knight.

Concern etches his features, settling between dark brows in a distinct crease, stormy gaze studying the Irishman with a blend of worry and fond exasperation. "It's only 10 in the morning, Killian." Pointing out the obvious clearly doesn't have an impact on the younger man, so Guy leans in closer so his words remain solely between the two of them, one hand wrapping around his arm to guide his friend back to his room. "How much have you had to drink?

There's an ache in his bones - a sharp pang of regret that blends seamlessly with the sound of his brother's voice, that choked whisper of truth echoing in a skull that suddenly feels far too light. It's easier like this, he thinks...Easier to break his own heart with a shattered mobile against a hotel wall, to sit on the edge of a bed that's suddenly far too strange and far too wrong, drowning in an oppressive silence that even a blaring television can't pierce.

He should call Liam back, should call his mum .. but early morning on a Tuesday is a terrible time to face one's worst fears so instead he turns to a waiting bottle, fist-like hold around his heart weakening with every swallow.

Killian Jones has always been his father's son.

This he knows. This is familiar, comfortable, a dance of uneven steps and a careful balance that leaves the Irishman looking through shadowed eyes at a world that seems so far away and unimportant. The words are still there (it's not working Killian, the doctor says it's getting worse...) but lulled by the warmth of rum, he listens to them with a detached interest, turning them over in his mind like a child investigating a bug. Everything is far away, a play the world puts on for his benefit, a carefully orchestrated script that Killian watches through shuttered windows... until suddenly there's a strong grip wrapped around his arm and he's forced back to the present, blinking in a hotel hallway that seems far too bright considering the circumstances.

Guy - bloody hell, of course it's Guy - is asking something, steering him down the corridor in a way that's far too gentle for the younger man's tastes. He wants to yell, wants to scream, wants to bash some fucker's bloody face in until his phone rings again, heralding the anxious voice of his father or brother, words tripping over themselves as they explain they'd had it all wrong.

She's fine, they were wrong. They were wrong, they were wrong, they were - Fuck.

"What the fuck do you care, yeah?" His anger bleeds through the slurred words, brows furrowing and teeth grinding together as if instead of a bloody popstar, he's some soldier preparing for a war .. and inside, Killian recoils from it, curls into a ball and hopes the older man will leave him alone, will give him a chance to split apart and not have to worry about losing one of the best things that's ever happened to him. Instinct says to snarl, to bite, to growl, to howl at the bloody damned moon until his fellow bandmate washes his hands of it, muttering about lost causes and the hopeless Irish.. but when he opens his mouth, forget-me-not blues wide and staring as they meet Guy's own, it's a confession that falls between them, a plea for help that he isn't entirely certain is deserved.

"Killian..." Guy's voice is soft, gentle, almost a plea for the missing pieces of information that would make this drastic shift in behavior make sense, and he watches as the younger man's features suddenly crumble as if the emotion is too much to hold back any longer.

The words, when they come, steal the breath from his lungs and the strength from his knees, leaving him weak and unsteady on his own feet, a subtle mirroring of Killian's own intoxicated lack of coordination from an entirely different source. His grip on the other man's arm tightens unconsciously, a lifeline that they both need at the moment if Killian's own hold on him is anything to go by, and Guy finds himself leaning into his lover's frame in a way that both offers support and receives it in equal measure.

Eveline. God, not Eveline.

The moment passes quickly beneath the weight of responsibility, his own grief set aside to be dealt with later so that he can be what Killian needs him to be now - a pillar, the foundation upon which they can move forward with purpose and direction, the one whose hand will guide him and steer the course for the coming days and weeks. Pulling back slightly, Guy's free hand finds its way to his cell while he locks eyes with Killian, a quick nod acknowledging the pleading note he heard in the other man's voice.

It’s been almost a month. Twenty three days of nothing but late jaunts to the pub and stumbling home to an empty bed, of pages torn from sketchbooks covered in a hurried scrawl of lyrics, entire phrases crossed out and replaced with others, decorated with odd drawings that remind the Irishman of the stories he gets told over their facetime visits. Twenty three days… and the ache is still as sharp as it was on the very first day the other man left.  His confession had been a moment of weakness, a slip of tongue loosened by the burn of rum and the shortage of sleep, and Killian had felt his chest clench at the utterance of them … but he couldn’t take them back, hadn’t wanted to … and yet…. 

Weight shifts as he starts into the next song, eyes closed until his chosen ghost comes to haunt him. There’s a play of a smile about his lips, a single note that falters in answer to the way his heart skips a beat at the first image of eyes so akin in color to his own .. and suddenly, just as easily as that, he isn’t in some pub in Dublin. He’s on a call, voice flavored with static and poor reception, confessing every thought and feeling he’s kept locked away .. he’s showing Guy around the city, fingers wrapped loosely around one another until they make it home once more, nothing but a tangle of limbs in Killian’s bed… he’s on his knees, pride thrown into the water itself and hand gripping the one that intertwines so easily with his, begging the older man not to leave. To stay… 

The music ends in a crescendo of whistles and applause, something that once would have puffed up his chest and called to a hungry ego, but tonight he feels another sharp pain in the hollow of his chest and he stays quiet for a moment, eyes firmly shut against the reality that is his boyfriend’s absence. Tongue presses to the inside of one cheek as he finally succumbs to the inevitable, one hand moving to wipe the sweat from his brow and for a split second, when blue catches blue, Killian is almost certain his heart slams to a sudden stop. 

“What the fuck?!” It’s louder than he intends, a cry of shock thats picked up by a microphone the musician had almost all but forgotten about, and it’s punctuated by the huff of breath from his bassist as the Irishman shoves his own guitar into Starkey’s chest. “Guy?” He’s not sure why it’s a question… maybe because he’s afraid he’s dreaming, or that he’s had more drinks than  the two he thought himself guilty of… but he asks it again, voice a bit louder as if to give his hallucination time to declare itself as such. But then he’s there, Christ he’s there, and Killian grips frantically at the sleeve of Guy’s shirt, rum flavored lips splitting hard enough to make his head ache and lips seeking out the older man’s own with the ferocity of a man stranded in the desert suddenly being offered water. When they part, his heart has slowed to a steady beat and the stage behind him is all but forgotten. Nothing matters. Only this. Only them.

“Hello, love.” It’s a low hum, a far better show of flirting than his earlier freakout and Killian quirks one brow playfully, fingers catching his boyfriend’s own and refusing to loosen their hold.  There’s so much that he wants to say, so much he wants to share before distance takes away his chance once more .. but all he offers is an easy smile, forget-me-not blues lit up with an adoration he couldn’t hide even if he tried as he ignores the big question hovering like a weight on the tip of his tongue. “You’re not here to just check on the sink, are you?”

Home.

Once they've parted enough to allow their gazes to meet, bodies still pressed close together in an effort to maintain contact after so long away from one another, he finds himself lost in those striking eyes of Killian's, the crystalline blue piercing his heart with their earnest expression of something that lingers just this side of an emotion neither of them have put a name to quite yet. But it's there, both in the Irishman's eyes and in the way Guy's fingers trace the line of his jaw with fingers that (to his credit) only tremble a little, in the way he can't tear his gaze away from the ethereal, otherworldly creature before him, struck anew by the fact that this beautiful man is his.

Killian's question draws an easy laugh from within the depths of his chest and the amusement that touches his lips leaves his eyes creasing at the corners, a subtle shake of his head accompanying the reply that follows in a voice pitched to be heard over the noise of the gathered crowd. "No, I'm afraid the sink was the furthest thing from my mind when I decided to come home this time."

It takes a moment or two for him to realize what he said, for the weight of his own words to register, and there's a brief instant where Guy feels fear like the grip of some shade from beyond enveloping his heart. What if Killian isn't that invested, doesn't want to be tied down by some nomadic lunatic who sweeps through town once every few weeks and then disappears like a hurricane leaving only destruction and loss in his wake? What if...

But before he allows those thoughts to take root and flourish within the cage of his chest, Guy draws a deep breath and slips still-trembling fingers around to bury themselves in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Killian's neck, one hard swallow punctuating his effort to speak past the knot of uncertainty clogging his throat.

"I thought maybe...if you aren't opposed to the idea, that is..." His voice falters for just a moment and he learns anew that panic has a flavor, one that sits like lead upon his tongue as he struggles to finish speaking. The irony isn't lost on him, of being a bloody wreck diver, of taking unbelievable risks for a living with the sort of courage that most men can only dream of possessing, yet being brought to his knees by the man before him. It's something just this side of comical, really, and it's this thought that breaks the grip that fear has upon his tongue.

"I wondered if maybe you would be open to the notion of having me around a little longer this time?"

There’s moments in life a man wishes he can forget - pain, grief, anger… all leave their mark, invisible scars that can only be noticed by those that carry their own. A twitch at the corner of the mouth, that heavy furrow between brows that never seems to straighten itself out, shoulders that never fully square and bright eyes that carry dull shadows .. all serving as small glimpses laid bare to anyone willing to search. Killian Jones has not been so lucky. No matter how he squares his shoulders, or how often blue eyes glint with humor…there are always the thin lines of white that wrap themselves around his left wrist, mangled bone and muscle ripped away with nothing but lingering pain and scarred skin to serve as a headstone. 

He sees her sometimes, gleaming teeth and sharp cry….can all but hear her breathe in dark bedroom corners, low growls as she smells the air, searching for the meal she never got to finish. He sees her now, sees the way his wrist is laid bare as if it never held a hand at all, smells that thick weight in the air that’s nothing but blood, that copper tang that settles along the back of his throat… and he sees himself in the hospital afterwards, hears the park asking if he’s sure he wants to return, hears himself answering yes like the daft bloody idiot he is, hears that voice he’d been trying to drown out. Coward. As he takes a step backwards, twigs cracking under black boots, the Irishman hears it anyhow. It echoes around him, intwining with the screams of the dying as his colleagues fall around him, armed with nothing but someone else’s stupidity and orders that they’ve willingly followed to the death … and when fate turns its head towards him, dark eyes holding with a stormy blue, Killian Jones dons the mantle willingly. 

Coward. It follows him to the jeep they had left a few clicks south, each syllable echoing through his thoughts like the footfalls that resound through the forest, ever right behind him. He doesn’t notice the blood he’s left behind, the bits of friends that cling to his jacket sleeve or the way his bracelet falls to the ground, crushed beneath his boots. Let them think he’s dead … aye, he probably will be by morning. The radio in his car is ignored - anyone who had willingly sent employees into a bloodbath doesn’t give a fuck about those that are left - and without a second thought the Irishman heads to the northern most part of the island. The tourists, the other dinosaurs, the people who were daft enough to believe this was a good idea .. they can go fuck themselves for all he cares. The jeep whines as he presses it forward all the harder, engine protesting the rough treatment and tires slipping as they try to grain traction in the swampy ground - but he doesn’t slow… he’s fairly certain the establishment will have a few more worries than one ruined vehicle by the time the day is through.

When he makes it to his destination, its with a spray of dirt and steam and it isn’t until he’s all but fallen out of the driver side door, weight leant against the side of the car as if he’s too tired to hold himself up, that Killian stops to think about what he must look like, what the other man must think. Guy is sitting in the dirt, face pale and twisted into an expression of grief and when their gazes meet, the Irishman can all but feel the way his heart attempts to beat its way out of his chest. 

There’s that word again…. Coward. 

Dirt covered lips open as if to offer some explanation, stumbling steps carrying him forward as the older man rises to his feet. “Guy, I didn’t - “ His jacket is damp, wet with something that sticks to his shirt and leaves traces on bare skin and Killian realizes too late that he’s wearing what’s left of the people he had worked with, people they had both worked with, like some ill begotten souvenir. Fuck. He tries again, throat constricting around that taste of blood and dirt - bloody hell, I just want water - and fingers curling against his palm until they leave crescent shaped marks in their wake. “I’m - “ Sorry, he wants to say. I let you down. I’m a coward, aye. But I had to see you, had to know you were safe. But before he can utter such things, get the apologies and explanations out, arms are wrapping around him, a tight hold that pulls him blood and all into the older man’s embrace and the words that ghost across his ear are not said in disappointment or condemnation.

I love you.

"What the hell is going on?" It's easy to discern the mild irritation in his teammate's voice at the interruption, and Guy shifts his attention from the hadrosaur before him, her soft eyes following him as he takes a step toward the jeep and turns the volume up enough to catch the tail end of the alert.

"...entire unit wiped out. Repeat, we have a containment breach. ACU team dispatched to recover the asset has been..." Static crackles for a moment, the voice on the other end of the radio falling silent for the span of a few heartbeats before resuming their report in a tone that he can only describe as haunted.

"It's a blood bath..."

The ground beneath his feet seems to tilt in that instant, the blood rushing from his head in a way that leaves him staggering to keep his balance as the words repeat over and over in his mind, playing in a dizzying loop while the image of Killian's smile when they'd parted that morning lingers behind closed eyelids that burn with unshed tears. It's a blood bath...blood bath...

Killian.

Stumbling blindly away from the jeep, Guy finds his legs unwilling to support him any longer in the face of such horrifying news, and he collapses to the ground with a sound of utter despair, eyes staring sightlessly into the near distance as he struggles to process the news that his life has just been irrevocably shattered. There was so much he'd left unsaid, comfortable in the belief that they had all the time in the world, that he would always have the chance to tell Killian how he felt - how he'd become as necessary to the older man as the very air he breathed...and now it's too late.

...a blood bath...

Nausea churns in his gut as he allows himself to imagine the scene for the barest of instants, the knowledge of just what kind of monsters the island housed within walls that were nowhere near strong enough to keep them secure allowing him to picture the scene with eerie accuracy. Killian's team - all of them - were gone, wiped out in one single, bloody incident that Guy knows must have mirrored the nightmares that have plagued the younger man for longer than anyone knew, dreams of the beast that claimed his hand...and now his life.

Before he can even process the scope of his own grief and loss, before the reality of the fact that he's now facing a life after Killian can hit him like a cannonball straight to the heart, another of his teammates draws their attention to a jeep barreling toward them at a speed that can only be described as insane. It's almost enough to break through the haze of his misery, glassy eyes absently noting the broken headlight that looks very much like the one he'd pointed out to Killian just the day before, but it isn't until the vehicle comes to a skidding halt and a familiar, beloved face emerges from behind the cracked windscreen that a sob wrenches itself free from the confines of the older man's chest.

Completely disregarding the filth and gore that seems to cover a great deal of Killian's uniform, Guy can't help but fall into him, arms clenched whipcord tight around the Irishman's lean torso as if giving him an inch of space would allow him to slip away...this time for good. And before he can even think to clench his teeth around the words, they're spilling out into the charged air between them. I love you. Words he never thought he'd say to another soul, but words that need to be spoken before they lose this chance once and for all.

It isn't until he hears Killian's words, spoken in a way that serves to both cement the moment between them and to lighten the once-somber mood that his brush with death had inspired that Guy finds it in him to crack the trademark crooked grin that so frequently softens otherwise sharp features, and he leans in stark relief against his boyfriend's side while the rest of the team gathers around them. There are many questions, not the least of which involve their next steps now that the island is on lockdown and a monster stalks the grounds, hunting her creators with an endless hunger for destruction, and all eyes turn to the last living member of the Asset Containment Unit for guidance none of them ever thought they would need.

The tavern is an unfamiliar one, a dank empty crypt of a building, silent where it should be filled with raucous laughter from men full of drink and bathed in pale light by fluttering flames. Mud from the streets still sticks to black boots, hair damp from an earlier rain hanging over the single brow he arches in the other man’s direction and Hook shifts in his seat, casting a bored glance around the half filled space. There’s a woman in the corner, fingers curled loosely around some traveler’s wrist as if she’s a willing captive to passion’s whims … but the laugh that leaves her is cold and hollow and forget-me-not blues watch with a wary fascination as nails ever so slightly dig in to her companions’s arm.

Aye, a woman who dreamt of being a siren and now only prays for the storm.

It's difficult at times to recall exactly why they were out here roaming the countryside, sent on some random errand or other to the farthest reaches of the shire in hopes of gaining the upper hand in whatever plot the Sheriff had hatched of late. Whether buying the loyalty of more minor nobles or attempting to curb the lawlessness within Nottingham's borders, the one thing the knight knows with absolute certainty is that their continued well-being rests upon their ability to appear as if they are doing their job. The Sheriff did not suffer fools, nor did he tolerate failure in those he sent to do his bidding...which is the only reason Guy could imagine willingly setting foot into an establishment like the one they currently found themselves - a tavern given the dubious moniker of "The Rutting Monk."

A deceptively casual glance around the room leaves him with a sour taste lingering behind his teeth, his gaze settling on a grimy, hollow-eyed wench helping herself to the purse of a customer long since passed out on the floor (either from too much drink or another, more nefarious reason) and he pushes the mug of ale away resolutely.

No point in taking chances.

It's impossible to keep from giving his companion a wry twist of his lips in response to the familiar grumbling, well accustomed to his pirate's disdain for the "rural" folk and their ways, and the knight's reply is a low murmur of sound meant for the other man's ears alone. "Did you expect something else in a place like this? All we need to do is wait for the messenger to arrive and we can be on our way once more." His words are meant to placate, to ward off any further unrest until their mission is complete, as is the shared look that passes between them in that moment. "If our luck holds, we may even be able to make it back to Nottingham before nightfall. Pray to whatever gods may be listening that it does, because I would sooner sleep in a hollow tree than whatever passes for a bed here."

Before either man can utter another word, the tavern door swings open on hinges that screech in complaint, allowing the early evening breeze to stir up dust motes that dance across the filthy floorboards. The newcomer pauses at the entrance, cloak hood pulled up to obscure his features, and Guy finds his hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at his side as a flicker of unease begins to coil in his belly. There's something off about the stranger, and the knight gives a low sound of warning to alert his pirate to the potential trouble headed their way, though he knows without a doubt that Hook is already on the same page.

As always.