the goddess he’d just worshipped. “Why do we live here,” he grumbled - the same thing he’d asked, no doubt, when mermaids were attacking the houseboat. “Orange County ebola is rubbish. I’d rather be sandpaper fisted up the bumhole than deal with this.”
Ohhhhh, that sounded grody. Kenzi grimaced, and this time it was Regina at his side to the bathroom - unfortunately Killian didn’t have any hair to pull back, but she knelt beside him to soothingly rub his back. “We’ll retire somewhere else one day,” she told him, pulling on the toilet paper holder to snag a few wipes. His mouth needed a bit of dabbing. “Kenzi - get a cold wash cloth?”
With a salute, Sharkbait followed those orders. A small rag, some cold water, and soon enough she was on the captain’s other side. Kenzi draped the cloth over his face for a minute. “Sandpaper fisting’s much more bearable, methinks,” she quipped. Not that she’d personally know on that particular end, but she knew what it was like to feel like a pile of doggy-doo and draining blood unattractively through every opening on your head. “Remember what you told me when I was sick, though? Stay put, rest a lot, don’t stab a nurse with a needle?”
Regina couldn’t even spare a questioning look for his sister for the moment.
“Aye,” Killian agreed wearily, letting his face be wiped because he certainly didn’t have the strength to do it himself. Nor did he have the strength to get back to bed, but he would try. “I suppose I can...take the day off of work.”
What. Gods above, it was a miracle. There was barely a time when Killian wasn’t working, in fact - ever since he was discharged from the Royal Navy he’d had to find ways to feed himself and keep a (leaky) roof over his head. Often, those ways weren’t exactly legal - now, with his PI licence being official and the certificate hanging up in the houseboat, he believed he should be working ten times harder to prove to himself and others that he bloody well deserved the accolade.
Holding onto Regina, he staggered back to bed with one sock on and one sock off. Never did get that left one on all the way. “Unless you’d like to meet with a client or two on my behalf, Sharkbait?”
Alright, the lack of one sock was silly - Regina made sure to even it out when he got onto the bed, meaning off it came. It’d be fine to leave it on the floor for now, and she urged him to lay on his side. “Lay like this,” she encouraged. “I don’t need you choking on your own blood-vomit and dying a second time.”
Kenzi proactively followed, taking the trash can with her to set it on the side of the bed. “Totally planned on it!” Work was important to him, she had always promised to help but there was a very anxious part of her that didn’t want to leave his side like this. It wasn’t like she was feeling terrible, either. Still lethargic, but it was good to keep a little busy. “I can take a drive down the boat in a bit?”
It was easy to sense the sister’s hesitance. “I’ve got him.” That was a promise. Vows didn’t need to be exchanged to know that she’d be by his side, through all that sickness and health garbage. Regina pushed her fingers through his sweaty hair, nails gently going over his scalp in a comforting scratch. “It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with him sick - he’s at least a little less stubborn as he was when he caught a cold killing that basilisk.”
Obviously the symptoms were more dire, and pumping him with fluids was a priority. Assuming he could keep it down.
The nails on the scalp caused Killian to essentially wilt into the mattress, flopping on his side as instructed - he’d just lie here and die in the fetal position, with no socks on. That seemed a decent enough course of things. At least he’d be getting pleasant pets as he perished - take that, Tigra.
“Bring my laptop with you, it’s got all the case info on it,” he added to Kenzi, making a vague motion with the prosthetic hand. Perhaps he would have been more stubborn, but bleeding out the eyes sort of tended to run a person down a bit - so, really, for the sake of his family’s mental health he would do his best to not get up. “Mm - “ Hack, cough, wheeze, “...she’s got me, aye. Going to put on a Naughty Nurse’s outfit, darling? I bet a faceful of tits would cure me.”
And do his best to be a lech, clearly, even while deathly ill.
Also while suspiciously eying the tray Regina brought in. Was she going to make him eat?
Um, heeeey. Broseph? Baby sister was still there, stop talking about tits in your face. “Please make sure that your foreplay begins after I leave the room, guys,” Kenzi snorted, but fiiiiiiiine - she didn’t doubt McTits would take care of him the best she could. It just still made her internally pout with worry. She also knew that Killian would rest better if he knew things were being taken care of on the JR Investigations end; stress wasn’t going to help him recover. “I got it, though, and just - you know.” A frown. “Take it easy. I will demand updates.
Hair pulled back, she lowered herself to kiss his forehead. “And please don’t die. I still need someone to cut the crusts off my sandwiches.”
Well, weren’t they just the cutest siblings in existence? Regina’s eyes rolled, but fondly. “It’s not going to be a very sexy Naughty Nurse’s outfit when you throw up all over me, darling. But let’s try to put something in your system, hm?”
Yes, she did notice the very wary look cast at that tray. It wasn’t anything horrendous. Literally, it was merely a glass of water, a bowl of chicken broth and some crackers. Something was better than nothing.
“I’ll always be around to cut the crusts off your sandwiches,” Killian promised, in a garble of words. No doubt Kenzi understood what he said, before she left. Alright, now to sit up since he doubted he could get fluids down while lying pitifully on his side.
His face was flushed and he hacked into a tissue, yet still got it done. There, up, leaning his back against the headboard. And his skull, which met the wall behind with a gentle thud. “Any day now, darling, we could be going to get our wee shit machine,” he said, deep blue eyes half closed. “Meara’s a nice name, don’t you think?”
It was amazing the clarity that a fever brought - crying blood just sort of added to the wisdom, no?
Our wee shit machine. No one else had ever described the tiny miracle of a lifeform so eloquently. Regina smirked, transferring the tray from the nightstand to her lap to delegate the contents - first, water, and there was a straw too. “I do. It makes her feel more…” Hmm. “Ours, I suppose.”
Zelena had chosen the name in Storybrooke, as was (unfortunate to say) her right. And really, the only reason why she’d been supportive was because she was a blubbering mourning mess on the inside - because here? At least she had her wits about her to realize that naming babies too soon after the death of a loved one was unbelievably tacky. Robin would suit well as a middle name, Regina wouldn’t dare to rob her of that name being in there somewhere.
But for a first name? It was picked by them, the two that would very likely be the ones raising her - this little newcomer would see them as parents, mom and dad. “It makes it a little tempting to already nickname her Mae, too.”
At least she thought it was precious.
He supposed you could get Mae out of Meara. It was similar to getting Niko out of Nikolas, he gathered? The Irish name, Meer-aaaah, rolled off the tongue so nicely - it also had a very fitting association for this Captain. “It means ‘sea,’” Killian said groggily, and now was the time to probably pitch Robin as a middle name. He’d agree to it, and likely most anything else.
And he continued to harbour those nigging jealous feelings regarding the dopey arrow slinger, but at the same time realised that there was just no stamping him out of Regina’s memories - so he could do well with respecting that memory, and honouring the fellow in some way.
“I’m a bit nervous still,” he admitted, attempting the water. Just a few sips through the straw. Ye gods, his face was killing him. “But not as much as before. I think it’s all the love I’ve got, in my heart for you. And my groin too.” Was he even making sense? Kind of?
Once he was done with the water, it was time to at least attempt to sip the chicken broth - there were no solids in it, and the crackers were there in case he was feeling brave. They were supposed to settle the stomach. “I’m so pleased to know that two important body parts love me that much,” Regina mused, and even if his condition had her unsettled (and stressed to the point that she wanted to choke an unsuspecting civilian), she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to distract from the current predicament. A little baby talk could maybe make his body forget it wanted to throw up?
“I think I’ll feel better about the whole thing once she’s here,” she added, thoughtfully. “Even with the preparation, none of it actually seems real yet.” Perhaps it was because they weren’t going through the motions of pregnancy, like most people did? That was undeniable proof - the swollen stomach, the movement, all the unpleasant symptoms that went with it.
All they had was faith that Zelena would make the best decision for her daughter.
Killian wasn’t sure how he’d feel when she was actually here - perhaps even more nervous? Or it would dissipate the first time, in theory, that he held her. Some people took to fatherhood like otters to water and then again there were others, like him, who didn’t really believe they’d be much good at it.
“It’ll be real soon,” he murmured, lashes beginning to close, eyelids drooping - no to the chicken broth, no, no. One sip and he’d had enough. The crackers might be attempted after a break, when he didn’t feel like his organs were oozing out through the pores of his skin. “I’ll paint the nursery when I feel just a wee bit better.”
Provided he wasn’t going to die. Again.
“I think we need twinkle lights on the ceiling for her.” Deeeeerrrrrp. Something sparkly, anyway. You could even tastefully add glitter to wall paint. He had seen it on that magical Pinterest site.
Poor, sickly pirate. Regina wouldn’t urge more than a couple sips of anything for now - his stomach practically emerging from his mouth and into the toilet was still recent, and gods know how volatile his insides still were after that. Her shoes were removed, tossed to the side with his discarded socks, and she scooted to get behind him - something told her she’d be the big spoon.
“We can get her twinkle lights,” she promised, wrapping around him to get him comfortable. There was no way in hell she’d be separated from him much; she was determined to keep a very close eye and monitor his condition to make sure it didn’t get worse. Like, oh, choking on your own vomit. It was crucial for him to sleep by his side, and she was worried that he’d roll over onto his back at some point through feverish sleep thrashes. “Don’t worry about the nursery, just think about…” Regina chewed her bottom lip, thinking. “What books you’re going to read to her? Something child friendly, of course. You can teach her to map the stars, like you taught Neal.”
Twinkle lights. Like stars, then, on the ceiling for her - she imagined it’d be soothing for when Meara actually slept in her crib.
It went without saying that the books would be child-friendly, but for a pirate, sometimes the disclaimer was necessary. “I’ve got plenty of stories - “ Oh, wait, Killian thought about it for a moment. Most of them would be suitable for little innocent ears. “I’ll teach her to navigate by the stars, and sail, and I’m sure she’ll adore the sea as much as I do.”
He’d start early, wowing the wee lass with tales of creatures of the deep, revealing the secrets and mysteries of the ocean and the power it possessed - the sea was life force, it was rejuvenation and healing. Any child of his would share in this love, he hoped.
“I’m feeling a little better?” he shared, though it came out like a question. A wave of nausea disproved that, however, and then he grabbed a few tissues to hack into them. “...perhaps I better stay here with a bucket by the bed.” And having Regina helped too - the way she was wrapped around him, he let himself drape an arm over her and stroke her hair with fingers that barely twitched he was so tired, but it was the thought that counted.
Regina knew Killian had tried with Neal, he really did - after he’d found him some time after Milah’s death, and taught him some of what he knew. Those instincts of fatherhood were there, and she’d imagine they would kick in on hyperdrive once the little pea came into their lives. It was only a matter of time now, but the days seemed to drag on at snail-speed.
“You tried doing something and failed, miserably, need I remind you?” she whispered, sliding her body up to press a kiss against his pale forehead. “The majority - meaning your sister and I - fully advocate on you staying exactly where you are. Sleep and fluids are the best thing. I’m not going anywhere.” And if she did it wouldn’t be anywhere far. Like, oh, the bathroom. Or teleporting to the kitchen for something.
She’d be a vigilant queen, because she wasn’t about to lose Killian to the OC’s ebola epidemic. Whatever the fuck this was.
It wasn’t fair, the way Regina was clinging to him with all those curves poured on him like oozing honey - but Killian supposed life was hardly ever fair anyway. Damn it all. “Fine, I’ll stay exactly where I am and have another three sips of broth,” he promised drowsily. “Then ravish you when I’m not bleeding from my face.”
There, that sounded like a good plan to him - so he just had to stick it out until then. Not like he was worried about that, however. Because if there was one thing the Captain was good at? It’d be surviving.