Author's Note:

Yes, I know I've been gone a long time, and yes, I know people want me to finish "Fever," "Care," and "I Am Here." Truthfully I have no muse for them anymore. I was young when they were started. If that muse ever comes back, I will try to finish them off. For now, though, my new muse is Once Upon A Time and our poor captain. I have several of these short one shots, and might just put them all together or expand on them as time goes on.

Written for the CS hiatus meme last year, prompt "Colorless." Oneshot. Killian catches a nasty stomach bug, Emma worries and takes care of him. Just a piece of shameless fluff.

Warnings: Vomit. Mentions of it, nothing graphic, but you know the drill.

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. I make no money from this, just do it for fun.

Pale

He didn't want to move. Every muscle ached, there was an incessant pounding in his head, his throat burned and itched as though he had repeatedly been swallowing knives or thorns, his tongue was dry, his face was void of all color, and his lips were cracked and chapped. He hadn't eaten or drank in over twelve hours, too afraid that it would come right back out the way it had gone in. He could not bear to get out of bed again to be sick, and so lied there, sweating, fighting it, and all but begging for death to come and relieve him.

His phone had been going off nonstop since a while ago, and though the discordant beeping and ringing was driving him crazy, he was too weak to answer it. Besides, he didn't trust himself to not vomit the moment he opened his mouth to speak. The missed call reminders drilled a hole directly into his skull through his ear, wrapping around his brain like a vice and tightening with each new beep. He wanted it to stop, but his abdomen was so sore he was sure he'd developed a definitive set of muscles, and he was not about to try abusing them further by sitting up to reach for the device he barely knew how to use anyway.

It could have been midnight, dawn, or three in the afternoon. He could no longer tell with the drapes drawn so tight and the misery within his body. How long had he been lying there? How many times since the middle of the night had he gotten up to run to the bathroom and puke? Six? Nine? Fifteen? He had lost count, but he knew that he felt miserable, hollow, and achy like no other pain he had ever experienced.

He was dozing off again, still fighting with the nausea that could only be described as the sensation experienced when one was first getting his or her sea legs, when he heard the frenzied knocking at the door and desperate calls of "Killian?!" Opening his mouth as little as possible to avoid an explosion, he groaned an unintelligible "who is it?" He thought he sounded rather good for someone who had been up puking the whole night. Apparently, however, the disembodied voice seemed to think otherwise. The woman outside the door all but kicked it in, running inside the room and gazing upon the incapacitated pirate with a mix of fear and concern etched deeply along the lines of her face.

"Hook?" She cried breathlessly. "What the hell? I called at least a dozen times. I was worried sick. You know how quickly things go south in this town, why wouldn't you at least text me to say you're alright….?" Though loud and boring directly into his skull like an ice pick, thoroughly worsening his thundering headache, her voice was a comfort to him.

"Swan," he murmured in greeting, grimacing as he felt another wave of nausea, this one even harder to ignore or shake off. "I'm… sorry, I've… been somewhat preoccupied this morning." He began to turn green, feeling himself losing the fight, and almost sobbed at the indignity of it all and the fear of the pain he was about to once more experience. Somehow, he found the energy to drag himself from the warm covers and stumble to the bathroom, slamming the door closed and dropping to his knees to be violently ill. There was nothing left in his stomach to expel, however, so he only shuddered and dry-heaved over the bowl, gripping the side so hard his knuckles turned white as tears streamed down his hot cheeks and the room spun around him. His bad arm, void of the brace, was pressed to his stomach, trying to soothe the ache there. He barely noticed the door crack open or Emma coming to stand in the doorway and watch over him, anxious.

Slowly, she approached him, crouching beside him and resting a cool, comforting hand against the sweat-soaked back of his nightshirt. He was radiating heat, his body wracked with heaves and sweat beading on his brow. Emma could put two and two together relatively easily and determined that the pirate was unwell.

"Killian?" She asked worriedly, in a voice no louder than a whisper. "Hey, it's okay. Take a deep breath. You're going to be fine." He finished heaving, his head drooping and body slumping forward from the exhaustion, his breathing still ragged and uneven. Emma firmly pulled him back into her arms. To Killian and his feverish skin, it was like falling into a cool, comforting cloud. His head rested on her shoulder, his body relaxing into hers easily. Emma brushed her cool palm against his feverish brow, then cheek, and he leaned his face into it involuntarily. It was like a tall drink of water from an oasis in the fires of hell.

"Fever," she noted softly, in a breath to mostly herself. She stroked his messy hair lovingly, cradling him to her. "How long has this been going on?" He shrugged, truly unknowing of the answer. Emma frowned. If he couldn't remember, it was likely a long time, and that worried her.

She didn't have any kind of experience with this stuff. She had missed all the years of caring for Henry when ill, as Regina had so pointedly reminded her upon her entry into Storybrooke, and she had always had to fend for herself when hit by a virus. Of course, as she thought of that, she realized that the same was likely true for Hook, who had never really had anyone to care for him when plagued by illness either, and her heart went out to him. She was going to try her best, if for nothing else to ensure he was comfortable and cared for. She thought quickly, trying to remember what to do for someone this feverish. She hadn't wanted to alarm him by pulling away, but his face was burning, warm as cocoa. She knew that couldn't be healthy, and made a mental note to find a thermometer from Granny later and see what exactly they were dealing with. For now, though, she knew she had to get it under control. Tylenol would do it. She hoped he still had the bottle she had gotten for him. The only other thing she could think of was a soothing trick they had used at the hospital when she was in labor: dabbing her face with a cool cloth.

She wasn't sure what the value of that would be in reducing the flames within his skin, but she decided to try. Reaching up towards the sink basin, she felt around until she came upon a washcloth. She wasn't sure whether or not it was clean, but she decided it was better than nothing. She turned on the cold tap and let it run for a minute, with Killian still leaning heavily against her, and held him steady while she drenched the cloth in the cold water. She wrung it out into the sink as best she could with one hand, then brought the dripping fabric down and started by wiping his dry lips with it to clean him up and offer them some hydration. She then folded the cloth and pressed it to his forehead. Killian sighed and all but moaned with relief.

"F-feels good," he murmured, nearly incoherent, and his eyes closed.

"No, no, no," Emma said, shaking him a little and eliciting a pained hiss and subsequent whimper from the man in her arms. A whimper had come out of the feared pirate's mouth. Emma bit her lip. "Don't fall asleep just yet," she instructed. "Let's get you back to bed, you'll be more comfortable than here on the floor." He nodded reluctantly. Of course, she was right, but he did not want to move an inch.

"Just… one second, love. Please?" He begged, his stomach turning. Emma's brow creased in concern, but she obliged him.

"Okay," she allowed, gently rubbing his back. "There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere. I just want to get you comfortable." She kept the cloth against his burning skin. His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep his eyes open, long, thick lashes brushing the tops of his flushed cheeks. Finally, after the nauseous feeling subsided for a moment, he grunted, pushing off the floor and slowly moving to stand, though his body swayed madly from how weak it was. Emma helped him, supporting most of his weight, and guiding him back to the bed. She eased him down onto the mattress, and he fell back onto the pillows with a soft moan. His blankets were a knotted mess, so she began to disentangle them from one another, arranging them back over him one at a time so they offered better warmth and coverage.

"Emma," he murmured in a cracked, gruff whisper as she placed the cloth once more across his brow. He was so reverent when speaking her name, it was almost absurd.

"Yes?" She asked softly. It was strange seeing him like this, weak, fragile, vulnerable, so unlike himself. But if Emma was uncomfortable with it, she did not say so and instead just quietly smoothed the blankets over and over against his stomach, rubbing gently in circles to try and soothe the ache.

"I feel… seasick."

"You're just nauseous from the virus, is all. You probably have a stomach bug, but there's nothing left in your system to throw up, so you're just heaving bile, which is making it worse. You need to be sipping water or ginger ale or something."

"I can't hold it down."

"I know." She tousled his sweaty, mussed hair with lithe fingers. "Not to mention liquids are a bitch to puke up, but if you don't, you're gonna get dehydrated, and I promise you hospitals and IVs are even more of a bitch." He didn't answer her, already dozing off with the combined lulling powers of the cool cloth leeching the heat away from his skin, her ritual rubbing, and her soft voice. Emma sighed, watching his chest rise and fall and his breathing even out until he was fast asleep.

While he slept, she busied herself making preparations for the next time he would be ill. She borrowed a thermometer from Granny's first aid kit at the counter downstairs, got him a bottle of water and a can of ginger ale from the vending machine down the hall, and found a few pills for him to take when he next awoke, leftovers from the last few times she had given him modern medicine. He was still very distrustful of it, and had obviously refused to take it the moment he could, but she supposed by now it was a blessing in disguise.

When Killian did wake up about an hour later, it was to another lurching pain in his stomach. He groaned, murmuring incoherently to himself, and tried to get up, but found himself too weak to move. Limbs trembling, he was ready to suck it up and lean over the side of the bed to be ill, blinded by pain and vertigo, until soft hands took hold of him, taking charge and guiding him to lean forward over a basin that was swiftly dropped into his lap. It smelled clean, like plastic and dishwashing soap, yet still triggered his gag reflex. One of the hands held the basin steady for him while he heaved into it, while the other helped keep his head upright and over the container. Fingers stroked the hair at the back of his head soothingly. Then, when he was finished, they pressed a cool glass against his dry lips, urging him silently to sip at it. He took a few reluctant drags of the liquid, wincing as swallowing burned his throat, then sighing as it refreshed his dry mouth and cooled his body down slightly.

He began to whimper softly, close to blubbering again with the pain and indecency of it all, and Emma pressed her cool lips to his forehead lovingly. She tried not to frown – he was still scorching. "Shh," she comforted softly. "Just relax. It's okay. Take little sips." She let him get about halfway through the glass before pressing two pills into his hand. He looked at her, his glassy eyes questioning. "Swallow those," she said. "With the water. Like when you had the headache last week. They'll stop some of the pain and lower your fever." He did as she said without a word. He then pressed the glass back in her palms. She set it aside and eased him back down. Finally, she whisked the basin off his lap and took it to be rinsed out.

In her absence, from the stress his body was under and the severe dehydration, he began to shake violently. His skin was now dry, as he was no longer sweating, and though he still burned with fever and could feel the fire of it turning coherent thought to ash, he was inexplicably freezing, his body now cold as ice despite the copious layers of blankets.

Emma returned moments later to a scared, trembling pirate. He felt as though he were freezing to death. She sat down beside him quickly and tucked the blankets tighter around him. She was never much for bedside manner, but the sight of him like this had something tugging at her heart and instinct had kicked in.

"Swan," he murmured desperately, teeth chattering. "It's f-freezing."

"Hey," she said. "Calm down. You're overheated, and your body is trying to regulate your temperature to fight this off. You're okay. But I can't put any more blankets on you or you're going to overheat and your fever will spike." She explained this to him calmly, though she was feeling anything but calm.

"'m c-c-cold," he complained softly, not that he expected her to do anything about it of course. He just felt the need to say, and was not entirely in control of word, thought, or action at that moment. Emma pressed a hand to his forehead soothingly, noticing how his body was seeming to curl instinctively into hers for warmth. He was still hot, almost hotter than before.

"I know," she said, "but it's just the fever." His immune system had to be like that of an infant here, she thought, and so every symptom was going to be magnified until he developed the antibodies to really fight back.

He closed his eyes to try and block out the feeling, his teeth chattering audibly and much harder now. His whole body shook violently, wracked with the tremors. His breathing picked up speed, as the shivering began to make him anxious and panicked. He hated the feeling, it was like losing control, and curled in on himself desperately to try and conserve some warmth.

"Hey, calm down," Emma soothed, her mind racing. Before she knew what she was doing, she had kicked off her boots and lifted up the covers, sliding into bed next to him and setting them back down, sealing the warmth in with her. He looked at her with glassy eyes, shocked and confused. "Come here," she invited him, opening her arms slightly. At his incredulous expression, she just smiled. "Body heat is the only thing that will work in this kind of situation, Killian… and I'm not about to sit here and watch you suffer. You did this for me once… let me return the favor." Slowly, cautiously, he scooted closer to her, curling up against her chest and burying his face in the fabric of her shirt. She wound her arms around his back, cradling him once more to her with all the tenderness and warmth in the world, holding him tightly.

They stayed like that a long time, and slowly, slowly, Emma felt his body begin to relax and his shivers begin to slow until they all but disappeared. From here, she could feel the unhealthy heat coming off him like a space heater and seeping through her clothes, causing her to sweat, but she didn't dare move.

"You still awake?" She asked, rubbing his back.

"How could I sleep and miss this?" He murmured into her. She couldn't help the soft, tinkling laughter that bubbled up out of her. That sounded more like him.

"Well, that's good," she said. "I probably need to check your temperature." He responded by holding her tighter and whimpering.

"Don't move yet," he begged. "You're… bloody warm."

"This is the most you've spoken since I got here," she commented with a small smile. "Clearly something's working. So let's keep it up while I have the chance." Gently, she slid out from under him despite his small noises of protest and reached for the thermometer on the bedside table. She held the little device out to him. "I'm going to put this under your tongue," she explained softly. "Just keep your mouth closed and hold it there until it beeps, okay?" He nodded his assent and opened his mouth, easily allowing her to slide the thermometer under his tongue. It felt sharp, like it was poking him, and the barrel was uncomfortably cold. He tried to ignore it, however, for her. He reluctantly closed his lips around it, holding it in place, and looked up at her with fever-bright doe eyes. Emma felt something within her chest clench at the sight of him, and her fingers caressed his uncomfortably warm, pinked cheek in reply.

"Hey," she murmured, trying to mask the fact that the look in his eyes was worrying her. She knew he was still himself, but the true him was buried deep in there somewhere, under the fires of fever burning him from the inside out. "You're doing great." But you look miserable and… way too pale, she added in her head. He continued to gaze at her dreamily until the device beeped and she was able to pull her eyes away from his in order to pluck it from his lips and get a reading. The small screen lit up with an ominous "102.4." The Savior bit her lip and glanced down at him. He had shifted onto his side, facing her, curling up once again to try and conserve what little of her warmth remained in her absence from his side.

"'s bad?" He asked her, though it was less of a question and more of a statement. Emma began to rub his back, watching the small window until the numbers disappeared from view and the whole thing went dark and silent.

"Not in the way you would think," she told him. "You won't die from it. But it's… pretty bad, by this world's standards. Give the Tylenol time to kick in, it'll go down." He wanted to believe that, but his stomach was turning again and he wasn't sure the medicine was going to stay in his body long enough for it to kick in, let alone bring his fever down.

He felt the old, sagging mattress shift again as she adjusted once more beneath the blankets, and he waited until she was settled before resting his head on her again, always the gentleman even in this state. He was pale, too pale, and Emma knew that if he didn't gain color back soon she was going to have to take him to the hospital and get him checked out. If he got too dehydrated, there could be catastrophic consequences. Killian rested comfortably in her arms, pressed against her body. She was cool, and he craved the way her skin was helping to quench the fire in his own. Emma brushed his damp hair back and kissed the top of his head lovingly. He breathed a small "Thank you," against her, and she just smiled sadly in reply. Her colors faded, as did the colors of the room, until in the peace and comfort of his Swan's embrace, his world went dark again.