A/N: I am apparent incapable of writing anything short, so this "one-shot" will contain five chapters posted over the next several days. Enjoy my darlings! P.S. The final chapter will be rated M. ;)

Rotating blades whir loudly, the mechanical—thwump thwump thwump —beating in time with his heart as Killian sits on the metal bench of the tilting helicopter, bending to tighten the bindings on his skis with his right hand, double-checking that they're secure before looping the straps of his pack over his shoulders and pulling down his tinted goggles.

Standing and shuffling toward the open door of the aircraft, he straps a ski pole into the grip of his prosthetic left hand. It had been a challenge at first, picking up skiing again without the physical grasp of a pole in each hand, but he'd been nothing if not determined.

He's lost a lot. No way in hell was he going to lose this too.

Picking up the other pole, he steadies himself and looks out over the untouched back country of the breathtaking mountain range, breathing in the sharp scent of pine and frigid winter air as the helicopter circles closer to his drop-off point.

The sky is clear, a bright robin's egg blue, almost dark in contrast to the blinding white of the glittering snow below.

He turns and nods at the pilot, and the helicopter drops closer to the mountain top. The floor pitches beneath his feet, and with a whoop of joy, he bends his knees and drops from the aircraft to the powdery snow below.

There's nothing quite like it; the exhilaration of carving your way down the mountainside, the icy-hot sting of wind whipping your cheeks, trees and rock rushing past you in a blur as your thighs burn and everything focuses in on the shift of your knees and the tilt of your hips, balance and power as your skis glide effortlessly over the snow, carrying you in a heart-pounding hurtle downwards.

It takes his mind off everything and forces him into the moment, forces him to focus solely on the obstacles in his path; nothing existing beyond what is immediately in front of him. It pushes the past away and temporarily erases the memory of that horrific night from just over five years ago—the crash and screech of twisting metal, crumpling around him and her, mostly her, burning rubber, acrid smoke and blood, so much blood. She died on impact, they'd told him. His Milah hadn't suffered, they'd promised. He's lucky he didn't lose his whole arm, they'd consoled, as if being a little less of a cripple were some much sought after consolation prize.

That's why he's up here, in the middle of bloody nowhere. It's an escape. It's the only way he knows how to make it through the Christmas season without drinking himself half to death.

His older brother, Liam, still, after all these years, argues that he shouldn't spend the holiday alone, that he should be around family; his sister-in-law and his nephew, but Killian has no interest in sitting around and celebrating or partaking in holiday cheer. No, all he wants to do is ski until his legs quake with the exertion of it, until he's so bloody knackered that he falls into bed and sleeps dreamlessly until sunrise.

So he skis, usually traveling to a new section of the mountain range every year, easily bored with the terrain he sees day in and day out working search and rescue and as a part-time ski instructor. It's not cheap, renting out mountain accommodations for the peak of the Christmas season, but then he figures that a long night in a bar followed by a trip to the emergency room to have his stomach pumped probably isn't either.

At least this way the only harm he's doing is to his bank account.

At least that's supposed to be the case.

Turns out it isn't.

He's halfway down the mountain, slowing his pace, enjoying the afternoon sun when the winds unexpectedly start to shift and within minutes, the blue sky is gone, dark grey snow clouds blowing in to obscure the sun.

The temperature drops drastically as the snow starts to fall, and though it's only mid-afternoon, it feels like the darkness of night is already closing in around him.

He skis a little harder, a little faster, perhaps not as cautiously as he should, confident that he can make it down the mountain and back to the snowy little resort before the storm really hits, but in his haste, he neglects to dodge a hidden boulder beneath the deepening snow. It throws him off balance, twisting his right ankle and sending him careening sideway into the trees. He hits his head hard on a low hanging branch, and then snaps his right ski in half on the next tree, further torquing his ankle, before finally tumbling to a halt in the shallow, but ice-cold waters of a small not-quite-frozen mountain stream.

"Buggering hell," he curses as he sits up slowly, his head spinning, water already soaking through the material of his snow pants.

He's only got one ski pole left, the other lost along with his left ski somewhere up the mountainside during his tumble, and he groans in pain as he twists his battered ankle to free it from the binding of the broken ski.

He needs to get out of the water.

Pushing himself to his feet, he nearly crumbles back into the rocky river, his ankle screaming in protest and threatening to give out. He's fairly certain the only thing preventing it from doing so is the sturdy design of his ski boots.

Using the ski pole as a cane, he stumbles from the river, dripping water and shivering as he leans against the closest tree to catch his breath, the world tilting unsteadily beneath his feet as he lifts his hand to his forehead, wincing when his gloved fingers come away covered in blood.

He's got to be the biggest idiot alive. Though, at this rate, he might not be for much longer. Over a decade working search and rescue in the mountains and what does he do? Why, he ignores every bloody rule in the book of course. Never venture into the back country alone. Always tell someone where you're going and when you'll be back. Don't overestimate your abilities; even an experienced skier can run into trouble. Pack supplies for shelter and an extra change of clothes in case of emergency.

He's repeated every single one of them countless times over the last ten or so years, but follow them himself? Not bloody likely.

Hell, maybe he deserves to die out here.

One thing's for certain though; if he doesn't get a move on and find some sort of shelter, he will.

Limping onward, he continues down the mountain, stumbling through the deep snow, his ankle and head screaming in synchronized protest with every faltering step as the wind picks up, the snow falls heavier, and daylight quickly begins to fade.

He's not even sure which way is down when he finally sees it, something that looks like smoke rising through the trees. At this point he could certainly be imagining it, what with the way he's seeing double, his vision jumping, blurring darkly at the edges, but it's not like he has anything to lose, so he turns and pushes through the thick stand of pines.

There's a cabin, Jesus fucking Christ, thank the lord, there's a cabin.

His legs give out halfway between the trees and the house, so he crawls; using the last of his strength to nearly throw himself against the solid oak door. He thinks he calls out for help, but can't be sure that the wind and the snow didn't simply sweep his voice away in the blizzard, so he tries again.

The door opens and he falls inward, blinking up as his vision fades, and the last thing he thinks before giving in to the frightful tug of unconsciousness, is that he's clearly died and gone to heaven, because there's no way the blonde angel standing above him is real.

There's only a brief moment of consciousness where all he feels is blinding pain stemming from his ankle. He might scream, he's not sure. Darkness claims him again.

The next time he wakes, he registers warmth and not much else, flames flickering, a fire off to the right. His angel wipes a warm cloth gently over his forehead and tells him to rest. He does, sleep not more than a hairsbreadth away.

Something shakes him awake and he groans irritably. "Bugger off, 'm sleeping."

A pinch to his ribs followed by, "talk to me for a minute and then you can go back to sleep." Silence. "What's your name?"

His name? "Killian... Jones," he mumbles, trying to open his eyes. He succeeds after a moment.

The blonde angel smiles. "Good. I'm Emma. Can you tell me what day it is? The year?"

"'s December. The 21st? No, no, the 22nd. 2015." He blinks slowly up at her, feeling disconnected from his body. "Emma," he says, testing her name out on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds so he says it again. "Emma."

She rolls her eyes, but it's too dark and he can't make out the colour of them. "Do you know where you are, Killian?"

He groans and tries to turn for a better look around, but Emma stops him with a hand against his chest. "Lie still."

Doing as asked, he looks up at the ceiling, at shadowed golden-wood beams. "Well I was on the bloody mountainside, until it tried to kill me, but now I venture I'm in your home instead?"

She laughs, a small chuckle of a thing, and holds up three fingers in front of his face. "How many fingers?"

"Three," he says grabbing for them. He makes contact on the first try and he grins.

Emma smiles back and squeezes his hand before reaching for a small pen light. "Eyes forward please."

She checks his pupils and tucks the pen away, seemingly content that he's not suffered any severe head trauma.

"What's the verdict, Doc? Can I go back t' sleep?"

He might be able to see straight now, but he still feels like he got hit by a bloody truck, exhaustion weighing heavily on his limbs.

"Sleep," she confirms, stepping away. "I'll wake you again in a couple hours."

He's beneath several blankets, in a bed, he thinks, and the last thing he hears before slumber washes over him, is Emma's quiet voice talking to someone other than him. "I know, Eira, but I couldn't exactly leave him out in the snow."

The next time Emma wakes him, he's lucid enough to down a cup of warm tea at her insistence, sitting up slightly in the bed.

She perches on the edge of the mattress, looking a little out of place in her own home, and he asks the question he didn't get the chance to earlier. "Who's Eira?"

Emma turns and whistles. "C'mere girl." A second later, a large silver-coated husky jumps up on the bed, as light and graceful on her feet as a cat. "This is Eira." The dog looks rather unimpressed with his presence and Emma seems to bite back a smile. "She's not used to visitors." He gets the feeling she's not just talking about the dog.

"I don't imagine you get many up here," he comments, slumping back down in the bed after she takes the empty mug from his hand and disappears.

He's not awake long enough to hear her response.

This time when he wakes, it's on his own. The interior of the cabin is brighter and his head is clearer, only pounding dully now, the sharp pain from last night gone.

It's morning; bright white light pushes past the thick curtains, and Emma is asleep, mostly upright on a small couch, bundled up in a thick knitted throw, Eira curled onto the sofa at her feet. A mug sits forgotten on the natural wood coffee table and the fire in the hearth burns low, a chill creeping back into the room.

He should rise and tend to the dying fire, it's the least he can do after she essentially saved his life last night, but he takes a moment first to lie still and take stock of his injuries.

He's a little bit shocked at first to find himself naked save for a pair of snug sweatpants that clearly belong to her, but it makes sense; almost every sodding item of clothing he'd been wearing had been soaked through and likely frozen stiff. He lifts his arms from beneath the blankets to find that his prosthetic is no longer attached, the stump of his left forearm bare and exposed, a mess of ugly scars that mark jagged lines up past his elbow.

He fights the instinctive urge to shove it back below the bedding, just so he doesn't have to face the hideous sight and the memories that come with it. Somehow the thought of her seeing the ruined remains of his arm is a thousand times more humiliating than the fact that she more than likely took a peek at his flaccid, half-frozen cock when she did away with his wet clothing.

He wants to cover his wrist up, hide it from sight with something, anything, but his clothes and belongings are nowhere in sight and he's not about to go rummaging through her dresser in search of a spare sock. Embarrassed or not, he's still a gentleman. Besides, he tells himself, she's already seen it and clearly wasn't bothered. It's time that he grows a pair and admits that he's the one repulsed by his own perceived shortcomings here, not her.

With a sigh, he scrubs his hand over his face, careful not to disturb her tidy bandage work over the swelling at his temple. He flips the blankets back to inspect the tensor bandage around his ankle, rather impressed with her handiwork there as well. The joint and muscles protest sorely when he rotates it and he looks up suddenly at the sound of her sleep-weary voice.

"There's a crutch leaning against the wall," she tells him through a yawn. "Washroom's through that door if you need it."

Attempting to put some weight on his ankle and forego the crutch, he hears her scoff at the same time he grunts in pain and seriously reconsiders his ankle's weight-bearing capabilities.

"Don't be such a man," she scolds. "Just use the crutch. I'm fairly certain nothing is broken, but if you expect it to heal any time soon, I'd avoid putting weight on it for at least a few days."

"Right," he grunts, reaching for the crutch, somehow the fact that he's stuck here going right over his head for the moment.

It's a little bit awkward when he's only got one good leg and one hand period, but he manages to hobble to the small bathroom to relieve himself. Looking at his reflection in the mirror after he washes his hand (another awkward task), he takes in the bruise forming around his eye and the unnatural pallor to his skin, realizing once again just how close of a call it had been.

There's a very good chance that without her, he'd be little more than a frozen corpse in the snow right now. He should probably stop hiding his sorry arse away in the privy and get out there and thank her.

He takes another moment to steady himself first; to notice the nasty bruise forming over his left shoulder and the organized clutter of her small bathroom—the sliding doors of a linen closet, the berry-red towels hanging on hooks on the back of the door, lending a subdued festivity to the warm wood walls and white porcelain bathroom fixtures. A large clawfoot tub sits opposite the sink, surrounded by a sheer snowflake patterned shower curtain that hangs from the ceiling. It's not the in-your-face sort of Christmas décor that he expects to see at this time of year, but it's there all the same and he tries not to hate it.

When he exits the bathroom into the main living space of the cabin, he tries to content himself with the knowledge that at least his mysterious saviour doesn't seem to have a Christmas tree.

Speaking of his so-called saviour, (there's a hazy and slightly humiliating memory somewhere in there of him asking her if she was an angel), the quiet blonde (Emma, he reminds himself) is nowhere to be seen. Her dog, (Eira, was it?) is also absent, and he shuffles back toward the bed, suddenly feeling a little bit weak and unsteady.

He sits at the foot of the mattress, his arse protesting when he puts too much weight on his left cheek, and he suspects that he's likely battered and bruised there as well.

Just exactly how bloody far did he fall before finally coming to a stop, he wonders.

Perhaps he should have snooped through her medicine cabinet in search of something to ease the pain. He groans and observes the room, wondering briefly if the lass has got any rum tucked away—he looks at his stump and does his best to fight the instinctive cringe that sets hard in the line of his jaw—he could certainly stand to self-medicate a little, allow alcohol to dull his senses and soothe his pathetic ego.

It's a daft idea, if he's ever had one, what with the lingering ache in his head and the fact that he can't even manage to stand on his own two feet. Probably a good thing he's got manners enough not to go rummaging about in some kind stranger's kitchen. If he got as pissed as he might like to, she'd be certain to toss his pathetic arse back out into the snow.

Rubbing at his beard, (he thinks it can be classified as a beard now—he hasn't trimmed it in weeks), he tries to shake himself out of his funk and simply be grateful that he's alive and indoors in the relative warmth of Emma's cozy little cabin.

He pulls a thick Navajo patterned blanket around his shoulders, noticing how the bed and the small couch flank the rough stone fireplace in the corner. There's a plush fur rug covering the hardwood floor and when Killian studies the coffee table more carefully, he realizes that it's clearly handmade; repurposed wood, polished and stained, supported by custom-welded wrought iron legs.

There's no shortage of blankets and pillows in the cozy corner of the cabin, thick quilts and crocheted throws are piled high on the double bed, and if he lifts the corner of the one around his shoulders to his nose, he can detect a hint of cinnamon and cocoa mixing with the stronger scent of woodsmoke.

The rest of the cabin is mostly open, essentially one square room, the small couch butting up against an extending portion of the kitchen counter and cabinets. There's an antique combination bookshelf and dresser parallel to the bed against the exterior of the bathroom wall, and in the nook between the bathroom and what he assumes to be some sort of mudroom, there sits a roundish rough-hewn table in front of a large bay window.

The curtains are still drawn, only a crack of white light shining from between them, and he stands again, wanting to get a better look outside. Bunching the blanket a little higher around his neck so that it doesn't fall from his shoulders when he walks, he gathers the crutch again and hobbles toward the window.

It's a bit of a balancing act, tucking the crutch beneath his armpit while he struggles to push the curtains aside, but when he succeeds, he has to instantly close his eyes against the staggering brightness of the snow covered world outside.

A moment or two to adjust and then he's able to take in the stark white canvas of the winter wonderland before his eyes. Snow is still falling, large flakes, fluffy like cotton balls dropping from the clouds above to blanket the already substantial covering on the hillside and the trees.

Wind whips, blustery violence as a squall tosses snow in near whiteout conditions, and he presses his fingertips to the partially frosted windowpane, the fact finally hitting him that even if he could walk or had another pair of skis, he is obviously not going anywhere in this storm.

The door opens, a bundled-up, snow-covered Emma stomping through, followed closely by her dog, and Killian startles, jumping as much as one can jump while leaning against a crutch with only one good leg. In reality, it's more like almost falling on his face, and Emma at least has the decency to hide her laugh behind the snow-crusted scarf covering the lower half of her face.

"Sorry," she apologizes, dropping a large crate of firewood to the floor so she can begin stripping her winter layers.

He watches with what is probably ridiculous fascination as she goes through the process of lowering her hood, unwinding her scarf, and removing her toque to reveal her wavy, snow-dampened locks. Her long, bright red parka gets unbuttoned and unzipped, shrugged out of and hung on hooks he can't see before she works her black snow pants over her slim hips, stepping from her snow boots into moccasins without allowing her socked feet to touch the floor.

She's dressed in tight black long johns, fuzzy candy cane striped socks that rise to mid-calf, and an oversized ivory sweater that falls loosely to the tops of her thighs. She bends to towel off Eira's paws, her long hair a golden curtain around the husky's head, and he thinks that maybe last night's delirious assessment and declaration that she was an angel might just be true.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, picking up the crate and making her way over to the fireplace. Eira gives him another dirty look before bounding across the room after her master.

Killian moves slowly after them, sinking down to sit on the couch while Emma tends to the fire, stoking the dying embers before adding more wood.

"Head's much better," he tells her, trying not to laugh at the way his sweatpants (her sweatpants technically), while an acceptable fit around his hips, fall woefully short of his ankles. "Still feel like the bleeding twit who took a tumble down the mountain and nearly got himself killed by ignoring every basic rule of winter wilderness survival."

She scoffs and looks at him over her shoulder while she fans the fire. "Some emergency kit you had in your bag there. Did you really think that a couple protein bars, a map, and an extra pair of socks were going to be sufficient if you ran into trouble? Are you stupid or do you just think you're invincible?" she scolds, sounding extraordinarily mad for someone who probably shouldn't give two shits about him. "You probably would have died if your sorry ass hadn't gotten lucky and stumbled across my cabin. You know that, right?"

She's still kneeling on the rug, but she's facing him now, her arms crossed over her chest and he's shocked by the accountability he feels for his actions where this beautiful woman is concerned, the shame that trickles through his veins as he bows his head and considers his words carefully.

"Aye," he begins, "I am all too aware that without your kindness and an apparent horseshoe up my arse, I'd be deep in a snowy grave right about now. So thank you, love, for taking me in and tending to my wounds."

She shrugs as if you say 'it was nothing' and then raises an eyebrow at him, the frown still in place on wind-chapped lips.

Clearly she's actually expecting an answer to her question.

"I'm an idiot," he admits reluctantly, knowing it's the truth. "This isn't… Christmas is not…" He stops, breathes, and starts again. "It's not exactly a good time of year for me. I tend to lose my head a little."

She nods and stands, wipes her hands on her thighs, and thankfully doesn't ask him to elaborate. "You must be hungry. I don't have anything fancy, but I can whip something up while you change. I'll just grab your clothes out of the dryer."

Emma ducks into the mudroom while he gets back up and leans against the arm of the couch.

When she returns with a pile of his clothes in her arms, she's blushing, her cheeks flushed, not from the cold, but from something else entirely.

"I uh," she starts, stumbling over her words. "Are you okay to dress alone or do you need a hand – shit! Sorry," she cringes. "Help," she substitutes, "do you need help? I mean, I've uh, already seen all there is to see, so if you need a ha – help, help. God, I'm such an asshole. It doesn't bother me, your wrist, not at all, I want you to know that, and I just, lending someone a hand is such a common colloquialism, and I'm probably just being more offensive by trying to avoid the matter instead of addressing it outright – "

He cuts her off by reaching out to touch her arm. "It's all right, love, don't uh, feel the need to avoid the word. It's just a hand," he says as much for her benefit as for his own, "or lack thereof." And then to lighten the mood, he looks down at his crotch. "Took a peek at the goods, did ya?"

She blushes redder and laughs. "Not intentionally! But I couldn't exactly leave you lying around in half frozen tighty whities, now could I? Can't say I've ever undressed and dressed a barely conscious man before. Was quite the experience."

"Thank you again for that, Emma. For everything," he says sincerely, "you've gone far above the call of duty in such an unusual situation. I do believe I can manage to dress myself this time. Though if you could carry the clothes to the bathroom for me that would be greatly appreciated."

She precedes him to the bathroom and leaves his clothes next to the sink before he even makes it to the entrance. "How do you like your eggs?" she asks, squeezing past him in the doorway.

"No real preference, love. Whatever is easiest." He halts her before she can walk away, his fingers on the soft knit of her sweater. "When you dragged me in from the snow last night, did you happen to see my prosthetic?" he asks, nodding toward his arm when confusion clouds her features.

"You didn't have it on you, sorry. You must have lost it somewhere out in the storm. If it stops snowing I could go out and -"

"No, no, you'd never find it. It's of no real matter, it can be replaced." He smiles at her. "Just means I'll probably need a hand with my socks in a few minutes."

She laughs. "I can do that. Go change, help yourself to the towels or a facecloth if you want to wash up a bit in the sink."

He spends an awkward ten or so minutes in the bathroom, cleaning up and changing. It ends up being easiest to sit on the toilet while he removes the too-short sweatpants and struggles back into his briefs. The navy long johns are an even bigger challenge, and when he can't manage to get his swollen and wrapped ankle through the narrow elastic opening, he ends up rifling through the drawers for a pair of scissors to cut the bottom few inches off altogether.

His white Henley and grey sweater go on much easier, and when he finally steps from the bathroom, exhausted and nearly ready to sleep again, Emma's waiting by the couch with two plates and two steaming mugs.

Eira is lounging at the foot of the bed, looking much happier, and Killian wonders if the reason the dog regarded him with such disdain earlier is because he had been sleeping in her bed.

He hobbles over to the couch with the socks tucked into the waistband of his long johns, collapsing with relief into the soft cushions of the couch.

"Feet up," Emma instructs as she hands the plate to him and tugs the socks from his waistband. "I hope you're okay with hot cocoa. I ran out of coffee yesterday." She motions to the mugs on the table, moving to sit next to him as she pulls his feet into her lap.

Catching sight of the poorly hidden smirk on her lips when she notices the hack job he did on his pants, he takes a bite of the scrambled eggs and shrugs. "It was that or walk around in my tighty whities."

She laughs and starts unwinding the wrap on his ankle. The skin beneath is bruised, black and blue in some places and he cringes, leaning forward to inspect it closer, nearly bumping heads with her when she moves to stand, gently setting his foot down on the table. "You should ice it for a while before I wrap it back up," she says, moving behind him to the kitchen to rustle through the freezer.

She returns a moment later with a flexible cold pack wrapped in a dishtowel, securing it in place over his ankle despite his protests at how bloody cold it is.

It takes a moment, but he convinces her that his other foot will do without the sock for now and that she should sit down and eat with him before her food gets cold.

The couch dips with her slight weight and she wolfs down her breakfast, finishing it well ahead of him. Eira watches them with casual disinterest from the bed and Killian can't help but feel that the dog is some sort of overprotective chaperone.

Emma hands him the cocoa when he leans forward to reach for it, shockingly adept at reading his movements for someone who quite obviously doesn't spend much time in the company of others.

Breaking the not entirely unpleasant silence, he nudges her gently with his elbow, careful not to spill either of their drinks. "I don't suppose it's too much to hope that you've got some sort of phone around here, is it? I really should contact my brother and let him know I'm still breathing."

Emma takes another careful sip of her cocoa and turns slightly to face him, her knee grazing his thigh on the small couch. "I've got a sat phone, but it won't be much use until the storm clears enough for you to step outside and use it." She seems to ponder something for a moment. "Was your brother skiing with you?"

There's a fair amount of concern in her voice and he shakes his head quickly, wanting to reassure her. "No, this was a solo trip. Liam's back home celebrating the holidays with his family as he should be."

Emma frowns. "And yet you're out here alone…"

He tilts his head and looks at her, suddenly feeling defensive. "Aye, and so are you," he retorts a little harsher than necessary.

Her frown deepens and she stands, gathering the dishes and disappearing again, leaving him sitting there metaphorically kicking himself, because you're not the only one in the world with a painful past, you blooming prat! Best not go and cock up your only option for room and board while the storm still rages and you can't bloody walk off this mountain. There's more to it than that, though. He's touched a nerve with her and he actually feels bad about it.

He sighs and twists on the couch to get a better look at her while she scrubs dishes in the kitchen sink. "Apologies, love, there's no excuse for my behavior when you've taken me into your home and shown me nothing but kindness."

She echoes his sigh and turns the water off. "I'm sorry, too." She moves back to sit in front of him on the coffee table and removes the ice from his ankle. "I'm kind of used to being alone. I didn't have much choice for most of my life and now I guess it's become habit."

She rolls the sock onto his good foot before moving back to his injured ankle, cradling it with her thighs while she rolls up the tensor bandage.

"Do you live out here year round?" he asks, curious even as he yawns. He could ask her to elaborate on her last statement, but he doesn't. He suspects it's an unpleasant story and he knows all to well the tendency to play those close to the chest.

She shakes her head. "Nah, can't afford not to work and there's not much in the way of work when you're surrounded by nothing but trees. I usually spend most of December up here, but the rest of the year it's only home whenever I can get the odd week off." She begins wrapping his ankle, talented fingers working confidently, careful not to jostle him unnecessarily. "Eira likes it – loves to play sled-dog. We catch rabbits, I've got a ton of venison in the deep freeze. Most of the rest is pasta and root vegetables, things that store well. I make my own bread – those eggs on their own were a bit of a luxury." She shrugs and secures the end of the wrap. "It's simple. An escape."

He's close to nodding off, his eyes drooping as she talks, her voice soothing, and when she notices, she helps lower his feet to the floor and hands him the crutch. "Get into the bed, then you can sleep."

He makes a token gesture of resisting, but really, his heart's not in it, not when he knows how comfortable the mattress is.

It's quite clear that Eira thinks he should resist, shifting begrudgingly at Emma's insistence to make room for him. He settles into the bed and pulls the blanket up to his chin. "And just what exactly is it that you do for work, Emma?" he asks, struck with the unexpected urge to know more about the beautiful blonde currently looking down at him with something approaching a smile.

"There are stakeouts, cold coffee, handcuffs, the odd bad guy, lots of paperwork…" she teases.

"You're a cop?" he asks, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead.

"Sheriff Swan at your service," she announces with a bit of an eye roll, flopping back on the couch. "Now shut up and let's both get some more sleep."