A/N: Italics indicate flashbacks. I own only Morgan, King, Adrian, and anyone else who did not appear in either canon. This chapter is not M-rated; however, the next chapter will be.

Chapter 9 - Scars

It had been a shock for which Hook had not been prepared. He knew the scars that crossed her fair flesh were self-inflicted, and he could not help but wonder, even among the flood of his own pain, a resurgence of his own misery that had never fully dissipated, what had driven her to such lengths. He himself could not take the pain of loneliness; his life, he had realized, had been empty. He had gone from one raid, one conquest, to the next, having neither a thought or care of what tomorrow held in store. Yet what had he to live for? There had been a void inside him that had always been present, a void that no one had ever been able to fill. Even with Milah, though she was long gone, had not been able to fill that void completely. It was only now, when he was faced with a woman who had physical scars, physical manifestations of excruciating pain that was similar to his, that he could have readily admitted it.

He counted, drying the tears with the back of his hand, how many times he had stood at the bow of the ship, staring into the dark, swirling waves below the hull. He had wondered time and time again whether the abyss would be as welcoming as a lover's arms, to enfold him in its cold, dark embrace so that he would be overcome with numbness, unable to feel, to breathe, to think. He wondered how much of a release it would be to succumb to that cold darkness. There was, however, always something that had held him back, like an invisible rope wrapped around his heart that would draw him away from the bow, whispering, "Not yet. One more day. Not yet."

For the briefest moment, a thought so absurd, so preposterous, entered his mind that it surprised even himself.

Was Morgan, who still slept on the sofa before him, that invisible rope, that chain that had kept him tied to life, who had refused to let him embark on that final journey? If so, did she even realize it?

He shook his head to force the thought out of his mind. It was, to be frank, stupid; he would not have been surprised if she wished him dead.

In these silent moments as he observed her, he found himself simply drinking her in. In this moment she was not a pirate captain, but a sleeping woman - and, he had to admit, a beautiful one. His hand twitched as if wanting to reach out to touch her, but he stayed it.

'What in the bloody hell is wrong with you?' he scolded himself. 'You hate the woman; you can't stand her. She's infuriating, annoying, and she tries your patience at every turn.'

'And yet,' another part of him answered, 'she has not left the forefront of your mind since she came to your quarters all those months ago. Try as you might, you cannot bring yourself to push her away. You don't hate her. You never have.'

He wondered whether it would be in his best interest to push her away, to convince her to jump ship at the next port so he would never have to see her again. She drove him to distraction when he could not afford to be swayed; revenge took precedence over everything else. He did not know where Rumplestitlskin was, but he would find him and kill him. Not even Morgan could sway him from that.

Yet the more he observed her, the longer he was in her presence when she was so vulnerable, he could not bring himself to push her away.

It was while this hurricane of thought whirled in his head that her eyes fluttered open. It took her a moment to register that she was not alone, and as his face came into focus through the haze of sleep, her eyes widened as she bolted upright on the sofa. Her sudden movement startled him.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded angrily. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"Two things, love," he answered calmly, though not without the usual frustration edging his tone. "One, this is my quarters so I have every right to be in here. Two, yes, I was."

"Don't you have better things to do than to sit there and watch me sleep?"

"Perhaps." He debated silently whether to confess to her that he had seen her scars; he knew she would be angry, but how long could he pretend that he had not seen them, that she did not bear a physical manifestation of excruciating emotional pain they both shared?

She must have understood what he had seen, as she anxiously yanked the sleeve down her wrist to conceal the scars. She avoided his eyes, ashamed that he had seen what she deemed to be a sign of weakness and cowardice.

"You didn't get those from battle, did you?" His voice was soft, barely audible even in the quiet cabin.

"It's none of your concern where I got them," she returned, her voice just as soft but icy. "You were never meant to see these."

He was silent for a moment. He knew that, for these few moments, both of them were vulnerable. In her own way, Morgan was slowly opening herself to him. She had not tried to fight him, she did not scream or snap at him, but she remained quiet, civil.

"You don't need to be ashamed of them," he continued, knowing it was at his own peril to keep pressing the issue. "You aren't alone in that regard, you know."

She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with surprise that she was desperately trying to conceal. "What are you talking about? You know nothing about these, how I received them, or the circumstances. How do you know?"

"No, I don't know what drove you to it," he replied. He was sorely tempted to move to sit beside her on the sofa, as she was now sitting rather than reclining, but he refrained and checked his temptation. He dared not make any sudden moves, particularly into her personal space. "I don't know what drove you to harm yourself, but believe me when I say that there are people out there who share your pain, who know what it's like to see no other alternative, no other way out, to feel as if life is more trouble than it's worth."

She said nothing, but averted her eyes again. She was not entirely uncomfortable, but she was uncertain. She did not like uncertainty, but at least for now, she did not feel as if she were being caged or suffocated. He had made no move to indicate any sort of violence or threats, and his voice was soft and even. She did not know what to call this moment other than a truce, whatever said truce was worth in the long run.

"And how would you know this?" She was still not looking at him. She could not. She did not know whether she felt ashamed that he had seen the scars or that she had made herself so vulnerable before him, and she could not bring herself to look at him.

He was silent for a long moment before answering, and she could hear him inhale sharply, almost as if in pain. At length he murmured, "Because I'm one of those people."

Her head snapped up. This was something she was not expecting. Arrogant, self-assured Captain Hook, brought to his knees? It was utterly absurd.

"My life has always been…empty," he explained. "I would always go from one conquest - whether it be raid or bed - to the next, but there was always a void that could never be filled. I would frequently think, 'what do I have to live for? I have nothing.' I met a woman named Milah in a tavern once, and she was so interested in my stories. She begged me to take her away from a life she hated, and I could not refuse her. She was aboard my ship for ten years. Her husband, her former husband by that time I would assume, found out. He took my hand and killed her in front of me. I vowed that I would avenge her death, and that's why I have been roaming the seas for so long."

"Did you love her?" The question was simple enough, yet it caused Morgan's heart to wrench in an inexplicable way. Why did it pain her so much, when she herself had had lovers in the past?

"Up until recently, I firmly believed that I did." He leaned back in the chair, heaving a soft sigh. "But now I'm questioning myself, questioning my mission. Thus I'm questioning everything that has kept me going for this long. It angers me, it annoys me, it frustrates me to the highest degree, this constant second-guessing. My course had been set in stone, or so I thought." A lump had developed in his throat, and he swallowed it, though not without difficulty. "After I get my revenge, I'm planning to go on the ultimate voyage. There's nothing left for me here or anywhere. When all is said and done, all I want is peace."

She pursed her lips, biting her lower lip in a vain attempt to stem the tide of tears that were beginning to well at her lashes. Why did she care so much? What this man did was none of her concern as long as it did not involve her.

"And what about now?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tears blurring her vision.

"Now? I keep looking for him. I stay the course. I can't afford to turn back." He turned his eyes to her, and found that her eyes were downcast. "What about you?"

"There's nothing to tell."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his legs. "Come on, lass, I bared my soul for you. The least you could do is to return the favor."

At this she returned his gaze. Despite her hardened expression, he could see tear tracks running down her cheeks. He did not know why, but this surprised him.

"I didn't ask you to do it," she said calmly. "I didn't ask you to tell me anything - you chose to do so of your own accord. Why do you care about a woman you hate?"

Stung at this - though he knew it was justified - he answered, "Because I don't hate you."

Her gaze softened and she relaxed slightly, having been caught off guard. "What?"

"I don't hate you, Morgan. Make no mistake - you try my patience, you frustrate the hell out of me, and frankly you scare my men shitless. But no, I don't hate you. I don't think I ever have."

"But you said-"

"I'm a pirate, darling; I've said a lot of things I don't mean."

As she made to retort, a knock sounded at the door.

"What?" Hook snapped, turning his head slightly to the left towards the door.

"Sir, a galley's been spotted off the starboard bow. Do we take her on?" The quartermaster's voice was slightly muffled by the wood, but Hook and Morgan could hear him quite plainly.

Hook spared a brief glance at Morgan before answering, "All hands on deck."

"Aye, sir." Footfalls sounded on the deck, then faded into the buzz and din of activity that had risen just beyond the door. Hook, having given his answer, rose to his feet. He stood at his full height, his shoulders square.

"I'm going to need you out on deck," he said, his voice taking on the familiar tone of unwavering authority. He was not Killian Jones, just a lost, saddened man, any longer; he was Captain Hook now. "You're one of the most capable fighters in a raid."

Without another word he turned and exited the cabin, leaving Morgan to stare after him.


At precisely 3:15, Killian and Adrian arrived at their home. It was in the customary style of a New England beach home and was settled on a sandy knoll, which was sprinkled with reeds and tall grass. The home's location afforded them a lovely view of the sea which, on sunny days, was reminiscent of a blue sapphire. Today, however, with the impending rain, it looked gray and shadowed.

They were greeted at the door by King, an Australian Shepherd that Killian had gotten for Morgan upon their discovery of her pregnancy. King had been faithful to the Jones family, and was fiercely protective of his owners, his mistress in particular.

"Hi, King!" Adrian greeted, immediately going to the dog and hugging him. Killian retrieved his keys from his pocket and took a moment to find the door key.

"Let him in, Ace," Killian told him as he unlocked the door. "It's going to rain."

Adrian nodded and allowed King to hurry inside, the nails of his paws clicking on the hardwood. The dog ran into the living room and immediately jumped onto the sofa, prompting Killian to shake his head.

"You know Morgan's not going to like it if you shed all over the furniture," he said, prompting King to give him a look that plainly said he was too comfortable to care.

The stairs creaked under footsteps, and Killian turned to find Morgan descending them, already having changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt that, he had to admit, accentuated her curves rather nicely.

"You're home early, love," he observed as she stepped onto the landing.

"I decided to take the rest of the day off. I had other work to do here."

He tilted his head, conveying his confusion. "I don't understand."

She glanced at Adrian, who had busied himself preparing a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich in the kitchen, and placed her hand on the back of her husband's arm. "Come with me and I'll explain."

She led him to the den, motioning with her free hand for King to move; he obeyed and instead found solace in a recliner near the window. Morgan and Killian sat down on the sofa, Killian still looking rather confused.

"Those boys that came here the other night," Morgan began. "The Winchesters. You remember them, don't you?"

"Sam and Dean? Of course I do."

"They're Hunters."

He blinked. "They're…Hunters? Hunters, here in this world?"

"Creatures from our world somehow managed to be swept here by the Curse. Because they're not human, they're not subject to the same limitations that we are. The Winchesters, if what Sam told me is true, travel all over the country, destroying these creatures, hunting them down."

"Creatures? Like what?"

"Striga, shape shifters, wendigos. They're all here. They started appearing twenty-eight years ago, around the same time that we came to Storybrooke. The Winchesters have been hunting them all these years. If we want the curse to break, which we do so we can get back to our world, then we need the Winchesters to keep killing these things. The creatures have magic that make it more difficult for the Curse to be broken."

Killian had leaned back into the sofa, draping his arm across the backrest behind her. "Isn't that the Savior's job? This Emma Swan girl?"

"She doesn't believe, so she's going to be hard-pressed to succeed in the way of breaking the Curse. We need the Winchesters, so it is for that reason I am going to keep them here. They may very well possess magic of their own that could break the Curse. We can return home then."

"And how do you propose on doing that, keeping them here?"

The right corner of her lip curled into a smirk. "Any means necessary."

His smirk mirrored her own as he leaned forward. He paused in his movement when his lips were a hair's breadth from hers and whispered, "That's my Morgan."

She closed the final distance, resting her hand on the back of his head so as to press his mouth against hers. She felt his arms wrap around her, warm and strong, and possessively he brought her close against his chest, deepening the kiss.

When they broke the kiss so as to come up for air, Morgan whispered breathlessly, "I've yet to get a bath today."

He chuckled low in his throat. "That can surely be arranged, my love."

They stood together, and he allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the stairs. She paused at the first step and called, "Adrian, your father and I will be upstairs if you need anything."

"Okay, Mom," he called back from the kitchen.

She then turned her attention to her husband, whose deep, sea-blue eyes were already beginning to glimmer with excitement. Still leading him by the hand, she led him up the stairs, and down the hall to their bedroom. She paused at the door to the on-suite bathroom to open it, and with a seductive smile yanked him by the arm inside. He swept her into his arms, kissing her heatedly and passionately, and shut the door with his foot.