Chapter 1

'I woke up in a dream today, and put my cold feet on the floor'

Killian Jones lowered his weight into a chair, wincing. Beneath his open shirt, his left arm and chest were badly bruised. Deep purple welts, red and black at the edges, striped his skin. In a few days, they would turn an ugly greenish-yellow hue –healing, but ugly. Rumplestiltskin's cane did wonders to flesh. Thankfully, his shoulder had buffered the blow meant for his head, leaving him with a throbbing gash above his eyebrow instead of a split skull.

Captain Hook received one hell of a beating. Years spent plotting revenge on the Crocodile, and all he could show for it was a headache and sore ribs.

He gingerly touched the cut. The bleeding had stopped, the salty harbor air helping to dry out the wound. He knew he should clean it, but he didn't care to move. The excess blood on his temple was drying too, leaving his skin stiff and itchy. Killian hefted his booted feet from the floor with a grunt of discomfort. Everything hurt. Crossing his ankles, he set his heels atop the blanket of charts and manifests covering the mahogany table in front of him.

He rested below decks, listening to his ship groan. The tide was flowing into the bay, lapping at the hull and putting a strain on the mooring lines. He imagined the creaking ropes, thick as his leg, tugging at the pilings that secured the Jolly Roger to the dock. Ropes no one could see. Cora's spell hid the ship from prying eyes, but thanks to the Cricket's escape, half of Storybrooke would know where he was before nightfall. He would need to lay anchor elsewhere to discourage visitors.

At least the Dark One would not bother him again. The Belle girl made sure of that. The woman of his enemy; he owed her his life and, begrudgingly, his respect. Such a tiny creature, her catching him off-guard not once, but twice, was impressive. Even more impressive was her ability to see him as he truly was.

Soulless. Rotten to the core.

Carefully reaching for the bottle of rum on the table, Killian snagged the glass handle with his hook. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he drank. The raw liquid trickled into his mouth down his throat, warming the pit of his stomach. It would be good to get stinking drunk. He could pass out and forget about today. Forget about the unexpected relief he experienced when the Dark One tried to kill him.

Damn Belle. She should mind her own business.

Killian closed his eyes against the pain in his head. He felt tired –tired of waiting for the egregious hole in his heart to heal as his bruises eventually would. He was hollow inside. No one could help him. He couldn't even save himself.

"Take me with you."

Killian blinked, letting a beat pass before answering with a succinct, "No."

The woman at his side moaned softly in protest, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She smelled of sweet-grass and sunshine and a hint of mead—someone who spent most of her time outdoors in the warm air, but recently came from the tavern. Her lips pressed tenderly to the underside of his jaw, and he realized, with a smirk, she was trying to change his mind.

Silly lass, it wouldn't be that easy.

His fingers ceased stroking her bare shoulder. Untangling himself from her body, he sat up, putting distance between them to strengthen his point.

"A ship is no place for a woman."

The look on her face was pathetic but determined. Rolling onto her stomach, she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, supporting herself on both elbows. "I have a place here." Her hand brushed his arm.

Her caress burned him. She was different from the other women he'd known –she could belong aboard if he allowed her.

No.

Killian halted the notion. He wouldn't be manipulated, he would be firm.

He sighed. Who was he fooling? It was the expression in her eyes that won him from the start. She was so lonely—a familiar concept. He always knew it would end this way. "What about your life?"

She frowned. "What life? I hide my face in humiliation wherever I go. I'm trapped inside four walls made of stone and sheep dung. I have no life, and no one to share it with!"

"What of your husband?"

"Him?!" She laughed, turning onto her back. The bed frame creaked under the force. "He's a bloody awful coward!"

A smile ghosted his lips at her choice of language –his influence. For a grown woman with a child, she hadn't known much when they first met. He was almost sorry for sullying her. To be fair, she had asked him, just as she was asking now.

"He does not love me," she continued. "I became what he wanted, to please him when we wed. I was stupid and naive. He doesn't know who I really am, and he will not listen either. I've begged him to take me someplace we could start afresh, without shame. The village is a prison, and he has no courage to go anywhere new. Every day I remain…"

She fixed him with those sad eyes that needled at his better judgment. "I'm suffocating, Killian. Please, by the gods, save me."

Killian studied her thoughtfully. She was so proud, so beautiful; her hair black as coal tar, her complexion rosy and smooth as silk. He had seen the husband, and he empathized with her plea. What a waste of a woman.

It was a terrible curse to be unloved. What else could he do but rescue her from such misery?

He anticipated consequences for this decision. Sleeping with another man's wife and stealing her were two separate things. The second made him a target for a vengeful husband, even for the local coward.

But Captain Killian Jones could manage. He usually did.

"Very well, Milah. If that is what you wish." He dragged his fingertips across her brow.

Milah smiled, closing her eyes at his touch. "Save me."

Killian awoke, disoriented and achy. His feet, cold and numb, thudded to the floorboards, and he straightened upright. The rum bottle in his hook clunked against the chair leg.

When did he fall asleep? And more importantly, why was he now wide awake?

Something had drawn him away from Milah, and if he found out what it was…

"I'll kill it."He grumbled, rubbing his hand on his face, grimacing in the late afternoon light slanting through the cabin windows behind him.

"Hook!"

Killian sucked in a sharp breath at the name, and let it out slow. The voice was responsible for waking him. He was certain. Muffled by the thick timber walls, it called to him again from the dock, and this time, he recognized it.

He must still be dreaming. It couldn't possibly be…

"Swan?"

TBC! Hey guys, I'm a little late, but in honor of Colin O's b-day, I thought I'd post something new! As usual, I own nothing but the writing ;)