Author's Note: This story is, at the moment, compliant both with the backstory I wrote for Killian in "One Foot in Sea", and with canon, even though those two things are no longer compliant with each other. Since this story is a multichaptered WiP, it's bound to be jossed eventually, and I hope you don't mind when that happens.
A young man was sitting on the steps outside the tavern, with his legs stretched out well into the street. The only way for Milah to pass him with her pails of water would be to walk in the muddy tracks where carriages were passing by, with the risk of being hit by one at any moment. As she stopped and glared at him, he turned to look at her, an amused glint under raised, dark eyebrows.
There was a jewel in his ear and more adorning his hands, but his clothes were leather and his boots muddy: a warrior's attire. His skin, though naturally pale, had a tan that showed the hint of a scar on his cheek. Rich and dangerous – not a good combination to cross. But her back was too tired and her mood to sour for her to care.
"Get your legs out of the way," she snapped.
The amusement turned into an outright smirk, and he replied, "You could ask nicely, you know," in a well-educated voice that named him a gentleman in breeding, if not in action.
The thought of begging this conceited pig for anything angered her even further.
"You could try moving your precious arse before I kick your face in."
"I'd love to see you try," he laughed.
That laughter took the very last of her patience, and she put her pails down, aiming a kick at his handsome face, the consequences be damned.
Both his hands shot up to catch her foot, and he pushed her heel upwards and backwards, sending her flying to the ground. The pails knocked over and spilled water out into the muddy street, and Milah landed hard on her elbows, a jolt of pain shooting up through her body.
"Next time you mean to kick somebody," he offered amiably, "don't tell them in advance."
She sat up, skirt squelching from the spilled water. "Now look what you did!"
"What I did?" He crouched down before her and held out a hand. "Protecting myself against assault, you mean?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose it's all a big joke to you." She gathered her dripping skirt together and stood up, ignoring his offer of help.
"You're actually angry." His eyebrows first rose, then lowered in sympathy, even more aggravating to her bruised pride.
"Of course I'm angry, you oaf, what did you expect?" The worst part was that despite it all, that infuriating grin of his was warming her up. He was just a boy, for goodness' sake. It was humiliating for a woman of her years to go weak-kneed over some self-satisfied sapling, and she cursed under her breath to force away the feeling.
His smile died away, and he watched her in silence briefly before sticking his fingers in his mouth for a sharp whistle.
In response, a tall, rough-looking man stepped out of the tavern. Milah fell quiet mid-invective, taking in the shaved head, eyepatch, knobbly features and leathery skin.
The first man turned to the ruffian and said, "The lady had a mishap and spilled her water. Fetch her some more and see her safely home."
"Aye, Captain."
Captain? Neither one of them was an army man, that much was clear, which left the sea, and Milah realized with a simultaneous lurch to the stomach and flutter to the heart that she knew exactly what they were. The absurdity of having a pirate the size of an oak tree carrying her water pails was just too much to take in, and she turned to the captain.
"Do you always have lackeys to do your chores?" she asked.
"Of course," he said with an angelic expression. "It leaves me free for more pleasurable pastimes."
The suggestion inherent in that remark was so transparent that she couldn't help a snort of laughter – one that she hurried to swallow when she saw the triumph on his face.
"All right, then," she told the ruffian, "the well is this way, and home is over there."
He picked up the pails and started walking, without a word, and she followed, finding it easier to focus her gaze on him than on the captain. Still, she couldn't resist a final glance back, catching sight of that damned amused expression, which made her flinch and turn back.
Somehow, the massive presence looming next to her was less disconcerting, and she quite enjoyed the startled look on people's faces. Quite a change from their usual mien.
"So you're a pirate?" she asked as he filled the pails with water, having to almost double down over the well.
"Yuh."
"Is it... exciting?" She sounded like a wistful little girl, but if he found it strange, he didn't show it.
"Sometimes."
"Only sometimes?"
"Sometimes there's scrubbing decks," he said and started walking again with the full pails. "Or running errands for some pretty lady the captain wants to impress."
His face was still so grim and stony that it took her a beat to realize that he was teasing her, and she smiled, both in response to the attempted humour and for the notion of herself as a lady to be impressed.
"Sorry about that," she said. "And thank you, for your chivalry. Your captain could learn a thing or two from you. You could tell him that, if you want."
"Nah. I like my head where it is."
She chortled at that, and by the time she came home, she was in quite a good mood. It instantly died away, though, when they met with her husband in the yard, and he shrank visibly at the sight of her huge companion. It was ungenerous of her, she knew – after all, the pirate was quite frightening – but it brought back the reality of her own life, in this little cottage, shunned by the neighbours and forced into proximity with this mouse of a man.
"Milah?"Rumpelstiltskin asked in a quivering voice. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," she snapped at him. "I got a bit of help back, that's all. No need to fear, little mouse."
Thanking the pirate, she got her pails back and was mortified to see upon his face the same disdain that half the town showed them, though with an additional tinge of amusement. She stormed into the house and got a rag dipped into one of the pails, scrubbing at the floor as if her life depended on it.
It wasn't that she expected her husband to be as large and scary as that bloke; the notion was clearly ridiculous. And she wasn't looking for him to be cocksure and flirtatious like the blue-eyed bastard back in town, not really, but...
Rumpelstiltskin came into the cottage and took care to avoid the wet patches on the floor. To avoid her, in the bargain, giving her a shy sideways glance as he passed by.
That was the rub, wasn't it? Running from ogres was bad enough, but what could you do about a man who was afraid of his own wife?
The joke was on her, she supposed. When he first proposed, she had been so relieved to have a man who had neither the power nor inclination to hurt her. It never occurred to her to think that she would end up the ogre in her own marriage.
His expression now was so mournful, so pleading, that she had to turn her back even to cope with it. She was here, wasn't she? She was doing her chores, keeping her mouth shut, and if he expected her to do it with a smile on her face, he ought to think again.
Smaller feet tiptoed around the wet patch, and she looked up at Baelfire coming in from playing by the river. He'd left his muddy shoes by the door and was careful not to step where she was cleaning, but that was the only thing he was careful of. At least he wasn't afraid of her, not yet anyway, but his eyes went from her face to his father's, gauging their temper, and Rumpelstiltskin hurried over to sit down beside him and give him a hug.
She bit her lip, reminding herself that if her child turned against her, it was her own fault, and she forced herself to smile.
"All right," she said with as much cheer as she could muster. "I'll just get this done, and then I'll start on supper. We still have some of that sausage; it'll make a nice addition to the soup."
"Thank you," Rumpelstiltskin said quietly, hand still in Bae's hair.
There were times she suspected that he did it on purpose, than in absence of strength he had turned his own weakness into a weapon. In saner moments, she knew that it was most likely her own frustration warping his innocent reactions into acts of malicious forethought. Either way, it amounted to the same thing. She would get tired and lash out, he'd get hurt, so would Bae, and in the end she'd relent and do what she was supposed to do in the first place, feeling horribly guilty about her own behaviour. If only she could reconcile herself to her situation and stop making things worse for them all.
And if she could respect him. That was the worst of it, really, not the lack of love. It hadn't been so bad before the war. She had been something close to happy, back then, the young newlywed sharing marital gossip with her sister Alma in the bakery shop. Recalling those days, she could just about remember them, how people had still smiled at her and her husband in the street. They'd been a couple like any other, before he came back hobbled by his own blow, and her friends – widows all – would no longer meet her gaze. Sure, from time to time back then she'd had the occasional twinge in her heart, remembering what had driven her to her husband, and she'd had to lie still and quiet in the nights, not to push him out of the bed, but altogether, it had been easier to manage. Even with those twinges, she hadn't been so mean, so vicious and petty, that she could no longer recognize herself.
She had been a good person once, hadn't she? Or was it just self-flattery, the assumption of goodness based on nothing more than the lack of opportunity to be anything else? Maybe this shrew was her all along, deep inside. Gods knew she didn't have the strength to be different, not anymore.
She finished the cleaning and moved on to supper preparations, careful to keep something resembling a smile upon her face, feeling it get more cramped with every minute.
"Mama?"
Baelfire must have gone outside without her noticing, because now, with a shy smile, he offered her a freshly picked coltsfoot.
"I got you this," he said. "It's the first one I've seen this year."
She put the bowl and spoon down and gently took the flower from his hand, softening at the little yellow sun. "It's the first one I've seen too," she said. "Well. It seems spring is coming after all."
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them away, giving her son a quick smile. "Thank you, Bae. Now, run off and play for a while, and I'll have supper ready soon."
The next day was a Day of Ash, and she went to the temple, alone. Rumpelstiltskin had the sense to stay away, and she wouldn't subject Bae to more scorn than he already faced. She moved through the crowd, ignoring the glances and comments as best she could, but as she approached the altar, she felt the sharp push of an elbow at the small of her back and fell over, scattering her sticks of incense on the floor. People hurried past, feet so close that she had to spread out her hands to prevent her sticks from breaking – a few bruises were easier to take than a ruined offering, on a day like this.
As she gathered the incense and stood up, her eyes burned, but she told herself that she had as much right as the rest of them to be there. So what if her husband wasn't among the fallen? She had others to mourn, and she wouldn't let anyone tell her that she wasn't entitled.
Trying her best to hold her head high, she rattled off her quiet prayers in stubborn defiance, for her cousins, and Alma's husband, and Gerald. Towards the end of them, she added a plea most unsuitable for a Day of Ash, with a fervency that made her ashamed: "Please, please, make it stop!"
What a silly, inappropriate prayer! Selfish, at a time when she should have thought of others, and woefully unspecific. The gods might decide to teach her a lesson by twisting her words in whichever way they pleased. She blushed at her own folly and hurried off. The other templegoers seemed to think nothing of her apparent shame – why would they? They expected it.
On her way back, someone quite deliberately stepped into her path, and – in a most unexpected move – bowed to her. She was surprised to find that it was the pirate captain. Yet in some strange way, she had expected him.
"Why, if it isn't my favourite sharp-tongued shrew," he said with a grin.
"Why, if it isn't my least favourite prancing peacock," she snapped, wondering why her heart felt so much lighter.
"Pea cock?" he repeated, the pause evident between the two words. "I assure you, nothing of the kind!"
She had to bite her lip, not so much for the bad innuendo as for the fact that she'd practically fed it to him. "You think you're so funny."
"So do you," he said, his grin widening at her reaction, and she knew she had to do something to stop him being so pleased with himself.
A carriage came towards them, and she realized how very easy it would be to get her own back, and in the most fitting way possible, too. Using tricks of days long gone by, she tilted herself to accentuate her shapes through the fabric of her dress, though she made sure to keep her voice stern as she moved further into the road and addressed him: "That's a fine way to talk on a Day of Ash. And to a married woman, no less! Have you no shame?"
Just as she had anticipated, he moved along with her, to keep up with the view. "Shame is an emotion I have found to be of very little..."
The muddy spray from the carriage's wheels drenched his clothes and cut him short. His jaw dropped, and he shook himself like a dog, silent for the first time since she met him.
Even with her lower lip firmly between her teeth, she couldn't stop herself from smiling.
"You... you did that on purpose!" he said.
"I cannot make carriages appear at will," she said, but unable to keep a straight face, she admitted, "A little bit, yes."
He stared at her, dripping wet, elbows extended slightly from the body to prevent the water from soaking through, and very slowly, he exhaled through his teeth.
His expression made her take a step back, as she remembered that he was a pirate, after all. Young, pretty and sweet-talking, maybe, but a pirate nonetheless, and vivid memories came back to her of stories told in voices that lowered to a whisper at the most horrific details. If he decided to attack her, could she put up a fight? Could she call for help – and if she did, would anyone come?
Before she had time to decide on a plan of defence, his posture relaxed and he burst into laughter.
"Bloody hell, woman," he said. "If you want me out of my clothes, all you have to do is ask."
The thought of him out of his clothes came to her mind unbidden, and she blinked hard to force it away. "You should be so lucky." But she still could not keep her smile back.
"A drink, then?" His wide grin and the twinkle in his eyes were back in full force. "Now that we've both made the other wet and dirty."
The incessant onslaught of his remarks was so over the top that she couldn't even take them seriously, but the joy he took in saying them brought joy to her own heart as well. The strength of it took her breath and made her cheeks heat, unlike anything she'd felt since her time with Gerald.
That thought stopped her short, and she snapped, "It is a Day of Ash!"
"Is it?" he asked, still smiling. "And what is that?"
"It's for honouring our fallen."
"Ah." To his credit, he let his smile die off, though one couldn't say that he looked chagrined. "A worthy cause. And what of tomorrow? Is that too a Day of Ash?"
"No. I..." For a moment, she couldn't think of a single reason not to agree to his suggestion, which was ridiculous, since there were so many. "I can't just go off and have a drink with you!"
"Why not?"
"I don't even know your name!"
"True, that. How rude of me." He gave a bow, arms spread wide, the effect somewhat ruined by the water still dripping from his sleeves and hair. "Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger, at your service, milady. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Milah. My name is Milah."
"Milah." He tasted the word, making it seem softer and gentler than she'd ever felt. "A beautiful name. I'm honoured to meet you, Milah."
If anything proved what a fish out of water he was, it was that phrase. No one was honoured to meet her. No one was even pleased to meet her, except maybe Bae on a good day.
What was she doing here? Having some pirate fill her head with nonsense, when she should be going home to her child, to her duties.
"If you're quite done," she snapped, and moved to go past him.
"Hey, now!" He shifted to catch up with her, without going so far as to grab her or block her way. "What of my invitation? I did give you my name."
"I can't. I have a child."
He bit his lip and nodded solemnly. "How old?"
"Six... almost seven."
"Old enough to spend an hour or two playing with his friends. He has friends, doesn't he?"
Milah wavered, because it was true. Bae wasn't like her and Rumpel, he made connections easily. There was that girl Morraine at the neighbours', her parents let him come over sometimes and play, even though they didn't stoop low enough to extend the invitation to his parents.
"Yes, but..."
"But?" Those damned blue eyes. What business did a pirate have looking so earnest?
"I have to work."
"You are in someone's employ, then? What are your hours of leisure?"
"No. No, I'm not."
There was a moment of silence, as Captain Jones offered no more counters to her excuses. Half of her wanted him to. No – more than half, much more.
"If you don't wish to go, you can just say so," he said softly. "I have no desire to coerce you."
She swallowed the tightness in her throat, finding it so hard to fight against this attention, this kindness. With a sharp bite of her cheek, she reminded herself that it was probably just blandishment intended to make her raise her skirts.
The thought, rather than stopping her cold, brought such indecent images to her mind that she quickly took two steps back.
"I'm a married woman!"
"Yes, you are." There was something akin to pity in his expression as he said, "Took you a while to remember that, didn't it?"
Shame burned her face and behind her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "You seem like a lovely person."
His mouth tilted up ever so slightly. "My crew and I are staying right there," he said, pointing towards the inn, "for the duration of the week. In case you change your mind."
She nodded and hurried off, trying to force herself back into that dull state of mind where nothing mattered and she could just carry on with her chores like an ox on the field.
Halfway down the street, though, she stopped and turned. Although it was a silly thing to say – he couldn't possibly understand why – she called back to him: "Thank you!"
A streak of mischief appeared on his face, but it died away again, and he simply replied, "You're welcome."
That night, she took her husband to bed for the first time in months, and rode him with such fervour that she shocked them both. Her teeth were tightly clenched to prevent any name from slipping out, but her mind was filled with sparkling blue eyes and a bearded smile.
Once the act itself was finished, she sank back onto the mattress, and in response to Rumpelstiltskin's cautious, hopeful kisses she embraced him, caressing his skin and crying in silent apology over the cuckolding she'd subjected him to in her mind.
Sleeping was fretful, with banal but frightening dreams of running from an unseen threat, her feet getting stuck in quagmire, every step dragging her further into the ground. She woke with a start and pinched herself to stay awake, stepping out of bed at the first sign of daylight.
The household chores got done with a new urgency, and she scrubbed away at the dishes like her life depended on it. At times, she found herself speeding things up to a level that left a sloppy result, and in punishment she forced herself to do it over with twice the care.
Rumpelstiltskin tried talking to her, and she answered as best she could, tried to smile, but his presence served as a constant reminder of the day before, and she soon directed her attention back to the work which occupied her body and kept her from thinking.
As the day progressed, he stopped trying to engage her in conversation and went off to sell cloth and thread to the seamstresses. Bae remained for a while, helping her with the bits he could, but eventually asked:
"Can I go off to play, mama?"
She looked up, getting a sudden urge to grab him and hold him close. Her chores were almost finished for the time being, perhaps she could go out and play with her son before she sat down at the spinning wheel. She had the time.
"Yes," she heard herself say. "Why don't you? In fact..."
He paused at the doorway, giving her a questioning look.
"I have some errands to run," she said. "Perhaps you could stay over at Morraine's for a few hours?"
"Sure," he said with a smile.
She smiled back. "You're such a good boy, Bae. Have fun, now."
After he left, she remained for a little while, picking at things without getting anything done. Then, slowly, she took off her apron and hung it over a chair before going out the door.
Having left the house behind, she picked up the pace, walking towards the town square with a brisk stride she hadn't used in years. Only when she reached the inn did she falter again, and remained standing outside, doubts raised in her mind.
What was she doing here? It wasn't even noon anymore, not properly, and despite her efforts there was still plenty to be done at home. The square was full of people hurrying along their way, and though few of them spared her more than a single disdaining glance, she balked at the thought of going into the inn, in the middle of broad daylight, to meet a strange man.
There was some shade in the corner, and she sat down, pretending to shake out a pebble in her shoe. This would normally take very little time, but she remained seated for nearly a quarter of an hour, before finding the resolve to just stand up and enter the inn.
Even craning her neck, she couldn't spot Captain Jones anywhere, and was about ready to leave again when a deep voice said, "Hello there."
She spun around, and drew a shaky breath seeing the ruffian pirate from her first meeting with the Captain. His presence made her feel a little better. "Oh. It's you."
Though he didn't smile, there was a definite hint of amusement in his expression. Relief was probably not among the main sensations people usually had upon seeing him.
"Yuh. You looking for the Captain?"
"Well," she started, "I'm not... that is to say... if it isn't too much..."
"He's in the back. Think he's been expecting you."
She followed him past all the diners to a large table in the back, where Captain Jones was sitting at the high end, his appeareance hidden from the door by man even taller than the one who accompanied her, though darker-skinned and not quite as wide over the shoulders.
"There you are!" Jones said with a wide grin upon seeing her. "You took your time, didn't you? I was starting to think you weren't coming. Fellows, this is Milah. Milah, you've got here Bilal, Cooper, Cecco, Soeng..." He rattled off a few more names and ended with, "And you've already met Mason."
She stuck to that bit of information. "Mason," she repeated, smiling at her old aquaintance. "Hello."
"Have a seat!" Jones said, scooting in on the bench to leave room for her. As she sat down, he gave her a nudge of his shoulder and a wink. "I knew you couldn't stay away."
She stood up abruptly, ready to leave, and he caught her hand.
"No, no," he said. "That was a joke. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Sit down. Please." He gave her a rueful look as she sat back down. "So skittish. I hope it's not the crew giving you a fright?"
"No, of course not," she said.
"Then it's me?" he asked with a wide grin. "Not so strange. I am a very impressive individual who can bring grown men a-quiver with fear."
The crew roared with laughter, and Milah smiled a little. "So's a rat."
"That's better," he said softly. "The cat hasn't got your waspish tongue after all. What will you have?"
"Thanks, but I've eaten."
"Ah, but you haven't eaten the house lamb. It's unmissable. Let's have some more lamb! Don't worry, it's on me. Or on Mason, if you'd rather."
"Much obliged," Mason said drily, and she offered him a smile.
"Are you flirting with my crewman?" Jones asked. "That won't do, it's captain's privilege."
"But he's such a gentleman," Milah said, being drawn in by the light mood. "Quite unlike you."
"I am a perfect gentleman," Jones declared. "Much more cultivated and refined than this band of scurvy dogs."
The crew jeered.
"If that is how you speak of your men, I'm surprised that they haven't committed mutiny long ago."
Jones waved that away. "Oh, they wouldn't dare."
"I would." Milah sat back and crossed her arms. "I would drop you off in... Atlantis."
He chuckled, and a couple of the others did too. "Not a bad place to be, Atlantis."
"Great food," said the round-faced man next to her. She thought his name was Mullins.
"Beautiful architechture," said Bilal, the tall man on the right of Jones, with a deep bass voice.
"And the science," Jones filled in. "Don't forget the science. Though Lemuria has better climate."
"You've been?" she asked, unable to keep the longing out of her voice. She had heard so much about Atlantis, even tried to draw it a couple of times, based on description and the occasional illustration. Lemuria she knew very little of, except that it was far away to the south-east and had magnificent animals unknown to these parts.
"Of course. We're well-traveled." He raised his cup. "Everywhere the Navy of Avalon goes, we go to... stir up trouble."
"Will you tell me about it?" she asked, ignoring another round of laughter.
"Why, do you want to go to Atlantis?" he asked.
The tone and his expression made it clear that it was a joke, but her response wasn't:
"More than anything." In the silence that followed, she continued, "If I only could, I'd go to all of those places. Atlantis, Lemuria, Avalon..." She searched her memory for more foreign places. "Nysa, Nmkwami, Camelot, Hyperborea, Thule, Ruritania..."
"Don't forget Tir na nÓg," Jones said softly.
"Ruritania's not worth going to," a man further down the table scoffed. He had long, dark brown hair, dimples deep enough to plant seeds in, and a slight accent that Milah couldn't place. "It's much like the Enchanted Forest, only with worse cooks and louder music."
"And Thule will freeze your arse off," Bilal said.
"I don't care," she said. "I'd want to see them all. Oh, if only I were a man!"
"Don't have to be a man," said a short, stocky crewman further down the table. "Me mum's not."
"Well, she's not like your mum, is she?" Mason snapped. "She's a respectable woman, ain't she?"
"Respectable," Milah scoffed, and was overtaken by the hopelessness of it all, how she could never achieve that respect Mason unthinkingly assumed of her, yet remained too close to it to ever be free. Fighting the sensation, she grabbed Jones's arm, digging her fingers into his jacket. "Tell me about Atlantis."
He swallowed the piece of bread that he'd just put in his mouth and replied, "As you wish. What do you want to know?"
"Everything," she said. "Absolutely everything."