Still not sure how long this is going to be. It's kind of developing into more than I originally had intended. I apologize for the short chapters. My chapters are usually longer, but this story seems more suited to smaller chapters. :)


He wonders for a moment if he's somehow made it into Heaven when his eyes open, because light is streaming into the room he's lying in. As his vision slowly corrects itself, he allows himself to take in his surroundings and realizes he's neither dead nor in any form of Heaven. At best he's in somebody's very modest home. The walls are practically bare, save for a gold cross of some sort and a few sparse paintings of flowers and other nonsensical things.

He bolts up, ignoring the blatant pounding in his forehead and tries to stand. The strange, soft fabric covering his body tumbles to the ground leaving him completely and utterly bare. He tries to remember what happened last night, but all he can gather are a few muddy memories of freezing cold water and a flash of brilliant red hair.

He's almost grateful he woke alone on that strangely upholstered lounge. Not that he was ever against a lie down with a beautiful woman…it was only that it was never his intention to embarrass himself by being so drunk he didn't remember the bloody encounter. Nevermind the fact that it wasn't Milah lying beneath him when these so-called encounters occurred.

Bloody Hell.

Never one for modesty, Killian does not even bother to cover his lower half as a young woman walks into the room wearing some horrid blue and white getup involving a shapeless blue cover and a white collar. A shock of auburn hair is braided neatly and pinned at the base of her neck, proving to be yet another waste of clear potential. He'd always admired women with red hair, but he'd never seen one quite like this. Her skin is almost luminescent, though admittedly pale. It's the eyes though, that draw his eye. They are the color of the sea; neither quite blue nor quite green. At a distance, one would think they were blue, certainly, but in this proximity, the detail is apparent.

And at the moment, they're wide with surprise and slight horror as she gapes, silently, at him standing naked in her living quarters. It almost makes him smirk, but he's too irritated with the fact that his suicide attempt has been foiled and he now has a devil of a headache thanks to his over consumption of rum last eve.

She seems to gather her wits, and swallows, straightening her hideous pleated skirt, pointing her finger at the counter nearby. Sitting on it is a pile of what appears to be men's clothing, though Killian can honestly say he recognizes neither fabric, but the awful plaid of the shirt has never been in his taste. Sometimes, in the north, the people had a sick preference for tartan, but that was never his choice.

He stares blankly at the foreign clothing as she brushes past him, careful not to touch him in any way as she moves to what appears to be some kind of cooking apparatus. She opens a strange white cabinet and starts retrieving food from it, placing it all in a neat row on the counter. He watches, fascinated, as she turns a black knob on the odd stove and the fire starts itself. He almost expects her to start humming to herself as she spoons butter into a black frying pan and cracks eggs into a glass bowl, but she doesn't.

He realizes he hasn't heard her voice and they've been in each other's presence for nearly ten whole minutes. He takes the opportunity while her back is turned to attempt to put on the hideous clothing she's provided for him. They fit, though the pants are a little tighter than he'd anticipated. The shoes are not like any he's ever seen. They're the color of wet sand with soft soles and fur interior. Everything is brand new, which means the girl must have bought this for him while he was asleep.

But why?

What motivation could this red haired stranger have for saving him? Everyone in the town knew who he was by now. They'd all witnessed his ill planned confrontation with Rumpelstiltskin and Pan. They'd all seen him make a fool of himself as a revenge starved idiot. They all wanted him locked up or, he was sure, dead. He probably would have been if not for the Swan girl and her son. Even Pan had surprised him and took up for his defense stating that no one was to cause him harm.

Fat lot of good it did.

No one will have anything to do with it and Killian almost wonders if it would have been better if they'd just let them kill him. Of course, he had helped them apprehend Cora, so there was that in his favor. He hated owing people more than anything. And now, he owed this girl his life…which was rather inconvenient to his agenda which involved once again getting piss drunk and figuring out what to do with the rest of his miserable existence.

"Why did you do it, love? Why did you save me?" He asks the girl as she's spooning food onto a plate for him. She glances up at him with those infuriating seafoam blue eyes, her eyebrow quirked. Her lips twitch as though she has some quick fire response for him, but she doesn't open her mouth. Instead, she just turns back to that odd white cupboard and withdraws a carton of what says 'Orange Juice'. She points at his food, shaking her head at him before she returns to cooking.

He stares slack jawed, at that meticulous red plaited coil at her nape. There is not one fiery strand out of place. It irritates him endlessly, because he's never seen hair quite that shade of red and he wants to see what it looks like hanging around her pale, slender shoulders.

Holy hell it's been a long time since he's bedded a woman. And he highly doubts this quiet, buttoned up creature has ever even seen herself uncovered, much less a man. It's a perfect challenge…one he would have gladly taken on in his younger years. But something in her haunted, innocent face makes him want to leave her alone before he ruins her by association. This child can barely be older than sixteen years at most and he doesn't make it a habit to deflower children.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" He tries again, spearing a piece of egg with his fork and tasting it. It's delicious in a completely new, simple way. Unlike anything he's ever eaten back home. Again, she glances at him over her shoulder in a way that is completely unnerving, as if she's staring straight through to his soul, baring his many sins. Her eyes are full of words that she isn't voicing and it's making him shift uncomfortably. "What's your name, Lovely?" He sees her smirk to herself, taking a quick huffy little breath as she turns off her stove and fills her own plate, joining him at the counter. And still, she doesn't answer.

She's toying with him.

Nobody toys with Killian Jones and gets away with it. Not even auburn haired sirens like this chit! When she smiles to herself again, a very distant prick of recognition prickles at the periphery of his consciousness, blurry, but present. He cannot place her though. She sees his anger and takes pity on him, holding up a finger to placate him, before moving to her white food pantry and removing a pad of paper from it. She quickly scrawls a note onto it.

'I can't speak aloud. I am not ignoring you.'

He doesn't know why, but the tension immediately evacuates and he's almost tired, leaning against the tile counter for support as he tries to lift his fork with his trembling hands thanks to his self-inflicted dehydration.

"Why did you save me?" He asks weakly, feeling his stomach roil as his body finally gives in to the sickness that comes with being intoxicated.

'Because it was not your time to die, and you were in no condition to make that decision for yourself. I figured I'd let you wait until you weren't drunk and think it over.'

Her lips are quirked in a half grin, mischief playing in her ocean eyes. A glass of water is thrust into his shaking hand. She points vehemently at it, mouthing 'Drink.' He does, gratefully, finishing the glass in one go. She smiles, satisfied, as she takes the glass and wordlessly, refills it and hands it back again. She then pulls a white bottle from the cupboard over the sink.

B12.

She pulls out a tablet and sets it in front of him, miming that he's supposed to swallow it with water. Skeptically he stares at her before looking at the strange tablet.

"No way in hell, lass," he refuses, shoving it away. She makes some noise at the back of her throat, rolling her eyes as she turns back to her blasted note pad.

'It's a vitamin. It will help with your weakness. Take it.'

"How do I know you aren't some vigilante out to kill me for the troubles I've caused?" He challenges. Once more, she raises an eyebrow at him, half smirking as she sighs.

'With all due respect Captain, I have better things to do with my time than poison defeated pirates.'

She stares at him expectantly, nodding back to the pill, pushing it back toward him with her small hand. Glaring at her, he angrily swallows the tablet and nearly chokes as he takes a swig of water. She makes an amused face, laughing soundlessly. It sobers him, leaving him somehow empty. He wants to hear that laugh. Resting his head on his chin, he watches her clear the dishes, frowning at his half full plate.

"What is your name?" He asks again, when she returns to the counter. She tilts her head, giving him a contemplative look as if she's struggling with herself, but she nods to herself a moment later, writing on the pad.

Lucy Morgan.

"That's your name?" He asks dryly, narrowing his eyes at her. The sudden blush on her porcelain cheeks reveals her lie. He's heard briefly about the nature of the curse giving the residents here two separate identities paired with two separate sets of memories. She bites her bottom lip, turning her face toward the door as if she's thinking seriously about fleeing his question.

"What is your real true name, love?" He presses, unsure of why he wants to know her. It's hard to explain, but 'Lucy' doesn't seem a name befitting someone like her. She's dressed like the infuriating fairies dress here, but he can tell she's no fairy. And there's her face and that glorious hair…too brilliant to be wasted tossing fairy dust to and fro. He remembers her face…perhaps from another life, and it doesn't seem right that her hair should be bound off her neck and confined to the metal prison of pins. Killian has always hated hairpins. Milah knew this and she made sure to wear her hair down for him.

'Lucy Morgan is my only name.' She tells him, keeping her jaw set as she begins to write again, 'As Hook is yours now.' He's taken aback by this, because it's proof that they've met somehow. Somewhere. 'I wasn't sure what size shoe you wear, so I bought you a pair of slippers until I can take you to the store. I have to go out. I am training to be a nun, so I must go. We're distributing canned food to the poor today and then I have to go to the animal shelter.'

"How do you know me?" He demands suspiciously, gazing icily at her. She doesn't even flinch.

'We both belonged to the sea once. We met when I was little more than a child.'

Cold memory washed over him as he recalled an auburn haired head surface from the waves after they'd heard the singing. A bad omen Smee swore. The sirens' song had led many a sailor to their deaths. Killian's father had always warned him against the mermaids. Of course, that had been a time when he'd sworn to himself that he'd never end up like his father, but that was a different matter entirely.

"You're a bloody mermaid, aren't you?" Killian murmurs, staring at her. Instantly, the fire is gone from her eyes and they're glistening dangerously. "One of Triton's offspring?" She glares at him, blinking furiously. He watches one lonely tear slide down the gentle slope of her lovely cheek. He can't help himself from reaching across the counter and catching it on his finger just before it reaches her chin. Her eyes widen with fear as something he can't quite make out flashes before his eyes. All he can see is a flash of light and a man falling to the ground. He pulls his hand back as if he's received a shock, stumbling backwards. Her eyebrows furrow at him, obviously confused as to why he's reacting so violently. He brushes it off, and shakes his head.

"Sorry, love," He mutters, "must be residual intoxication." Though the thought of rum or any spirits makes him physically ill. "I should go." He starts toward the door, intent of leaving her alone, but she shakes her head vigorously at him, scrawling on her pad.

'Triton was my father. I'm the seventh.'

"Ah," He acknowledges, reaching again for the door. "Well, I'll be going," he affirms again, though he makes no move to leave. Her eyes bore imploringly into his. He didn't need a note pad to see the plea in those aquamarine orbs. They screamed for companionship, even if the stubborn lass was too thick headed to admit to it.

"Damn," He hisses, gesturing in defeat. "What will you have me do, girl? Cook? Clean? Darn socks?" She smiles slightly as she looks down at the notepad.

'Well you would look quite fetching in a bonnet and apron, Captain.' He gives her an incredulous look. The pretty little minx has a wicked sense of humor, which pleasantly surprises him. 'What is your opinion of animals?'

"In terms of what? Food or companionship?" He asks, rolling his eyes and shoving his hands into the pockets of the rough, ugly fabric of his pants.

'Either.' She answers, grinning wryly at him.

"I prefer them to people," He confesses, "I always have." This elicits a glowing smile from her as she nods. It sends an uncomfortable thrill through his body right down to his toes.

'I have just the solution.' Handing him a coat that she's procured for him as well, she points to his discarded boots and motions for him to follow her.

"What have I gotten myself into with you, siren?" He mumbles, looking down at her proffered hand, sighing. Her eyebrow raises, and her smile widens. Reluctantly he takes her hand and nearly cries out.

"I'm wondering the same thing." He hears her say. But she never opens her mouth. There was no sound. But he heard her. "I think he's going to be ill!"

"I'm not going to be ill!" He insists, staring at her in disbelief. "Your bloody poison did the trick."

"You can hear me?" She asks, again never speaking aloud as she drops his hand. It falls silent between them again and her face falls in disappointment. Frowning, he takes her hand again, and it happens once more. '…must have been my imagination. Be realistic, Ariel.'

"Ariel," He echoes, watching her eyes slowly lift from the floor to meet his, full of hope and wonder and complete terror. "I can hear you." Her face crumples and she buries her faces into her free hand, quietly sniffing. He's frozen for a long moment, staring longingly at the door and wondering how terrible it would be for him to escape this uncomfortably lovely moment. In some odd way, he realizes he doesn't want to. This is the most he's felt in ages…the emptiness almost feels like it's fading for once. The wounds of Milah's absence almost seem less vicious for a fleeting second as her eyes bore into his, wet with tears. And her response to his revelation is crystal clear as her hand tightens around his.

"Finally."