He loves me. He still loves me. It was my fault, not his.

Emma Swan held one shaking hand over her eyebrow, her other hand maneuvering the steering wheel to her car. The clock read 3:12 AM, and the gash had been bleeding for two hours. But she couldn't have driven to the hospital while he was still awake. He would've gotten angrier, and it would've been worse for her. It was my fault, and he still loves me.

Emma pulled up to the parking lot of the hospital, pausing before stepping out of her car to check the makeup over her black eye from two weeks ago. It was only coming off just a little, and if anything she just looked fucking tired. Locking her car behind her, she ran through the hospital doors, alerting the nurses on call of her situation as she suddenly began to cry. She was just so scared. He could've have followed her here, or she could've lost so much blood already, or she could have to face him when she got home. The nurse waiting with her assured her the doctor would be here soon, to not cry, that it would all be okay.

The curtain shrouding Emma from the rest of the emergency room pulled open and quickly closed, but Emma's eyes were shut. "Ms. Swan?" a strong male voice said quietly. Her eyes remained closed until she heard a creaking noise, presumably the doctor sitting down in the chair. "I'm Dr. Jones. Can you remove your hand from your forehead please?" Emma's eyes suddenly opened, and she saw a man with soft blue eyes that looked like they weren't going to hurt her, golden scruff that stretched from his pink lips to his ears to a little ways down his neck, a deep side part in his dark black hair. "You can trust me, and I won't ask a single question. I want to help you, okay?" He smiled a small smile, his gloved hand gently grabbing her wrist. She instinctively flinched away, and she tensed, hoping he didn't notice.

But he did.

His hand pulled her arm and the black towel away from her forehead to reveal an ugly, bloody, scattering bruise, brown shards of glass still plastered to her forehead, leftovers of the beer bottle that had been smashed on her hours ago.

Dr. Jones exhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat. "I tripped with my drink in my hand." Emma hopelessly covered, laughing an empty laugh. "It was stupid of me." It was more stupid of me to ask to meet a friend tomorrow. She sighed heavily as Dr. Jones stood up and sat down on the creaky hospital bed next to her, beginning to clean the wound and pick out the glass shard by shard. She shied away from his male energy at first, but relaxed a little when she realized it was positive. And safe.

"Must've been a pretty bad fall. Are you hands and knees okay?" He asked without looking at her, his insanely blue eyes focused instead on her stinging forehead. Emma's heart stopped. The black and blue handprints wrapped around her forearms were still healing, and thus were clearly visible. "Uh..uh, yeah. I landed on the carpet, so I'm okay." This was her first time going to hospital because of him, and she didn't know how to act or what to say.

Oh, Jesus, Dr. Jones thought, his rubber gloves getting red with blood at the tips as he cleaned the wound. Oh, fuck. He knew exactly what this was. He knew she had some nasty bruises she didn't want him to see. He also knew that if whoever did this found out she was here, it'd be just horrible. He didn't understand why the fuck anyone would want to hurt her like this- she was shaking and her eyes were darting around nervously, her back held sickeningly straight. "It's not so bad- the wound's not as deep as you think." He assured her, and she smiled just a bit. He finished cleaning her up, and as he was packing up some antibacterial creams for her, he looked her straight in the eye. "I will make sure that no one can ever access your file of your visits here." He began. "And should this ever happen again, although I hope it doesn't with all my heart, call me and let me know you're coming." He handed her a card with his name on it with a little bag of creams. He placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, looking at her with an expression he'd only hoped was his best attempt at a poker face. "Have a good night, love. Drive safe." And with that, he'd pulled open the curtain, and sauntered out, his back moving from side to side as he walked to check on his next patient. He wondered if giving her his personal phone number was the right plan of action. Yes, she was a complete stranger, but he somehow felt some unspoken connection with her too, as weird as it may be. It didn't feel wrong, that was for sure. He had a heavy lump in his throat, and he was unfocused for the rest of the night. He'd hope to never see her again- or at least not in that condition.

Emma drove home at a slow pace, the radio on softly, the card with his number scrawled haphazardly tucked safely under the driver's seat. Dr. Killian Jones was his name, and Emma decided that it was a nice name. But Neal could not find this. She turned the corner, hoping their house was as she left it- lights off, Chinese food still open on the table. Her heart was beating. If he was awake, she was done for. But she smiled and laughed when the lights were still off, and as she unlocked the front door, the Chinese was still open and cold on the front table. She fell asleep on the couch, her hands and body still shaking a bit as a few silent tears slipped out and onto her cheeks. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be. She told herself before going to sleep, her arms folded over her chest and her legs scrunched up.

However, although his shift was physically exhausting, Dr. Killian Jones slept not even a wink that night.

"Wake the fuck up." Neal spat distastefully at Emma's smushed-up form laying on the couch. She bolted awake, her hand pressing nervously to the bandage on her forehead. Shit. He wasn't supposed to know that she went to the hospital. She was supposed to take it off before he got up. "Who bandaged you up, Emma? You went to the hospital, didn't you." He sneered, his breath reeking of alcohol and under his eyes purple and inflamed with lack of sleep, his tone harsh and condescending. "Yes, I went. But I told them I fell." She said quietly, her eyes filling with tears, not even flinching when the slap pierced through her cheek, for she was expecting it.

"What the fuck, Emma. You know the rule. You aren't supposed to go. Ever." His fist was balled up at his side, his lips pressed tightly together. "I'm so sorry, Neal. It was just...it was just bleeding so much. So much." She looked down at the ground, averting his angry eyes. "No one there is onto us?" He said loudly, grabbing her chin to meet her eyes roughly. "No one." she whispered.

"Good." he nodded, standing up, and walking into the kitchen. "Now make me breakfast or else next time it happens, your car won't be able to drive."

He went back to their bedroom to lay down, his head throbbing due to his ridiculous hangover, and Emma sighed heavily, a single tear slipping out of her eyes and down to her cheek. Standing up, she turned on the stove, cracking some eggs into the frying pan and throwing some toast in the toaster. She wondered if Dr. Jones really didn't know, if he actually believed that she fell. She couldn't even believe her own lie, so how could he? Her head pounded as she emptied the eggs onto a plate and carried it to Neal's room, where he was watching tv as if nothing ever happened. He didn't say thank you or acknowledge her presence, and for that Emma was silently grateful.

Meanwhile, in his studio loft, Dr. Killian Jones stood hunched over his kitchen island, his mind flooded with images of that poor woman last night. Her averting, bloodshot eyes, her trembling hands, her instinctive flinch when he touched her. He wish he could help her so much, oh god, so much. He took a long sip of coffee. He just couldn't fucking get her out of his head. It all bothered him so much- how scared she was, how on edge she was. He felt like it was he knew her from somewhere, and as the morning when on, in his mind, it suddenly became his job to help her out. And so he would-no matter what it took.