losttalongthewayy:

breathe

cs future family — ღ —
CaptainCharming II CaptainCobra — “I broke down crying in your Grandfather’s arms the night my daughter was born…” — or, you
know, the night the wee babies are born and how these guys handled the whole
thing. 

(slightly)angsty fluff? 🙂

This is obviously never in a million years happening in canon, but I’m still craving already all the Daddy!Killian/Grandpa!Killian
fluff, so here’s THIS anyway! I very selfishly needed it! 😀 Flashbacks are in
Italics. 

---

    Killian
wishes he knew the exact way or words to help the lad. He knows in his heart
that everything is going to turn out fine regardless, but he still wishes Henry knew this as
well.

And
he knows, oh Killian knows rationally
Henry probably knows everything’s going to be okay already, but Killian also knows, from his own experience,
that right this second, rationality isn’t exactly first on Henry’s mind.

So
he waits it out. Killian doesn’t exactly want to approach Henry with his
unsolicited opinion, but he still knows the two of them are bound to exchange
some words at some point this day anyway.

Killian
knows it’s not the right time yet though. The lad is seemingly trying to appear so
tough and in control of the whole situation and Killian respects that.

Killian
has to commend him for it even; he’s doing a much more believable job than Killian
ever did once upon a time when he was in Henry’s shoes.

Needlessly
to say, Killian Jones can’t be prouder of his lad right now.

— ღ   —

He’s losing it.

He’s shaking and he feels as though
someone has a very tight grip on his heart right now. He feels sweaty
and tingly —as though he’s being suffocated from the inside out. He tries to
force himself to breathe but it comes out shallow and rapid. He shudders; eyes
squeezing against the tears he doesn’t wish to cry.

His chest almost hurts and he wants— he
doesn’t know what he wants —he just needs to do something, but he’s useless.
All evening he’s done nothing but watch and it’s —it’s too bloody much for him
to handle.

Killian turns facing a wall, his palm flat
on the cool surface steadying him. He doesn’t trust his legs to hold him up so
he leans heavily onto the wall, his forehead touching its surface. He breathes,
harshly and unsteady, he wants to scream really —cry perhaps too, out of
frustration and—

“Breathe,” a voice calls, and Killian
hears it muffled by the sound of his very own heart pounding in his ears.
“Breathe,”

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