(Here after unfortunate delay is the epilogue to the post 5x14 healing in the Underworld fic I posted a week or so back. This one takes place in a couple years' time, and the whole Storybrooke group has returned safely from the Underworld here. I hope you enjoy – much fluffier with a lot less angst1)

Hush Now (I'm Here to Dry Your Tears) ~ Epilogue

Two Years Later…

A child's plaintive wail breaks through the early morning quiet in the still-dark house by the sea. Though only a little past two in the morning, it is quite clear the unhappy infant does not intend to stand being ignored until her parents are more rested.

Across the hall from the nursery, a groggy, low groan issues from the overstuffed king-sized bed where the Savior of Storybrooke and her pirate sleep tangled together, still curled up around each other to keep away the nightmares and sense of being alone, even after nearly two years as husband and wife. They had been married almost as soon as they returned from the Underworld alive, and barely been apart for more than a few hours ever since. Emma Swan's pale, slender arm snakes from beneath the mound of covers and smacks blindly at the alarm clock on her nightstand, not yet coherent enough to understand the "little demon device", as Killian calls it, is not making the noise that has awakened her.

A husky, warm chuckle emanates from the man at her back. His wiry arms carefully pull her into him for a moment, nose nuzzling at the top of her spine. He holds her close before she pulls away to go to their young daughter, but as she does, he also moves to roll out from under the covers on his side of the bed.

Her husband – Emma still warms and thrills at the title in a way she would never have expected of herself – stops her forward motion with a gentle hand, pulling her back into the circle of his arms and urging her to relax again while tucking the covers back around her. "Easy, Lass," he murmurs lowly in her ear, sending little shivers skittering all along the surface of her skin, despite the blankets. His blunted arm comes to rest on the curve of her still-tender stomach. 'I'll go to her. You need your sleep. Tough as you pretend to be, you must still be hurting. Stay here. Rest."

As he slides out of bed as smoothly as possible, Killian notes with affection and loving concern that after a rather pained grumble, Emma rolls onto her back restlessly and then quickly falls back to sleep. Shaking his head, he lingers for one more backward glance, knowing that he loves this woman beyond all sense and sanity, and it only grows the longer they are together. Then the loud, impatient cry comes again, and he snaps back to his task and across the hall to their daughter's nursery.

Upon entering the buttercup yellow painted room, wide, inquisitive eyes as blue and captivating as his own immediately find and gaze up at him from the crib steadfastly, wrapping his heart into her chubby little fingers once more. The wails soften and calm into pitiable, soft snuffles as Captain Hook, former dread villain of the high seas, leans over the side of the crib and tenderly gathers his little girl into his arms. "What is it, little Love? Your Mum needs her rest, Darling… Papa is here though, aye? No need for tears."

Their little girl blinks up at him guilelessly, and Killian feels his heart actually stutter in his chest at her innocent beauty. With her stunning azure eyes and head already full of soft, inky-dark baby curls, most people say they see him in the child, but the parts of Emma he sees in her are what capture him every time he looks at his precious child: her dark, upsweeping eyelashes, her perfect little nose, and that chin which Emma inherited from her own mother – not to mention that he can already see his love's fire and spark in their little one as well.

Humming an old shanty Liam had often used ages ago with him, when they were crammed in a dark corner of the hold in a ship where they were little more than slaves, Killian walks over to the rocking chair placed before the big bay window looking out on the harbor, bouncing his daughter's small form gently in his arms as he does. When Killian had been hurt and cold, hungry and afraid, when he couldn't sleep for the pain and the nightmares, it was this tune which had comforted him, sung in his beloved brother's voice. Holding his daughter now, so far removed from that awful past, Killian feels a few stinging tears burn the corners of his eyes, both in gratitude for this little blessing he could never have imagined, and wistful pain that Liam can't be here to see the tune from their mother calming another's fear. Though he had been frightened of dropping her because of the single working hand, or scaring her with his stump, when she was first born, now he moves and holds her with ease, like second nature. Even as Morgan Ruth Jones – Killian feels his heart warm remembering the beaming, happy smile on Dave's face when he'd realized his first granddaughter carried his beloved mother's name – settles more comfortably into his hold, her little eyelids flutter and she drifts back to sleep, snuggled into her papa's warmth. Killian traces the bare, soft skin of his stump over her forehead, brushing her hair back from her face without fear.

A week ago, when the angel in his arms was being born, fear had felt like it just might overwhelm him. Soon, Morgan is sleeping once more, thumb making its way into her mouth and nose burrowing into the crook of his arm. Killian could return his daughter to her crib and go back to bed, but he finds himself reluctant to move, to break the perfect, tranquil moment here holding his little girl. It already seems like he must be dreaming.

Rocking slightly, bare feet pushing gently off the floor to guide the masterfully carved chair – a gift from August and Gepetto – up and down, Killian's mind drifts back to the evening his little girl had begun to make her appearance. It had begun with Emma's startlingly wide eyes turning to him in the middle of their supper, then the cry of alarm and abrupt way she had hunched over the dining room table, sending both himself and Henry into a flurry of worried motion and making fear clench in his gut. Between himself and his adopted son, they had gotten a sweating, panting, and clearly panicking Emma into the Bug and been on their way to the hospital, calling Snow and David, then Regina and Robin as they drove.

It had been a long, rough labor for his love. The whole family was camped out in the waiting room for support within a half hour of their own arrival, but Emma was fighting to bring Morgan into the world for the rest of that night and much of the next day.

By the time their baby was actually crowning and nearly out, Dr. Whale was looking decidedly concerned for his adult patient. The doctor hadn't said it in so many words, but Killian was adept at reading people and the pirate could see the worry in the other man's eyes. Though being a ship's captain is nothing like being a physician, Killian had seen enough injuries and lived long enough that even he knew Emma had lost a lot of blood. His brilliant fighting lass was weakening, and there was nothing he could do but stand at her side, let her nearly break his only good hand as she struggled to push over and over again, and murmur that she could do it, he'd yet to see her fail, as he kissed her brow in what he could only hope was supportive encouragement.

When her head had fallen limply on his shoulder, and she had begun to beg for it to be over, she couldn't do it, couldn't push anymore, Killian had known just how dire the situation was. He wanted to wring Whale's neck and demand he do something to spare his wife anymore pain, even while knowing such a reaction was futile. "You're almost there, Darling," he had whispered hopefully instead, praying for her not to give up.

"Killian, I'm serious," she'd responded in a jumbled, half-delirious state. "If I don't make it, then you have to…"

"Not a chance, Princess," he'd cut off there, not allowing any such thought even a bit of traction; frightened as he was for her, it was still unfathomable. And thankfully, it had come out right in the end. Their daughter was kept for her first two days, ensuring that her temperature regulated and her lungs were functioning properly, and Emma was held overnight for recovery and observation, but all of them had been remarkably well considering their newest little pirate had decided she could not wait any longer than the 37 week mark to steal out of the womb.

Still gazing down at the lovely face of his little Morgan, Killian once more lightly hums the tune he hopes to make as comfortingly familiar to her as it has always been for him. Not even fitfully stirring in her slumber now, it seems Morgan has settled back in for the next few hours at least. Eventually her father brings himself to stand, place her back in her crib, and make his way back to his own bedroom.

As he slides under the covers and curls around his wife protectively, her back tucked into his chest, his face buried in the silk of her golden hair and arms enveloping her in tender warmth, Emma makes a drowsy sort of purr and snuggles closer.

"M Sorry," she mumbles, her words sluggish but genuine. "Next time I'll go…"

"Honestly, Lass, don't fret," he soothes, voice purposefully low and rumbling in her ear. "You've done the work of a year in the last few days. I merely wish to let you heal and regain your strength."

"Not made of glass, Pirate," she returns with a bit more of her usual sass. "At least bring her to me next time. You're going to make her such a Daddy's girl I won't even stand a chance."

The vibrations of his chuckling response travel from his chest to her as well. "A fitting arrangement for a little lass and her doting papa," he quips back.

"Whatever you say, Jones," Emma concedes in affectionate exasperation, drifting easily back to sleep in his arms.

Killian merely listens to the gentle in and out of her breathing and counts his blessings yet again, feeling for once that everything is exactly as it should be.