Killian’s eyes are painfully pried open by the sunlight, seeping through the crack of the curtains in his room at Granny’s.
His brow furrows as he lets out a low groan. He rubs at his frowned forehead and then the stubble along his jawline. “Bloody hell.”

It would be so very nice and very much welcomed to sleep for just a little while longer, but he’s to go meet Emma this morning and that is hardly something to complain about, and in addition to that, there is work to be done.

If they are to free the fairies from the hat, he must go to the library with Belle and carry out the research that is necessary.

It has been six weeks since the incident with his heart and the crocodile being banished, after all. He is growing increasingly impatient over finding a way to release the winged creatures.

He heaves himself round on the bed so he is sat upright and feet are pressed against the wooden floor.

He then sluggishly plods along, each step seeming like one thousand and heads towards the bathroom in which the shower is located. It is activated by a pull of the lever and hot water jets from it.

With just the one hand, shampooing isn’t exactly easy, nor is it the most pleasant of tasks. The bottle’s cap must be bitten into the same way he would extend his spy glass, and then the cap is discarded onto the side.

He tends to also get a mouth full of the liquid during this process which he regularly has to spit out, cursing every time.

The bottle is shaken haphazardly above Killian’s head to pour the shampoo and he gets to scrubbing away at the head of dark hair.

The way he clamps his eyes shut to prevent the shampoo from getting into them and stinging is similar to the expression of a sulking child’s.
Now for body wash. More biting of caps to remove them and more cursing when their remnants fill his gob. He is sure their remedies in the Enchanted Forest were not of such a foul flavour.

The bottle may advertise it as strawberry flavoured, but he certainly does not want to eat it. It was simply the cheapest the store had… And Emma likes it, and he isn’t one to disappoint the lady, Swan.
As soon as he is out of the shower, he is scouring at his body and then his floppy hair with a towel. Most of this is done in a swift flailing motion of his arm.
Next… Tooth brushing, and again, another strenuous job to the pirate. Hell, this whole process is an impossible mission - far worse than any barriers he had to overcome whilst in Neverland those many years ago. Melodramatic pirate.
He works the brush around his mouth, discarding the contents after.

Then for eyeliner he slides it straight on. Killian is sure to make all the normal faces of concentration whilst applying it, faces that are sure to make even him question his devilishly handsome face with a gaping mouth and eyes wider than the slack jaw. He is quite good at applying it, though, even if he does say so himself. Years of practice, he supposes. No more panda eyes.
He returns to the bedroom. His damp hair will dry on its own. That’s how it always was aboard the Jolly Roger: Air dried by the sea salt wind.
He next reaches for his brace on the bedside table. It is thoughtlessly attached to the area in which his hand would be and the hook is twisted into place.

Two hundred years with such an attachment, he has grown used to it by now - the same old routine. He wishes he could say the same about his recently chosen clothing choices.
How he thought skinny jeans could be a good idea for a man with one hand, he will never know. Even if Emma helps from time to time in the mornings after staying a night, it’s still hell for him to do on every other occasion.

He will continue to kick himself about it each time he tears a whole through a pair with his hook, and each time he resorts to hopping up and down like a rabbit to wriggle them on, and sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes, it is just necessary that he has to lay back on the floor, legs in the air, squirming and wriggling around like a young, wee lad, trying with all his strength in order to get the bloody buggering trousers around his sodding arse.
Finally… Finally… It’s done.
Once he has his shirt buttoned, (another hellish quest, but let us spare the details) his necklace is around his neck and his hooked arm is through the sleeve of his jacket, he uses his good arm to press the Emma button on his talking phone.
As opposed to the time where she didn’t answer and left him in peril with the Snow Queen, though pulling on his pants this morning was particularly exhausting and just as dangerous for his blood pressure, she does in fact answer.
“Hello, love.” He smiles down the phone, pausing in order for her to get her own words in.
“Aye, we are… The usual spot… Indeed… Aye, I am aware how grumpy you are without the beverage at this ‘ungodly hour’… No, lass, I am not making quips of that nature… Of course, you are nothing like the angry dwarf.”
He grins. “He has far less of the facial hair.”
Shouting can be heard on the other end, hopefully in a light-hearted tone?

“I shall be sure to fetch you a cup from Granny’s before our meeting… Wonderful… I shall see you soon then. Bye, love.”

And he hangs up. So, the first task of the day: Find coffee for his grumpy girlfriend, certainly not to be confused with the short friend of Snow White’s…