Author's Notes:

*peeks out from behind her laptop*

*waves tentatively*

Um . . . hey guys. Still there?

It kills me that I'm so slow churning this out. It's like pulling teeth. I've fallen out of love with these characters, and I hate it because the story itself is one that I remember loving desperately and being so excited to write. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm gonna get to a place where I feel like I can stop. Then I'll post an epilogue. I refuse to leave this unfinished. It might not end the way I originally planned, but goddammit, I'm gonna give you guys a decent ending if it kills me. I owe you guys that.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 35

Milah arrived at the docks just as the sun crested the horizon. Finding the Jolly was easy enough. Killian had given her a tour during one of his visits months ago, and she went toward the red and blue ship with a feeling of familiarity and growing excitement as loud voices and straining lines and creaking wood became clearer. She grasped her bag tighter, only hesitating a moment at the bottom of the gangplank before she marched up.

As soon as her feet touched the deck, she grinned. A feeling of completion settled over her. It was done. She was aboard. She was leaving. She was free. The wind in her hair, the salt on her skin, the gulls in the sky, the rock of the ship . . . it was hers. She was free.

"You made it."

Milah had never seen Emma look more like a pirate. Her hair was wild and loose, tied back from her face with a bandanna that brought out the green of her eyes that were thickly lined with kohl. She wore a coat Milah had never seen before. Red and leather and short with a strange silver clasp. Her boots were sturdy and she wore a cutlass tied to her hip and a dagger strapped to her thigh.

Emma smiled slightly, eyeing Milah's bag. "You'll have Smee's quarters during your stay," she said, tossing her head toward the bow. "It's not the classiest accommodation, but it's better than the crew's quarters." Emma led her into a small room. There was a cot against the wall and a small desk that looked lonely in the corner. "You can get settled here, if you want. We should be leaving in an hour or so."

"Where's Killian?"

"I imagine he's overseeing all the rum casks."

Milah snickered and Emma's lips twitched. "Milah," she began, twisting her fingers nervously. "I have to ask: Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I know you don't understand, but yes. I really am sure."

Emma nodded. "Okay, then." She turned but paused in the doorway. "Welcome aboard."

Rumpelstiltskin had never thought himself to be a coward.

It wasn't something he thought anyone ever truly thought about. Why would they? How rare was it when one's mettle was truly tested? Fear was a natural part of life. Fear kept you alive. It was a natural response. Fear saved you.

You ran faster, thought quicker. Great things could be accomplished through fear. Because of fear.

Rumple knew that he was alive because of fear. He respected a man's ability to be afraid. He saw no cowardice in it. Smart men knew fear. Cleverer men accepted it, and Rumple had always thought himself clever.

He wasn't strong. He wasn't particularly striking. There was nothing about him, really, that stood out at first glance. He spoke softly. He tread softly. He flinched at loud noises and bowed at the insults hurled at him.

So it surprised Rumple when he found himself striding down the docks of Queen's Port.

He wasn't sure what he planned. He only knew that Milah couldn't leave him.

The ship was easy to find. Queen's Port was small. There were only ten or so slips, and only one big enough to hold a ship like the Jolly Roger. Rumple knew the name. Of course he knew the name. Captain Jones was one of the most notorious pirates in the Enchanted Forest. It was rumored that he'd sailed into Davy's Jones's Locker and thwarted the Sea God himself. Fantastic tales of what many would call bravery and cunning.

Milah had called Jones fearless.

The deck was busy as he approached. Sailors were calling out to each other, pulling at ropes and laughing at jokes he was still too far away to hear. It sounded merry, like a group of friends, but Rumple didn't trust it. Even in the morning sun, their weapons glinted in the light like a reminder that these people his Milah had surrounded herself with were dangerous.

Navigating the gangplank with his staff was a hardship, but he managed admirably, only faltering once, though his stumble onto the deck did cause some attention. The merriment dimmed immediately. Laughter ceased. Smiles dimmed. Suspicion flared.

His eyes quickly scanned the deck.

No Milah.

And, tellingly, no Captain Jones.

"Can I help you?"

The sound of a feminine voice made his head turn. A blonde woman came up from below. She was beautiful. Soft on the surface. Sun-kissed skin, a dusting of freckles over her nose, and sea green eyes. Yet her voice held a curt note. Her shoulders were squared and her gaze sharp. Not unfriendly yet not exactly welcoming.

But entirely unexpected.

"Pardon me," Rumple said. "I must have the wrong ship."

"This is the Jolly Roger," she said. There was a hardness to her voice that he didn't think he'd done anything to deserve. There was a distinct impression that he wasn't wanted, and it made him shuffle awkwardly, staff clinking against the planks only reinforcing his presence. The woman's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

So this was the right ship. Rumple stared at Emma. His first thought was that she must be a prostitute. He had heard that some pirates bought slaves for pleasure and took them aboard to warm their beds during long sails. Was his Milah unknowingly walking into such a fate? Yet this woman held herself too proudly. There was an air of command about her, something almost royal in the way she held herself, that reminded him of his days as a soldier when an officer would ride past, high astride his horse in full armor. It was noble. Gallant.

"I'm sorry to impress upon your time," Rumple apologized. He nearly bowed but caught himself. "I was wondering if I could speak to the Captain?"

"What business do you have with Killian?"

Killian. She called him by his name. Did Milah know she was a second choice?

"It is a private matter." He glanced nervously at the man surrounding him. Their broad shoulders and thick arms made him feel small. "I-I would rather not say."

Compassion softened the woman's stare, and Rumple almost relaxed before her green gaze became a storm. There was conflict there, and it only served to double his own nerves. This woman knew why he was here.

"You're right," she agreed before glancing at the men on deck. "Back to work," she ordered. She didn't shout, yet there was no lack of command and even more so an expectation that her word would be followed.

And to Rumple's surprise, it was true.

Tasks resumed. Conversation began again. The ship creaked. A breeze blew his hair into his eyes as he followed the woman toward the rear of the ship. Her gaze drifted up and Rumple's eyes followed.

He was there. Captain Killian Jones stood at the helm, his shoulders tall and proud. Everything about him emanated confidence—from the direct way he met the woman's gaze, as if he knew all of her and held nothing back, to the surety of his steps as he started toward them like a man who would not be denied. A brief flicker of jealousy washed through Rumple as Jones came closer. It was plain that Killian Jones was a handsome man, clothed in fine black leather and a heavy coat that had looked far bigger on Milah's small shoulders.

"Ready to make way, Swan?" Jones asked once he had descended the stairs to the quarterdeck. Rumple was glad he didn't have to shuffle up to meet him, and instantly hated the thought of looking so weak in front of this man who chose to ignore him and ask a question of the lady first. Swan. An interesting endearment.

Rumple wondered if the Captain had one for Milah, too.

"Ready when you are," Swan replied with a tone that lacked the teasing he expected was typically there. Jones held her gaze for another half-second. Rumple knew that kind of look. It wasn't one he'd experienced for himself, but he knew it. It was intimacy. It was the silent language that developed between lovers who knew all of each other.

Rumple's chest twisted.

Killian glanced at Emma. Her brows rose a fraction. His lips pressed together. She glared. He looked at Rumple. "Right this way," he said.

He led them to a place that before Emma, Killian had kept locked. Only months after the Battle of the Brethren did he even retrieve the key he'd kept in the hollow drawer where Emma had once hidden his grandfather's heart. After that the key had stayed in his pocket for another few weeks before Emma finally caught him turning it over in his hand. She'd asked if that was what had been distracting him.

It was the key to the Captain's Quarters.

The real Captain's Quarters.

Liam's room.

The quarters he used now were still his, yet they were his as his brother's lieutenant. On any other vessel he would have been granted quarters next to his brother, but Killian had always felt the noose that was his Naval obligation and brother's expectations loosen whenever he spent time with the crew below deck. His decision was one he suspected Liam knew yet indulged, and the crew got over their suspicion soon enough when he revealed his stunning repertoire of bawdy shanties entirely inappropriate for an officer of rank and his truly cunning ability to win at liar's dice.

After all, he could hardly have turned his whole crew pirate if they hadn't felt he was one of them.

Yet the night he had become Captain, taking his brother's rank, he had locked the doors to the Captain's Quarters and put it away to gather dust.

The room was spotless as he led Rumple through. It was an office now. Killian kept his ledgers and receipts in the desk and under Emma's suggestion displayed on the many shelves some of their favorite treasures they'd discovered on their adventures. He watched Rumple take it all in. The broadsword from DunBroch. A tiara from Agrabah. A lantern from Corona. The conch from Atlantis.

Rumple swallowed. "You have many fine treasures," he said. "I imagine you want for nothing."

"Is that why you're here?" Killian leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms in that cocky way of his that normally had Emma shaking her head fondly. Now she eyed the pose warily from where she stood behind the desk. "To compliment me?"

"You have my wife."

I've had many a man's wife.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Killian swallowed them with the briefest glance at Emma. He was still a scoundrel, but he was hers alone.

"Milah's friendship is dear to me," he said instead. "You need not fear for her."

"Please, don't do this."

"You seem to be under the impression that I've taken her against her will." Killian wondered if Rumple thought so in more ways than one, and the insinuation made his skin crawl and his already low opinion of Rumple fall lower still. His next words here harsher as a result. "I assure you, I've done no such thing."

Emma stepped forward. She placed a hand on Killian's arm, and his shoulders lost some of their tension. Rumple noticed and felt a flare of hope. "Milah asked us to help her find a new life," she said. "It's always been her choice. Trust me, I did my best to discourage her, but she wants to go. I'm sorry."

"Please, I'm begging you. She's my wife." His eyes met Killian's. "Surely you understand."

Killian said nothing for a long moment, and then, "I'll not order her off my ship. I've never forced a woman to do anything against her wishes, and I've never knowingly pushed a friend into an unhappy situation." He met Rumple's eyes squarely. "She isn't happy with you. Let her go."

Rumple's chin wobbled. "Please."

Killian wasn't sure what it was about the man that incited such an immediate dislike, but he found himself falling into shadow, the darkness contained within his heart sliding through his veins like ice. It burned but it was an intoxicating burn. His shoulders relaxed with it, and his eyes grew cold. Emma shifted beside him. She felt the change in the air. She did nothing but tighten her hand on his arm. A reminder or a warning, whichever one he would heed.

She knew he merely counted the touch as a reminder when his eyes cut to her. His gaze thawed. He was in control.

"I've said all I will," he said, his voice clipped. Rumple cowed. "Swan will escort you off the ship."

Rumple didn't want to leave, yet he found himself hobbling after Emma despite his desire to stay and find his Milah. She was his wife. His wife! He loved her. He'd only told her the once, when she'd given birth to Bae, and even then in their greatest moment of joy, she had not said it back. She'd smiled so beautifully at him that he had been able to explain it away as understood. One of those silent exchanges lovers indulged in perfect moments.

How silly he had been.

The sun was bright when he stepped onto the deck. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Emma winced at the sheen she saw there. It made Rumple's eyes appear warmer and sympathetic. "She may not show it, but she's torn about leaving," she said, hoping to offer a pathetic sort of olive branch purely for the sake of her conscience. "She took a long time to make her decision. She must think it's best."

"Best for whom?"

The question seemed to fill Rumple with courage. Bae's sweet face was clear in his mind as he stopped and turned back toward Killian, who leaned against the closed doors to the office, arms still crossed and now his legs at the ankle. Half of his face was in shadow, and the darkness around him pulsed like a living thing. A living, dangerous thing.

He couldn't let Milah stay. He had to take her home. For Bae.

"Please," he pleaded once more, uncaring that the crew had stopped to watch the spectacle. Rumple tentatively took a few steps away from Emma whose eyes were trained on Killian. "We have a son who needs his mother."

Guilt? Killian scowled. The man wanted to guilt him? His own past reared its ugly head, and the anger he felt took on an edge of old pain that festered under his skin like a burrowing parasite. It took root and gorged itself on leftover feelings of abandonment and resentment and loathing until Killian was drunk with it. "He'll survive," he said.

"Please," Rumple pleaded again. He swallowed, "sir."

That word tipped the scales. Killian wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the respect missing, the obvious ploy, or the even more obvious disdain that swallowed the simple syllable, but it was that one little word, sir, that let the darkness chill his veins. It left him cool and deceptively calm.

He did the one thing Rumple didn't expect.

He smiled.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll make you a deal." Rumple's eyes surged with hope, and Killian relished it because he knew he was about to snatch it right back. "I consider myself a gentleman, a man with a code." Smee was within arm's reach, and Killian took the man's sword and tossed it at Rumple's feet. "Pick it up," he said.

Rumple's eyes widened. He began to shake his head. His eyes welled.

"Killian," Emma warned.

"If you truly want your wife back," Killian unsheathed his own sword, the metal singing in the air, "all you have to do is take her. Never been in a duel before, I take it?" he mocked. Every second Rumple fumbled and gasped and trembled only made Killian angrier. "It's quite simple really, the pointy end goes in the other guy," he said, almost like a joke. His voice was light, conversational. Some of the crew laughed. He let the point of his sword rest against Rumple's chest. "Go on," he said. His voice hardened. "Pick it up."

Rumple gripped his staff tightly for fear that he'd fall. His knees were weak and his whole body felt heavy. He wanted to bend, to curl in on himself, to hide. He was scared. He was humiliated. Yet he did nothing. Sobs were trapped in his chest.

In that moment, he felt totally limp.

"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."

Killian's words were cruel and blunt. Rumple flinched, and Killian felt his ire spike. Part of him wanted to run the man through and be done with him. Yet he made the mistake (or had the fortune) of seeing Emma move out of the corner of his eye. She walked toward him calmly and once again raised her hand. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, and he felt her nails through his coat. He met her gaze coldly, pupils nearly black, but her green eyes were fire as she glared back at him.

He let his arm fall. She kept hold of it.

Rumple nearly wept in relief. And despair.

"Please, sir,"—there was that word, again—"what will I tell my boy?"

"Try the truth," Killian said walking back up the stairs to the helm, shaking off Emma's hold, "that his father was a coward."

Just like mine.

He didn't look back, trusting that Emma would see the man off the ship, and set a course for Port Royal.

Milah spent her first day aboard the Jolly keeping to herself. She hadn't expected to react to her newfound freedom by confining herself to her quarters, yet the prospect of being on deck, surrounded by the sea that she had always admired and the people she had come to see as friends was a daunting prospect she hadn't foreseen. It wasn't that she regretted her decision. No, she could never regret her decision to leave. Consequences be damned. What she did regret was how she'd done it, and she wondered if it made her a coward.

Her pockets felt light without the weight of her letter to Bae. She'd left the note on the boy's pillow, sure that he would find it when he woke. She hoped it would comfort him. She hoped that he would forgive her. Just two years. He was ten now. Twelve would be a ripe age for a cabin boy, and she knew that he would make a fine sailor. Perhaps she would be a First Mate by then. Perhaps even a Captain. She knew she could do it.

Yet she was trapped by a feeling of discontent that kept her confined to the small bed she'd been given, and as the day passed and night dawned, she accepted that it wasn't Bae who kept her prisoner, but Rumple.

She knew that he had come aboard. She'd heard him, heard Killian challenge him, and then nothing but the familiar scratch and thud of a staff against the planks that faded until she heard nothing but the sounds and shouts of a ship underway.

Milah's head snapped toward the door at the sound of a knock. "Yes?" she said, sitting up and running her hand through her hair.

The door opened and Killian poked his head in. "Hungry?" She hadn't spared a thought for food, but at his question, her stomach rumbled. Killian smirked. "Come," he said. "It'll just be us tonight."

Us. Milah assumed that included Emma, but when she followed him into large office beneath the quarterdeck, there were only two settings at the table. She eyed the fine silverware and gold embroidered plates with pleasure, running her fingers over the soft cloth napkin before placing it in her lap. There were candles on the table and a bottle of port. It wasn't her favorite, but it was the finest thing she'd ever tasted and she felt a flash of envy at the thought of Emma enjoying such things every night.

She shoved it away as she filled her plate. The meat was rich and the vegetables hearty. Much finer and fuller than she was used to, and she forced herself to eat small bites so she wouldn't inhale it like a starving urchin. Killian's eyes twinkled at her like he knew what she was doing as he hid his smirk behind his wine glass.

"You've kept to yourself," he said after a moment. "I didn't think you would."

"I found that I needed the time to think."

"Second thoughts?"

"No. A twinge of regret, perhaps."

Killian studied her a moment, then said, "Your husband came for you."

"Did he?" she parried lightly. She stabbed a carrot. "He must not have put up much of a fuss."

"I gave him the chance for fight for you."

"Fight for me? You would have had better luck getting a fish to fly." She made a show of glancing around the large cabin. "Where's Emma?"

"With the crew," he said. "Bee roped her into a game of liar's dice. I fully expect her to come up frustrated and a few gold pieces poorer."

"I can't see her being a good liar."

"She's actually a brilliant one," Killian said fondly, and Milah's heart clenched. "It's just she has a habit of getting cocky and betting too much, and Bee knows her too well to be fooled." His eyes narrowed as he looked across at her, "Just like I know you."

Milah sighed and looked at her plate. "I don't regret leaving," she said. "I made my choice."

"If he had fought for you, would that have made a difference?"

"We'll never know, will we?"

Emma was in the crow's nest for the first time in a long time. It was a clear night. The stars were bright and the moon glowed. She fixed her eyes on the sky, remembering a time years ago when she hadn't known all their names and could barely spot the Big Dipper unless Ace pointed it out with a gnarled finger. She missed the old geezer on nights like this.

Her pocket was a gold piece lighter. Bee had robbed her once again to the crew's delight. She thought they may have been a bit nicer about it than usual and wondered if everyone knew she wasn't as sure of herself as she would have them believe. All day the deck had been deferential to her. Cracking extra jokes and teasing with an unusual amount of sweetness, like she was a little girl whose feelings they wished to spare. She loved and resented them for it.

Because she was fine.

She was. Totally fine. Completely fine.

Yeah, okay, that was bullshit.

But what could she do? Milah was here, her husband was humiliated, and her son was abandoned. Emma hated that she was complicit in any of it. She didn't want to be a part of it, but she couldn't see how she could have avoided any of it. Killian had been right when he said that Milah would find a way with or without them, and at least this way, Emma could rest easier knowing that Milah needn't sleep with a knife under her pillow on a less reputable ship.

Still. There was something about her husband, Rumple—what kind of name was that, anyway?—that made Emma's hair stand on end and her magic crackle in her veins. She got a bad feeling whenever she thought of his wide guileless eyes and hunched shoulders. A deep sense of distrust settled in her gut whenever she looked at him. It was completely unfounded. The poor man had done nothing to earn it, and yet Emma found herself treating him more like a snake in the grass than a timid little rabbit.

Her magic reacted without her consent and her fingertips sparked like a frayed powerline. Emma hissed in annoyance before furrowing her brow and twisting her wrist. The sparks settled into a small ball of light. Its golden color reminded her of the fireflies she had watched during her brief stay at a foster home in New Orleans. The warmth was comforting. It was the kind of heat she felt all the way to her bones, and she spent the next few minutes twirling the little ball around her fingers before she sighed and closed her fist.

It was like blowing out a candle.

The noise below deck died down, and she heard the skeleton crew come up for the night shift. It was Vincent's turn at the helm, and she caught his eyes as he checked his compass behind the wheel. He frowned, and she shook her head. The last thing she wanted was for him to tell her exactly what her problem was and how she should go about fixing it.

She didn't want to talk about Killian. She didn't want to talk about Milah. And she certainly didn't want to talk about the little man with his ratty cloak and clunky staff.

Emma sighed and looked up at the sky.

Somehow, she knew that she would come to regret ever letting Milah aboard.

I really hope I'll get the next chapter out soonish. Let's hope another 2 months doesn't go by, at least.

I adore all of you,

AC