A/N (1): Trigger warning - theme of assault.

Disclaimers to follow at the end (if any part of the chapter looks familiar... ;)

The House on the Hill

Maria stepped from the back door of the Siren into the night. It took her eyes a few minutes to adjust to the sudden darkness. She paused on the doorstep, her lungs happy to be outdoors – she'd never fully gotten used to the smoky air in the bar, a heaviness that seemed to stick on every breath, that clung in an unwelcome way to her hair and her clothes. The night seemed darker than usual. Patchy clouds had rolled in, obscuring the moon that usually threw the rocky island landscape into bright relief.

When she could see again, Maria readjusted the shoulder strap of her satchel and started toward home. She had finished exceptionally early today – it was only a little after midnight. As a performer, she wasn't required to stay on until closing or even until last call. In fact, many of her coworkers frequently left much earlier, jaunting into the night on the arms of charmed sailors. Stavros often let her leave a bit earlier, too. Tonight, he'd especially caught her glance from across the room, where she'd been working behind the bar, inclining his head toward the exit and mouthing that he'd see her tomorrow. He must have been having an extraordinarily good night – perhaps he was happy that she'd roped the Captain for two straight evenings, and reeled him in a small fortune.

It was nothing.

Yesterday had meant nothing. Tonight had meant nothing. All of their talking. That kiss. It was all nothing. Just another forgettable chaste tryst between a captain and a barmaid.

It had been the right thing to say – it had to be said, really. But it felt painful even as she'd said it, and it seemed to have hurt him. He'd frowned, and become nearly silent. Their conversation had petered out, their remaining casual exchanges forced and awkward. She'd gone back to serving others. The clamour for drinks and attention from the Siren's other patrons was almost a relief, and Maria avoided the brooding presence that was Captain Von Trapp for the rest of the night.

She'd snuck glances at him. He stayed at the bar, drinking sparingly but tipping generously. He flirted with other women. She didn't want to look at him, and she got the impression that he was dodging her too, because in the few times their gazes did meet, neither seemed able to look away. Maria was glad he hadn't tipped her, although technically she had, in a sense, been providing a service. It would have cheapened it, though she had no idea why she clung to the notion that it had, after all, been something.

Maria walked up the road, up the hill, the path changing from paved to pebbled. Since Milos was a volcanic island and Adamas its only port, every direction leading away from it was uphill. She loved that her apartment was nearly at the top – and from there she had a view looking out over the sea – but it made for a long trek. She felt exhausted from the night's work, and wrung out from her encounter with Captain Von Trapp. He had been right – she was infinitely more drained as a dancer than when she was the filler. She welcomed the lack of attention, the fact that she didn't need to engage with anyone. Although she was on stage, she could perform without having to put on a show, could play whatever she wanted without anyone noticing. Apart from the Captain.

He'd caught her playing Edelweiss, which she did from time to time. Last evening's rendition had been... troubled. She'd been grieving, picking her way through the music as she let her heart lead, through shadows and memories she usually kept separate from her day-to-day life.

I've always been able to lose myself in the music, she'd told him. But music, now, was just as frequently a source of sorrow and pain… and loss, as it was an escape.

Was that something she could have discussed with him? Captain Von Trapp knew something about loss – that much was clear. He'd looked at her like he understood, heard her like he understood. Perhaps she could have, Maria mused, but now she supposed she'd never know. She'd go home, and he'd sail out tomorrow – no one passing by ever stayed in Milos for more than a day or two.

She was lost in thought, when she suddenly became aware of raucous laughter and talking. For a second she thought she was still at the Siren, although she was far enough that all noises from the bar and town itself should have faded. Maria slowed, looking around. The main road was deserted – there was no one ahead or behind her. But just a ways down, there was a fork where a small path led up from the beach and opened onto the road. And Maria could see two sailors making their way up, moving in her direction. One of them waved when they saw her looking.

Maria felt her head spin in a moment's panic. Milos was safe. Drunken men were not. They didn't look very steady on their feet, but their intention was clear enough. She had passed the fork only minutes ago, and hadn't seen anyone, though she hadn't been paying attention. She guessed they'd been out along the beach or the docks, but had changed course when they saw her.

Heart pounding, Maria walked faster, as fast as she could without breaking into a run, ignoring the calls that she was still thankfully too far away to make out. The tactic had worked more than once for drunken men trying to tail her.

But they had sped up, too. "What's the rush?" Maria could hear the words now. Not quite jeers, but cajoling. "You're worked clean off your feet – don't you want to have some fun at last?"

She kept walking. "You do make good drinks – I wonder what else you're good at."

The calling made her sick. If she ran, her landlord Alex who lived just below her apartments would help her. But she could never make it back to her apartment before these men. She could try, she could keep walking, but she couldn't defend herself with her back to them.

Maria made herself stop, whirling in a sudden movement to face her assailants. She sent a quick prayer to God, although she doubted even he could help her now.

The two men slowed, approaching from either side. They were quieting down, like they didn't want to scare her off. But it was an ambush, and Maria knew it. She forced herself not to shrink back, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep her teeth from chattering. They stopped several feet away, and she recognized them. She'd been at their table as she mingled with the patrons after the dancing. They'd been decent enough – easy to entertain and happy to accept her drinks. But they'd been crude even then, making bawdy jokes, and the sailor with the blonde hair now leering from her right had tried to pull her into him.

"Honey, cheer up," he was saying now. But Maria could see that the flirtatious gaze he'd pined her with earlier in the evening had now been replaced by something darker. "We saw that old rake you were with all evening, who wouldn't let you go."

He chuckled, and his companion chimed in. "Trust us, them old dogs might have money but they haven't got the goods… if you know what I mean."

Despite her fear, Maria felt a spark of anger. These drunks had no idea who they were talking about. She felt warm. Good. She would need anger on her side.

"Gentlemen." Her voice was loud. Clear. Confident. Didn't betray the irony of that word. "It's late. Please leave me alone."

"That dress doesn't do much for you. You looked better in red." The blond sailor stepped slowly toward her.

"Come down to our boat, sweetheart." The other sailor was advancing, too. "We can show you a good time."

"Leave me alone!" Maria steeled herself as Blond sidled next to her. He slid an arm around her waist, then the other, pinning her against his chest.

And then she screamed. Louder. Then her screams formed words. FIRE. HELP. FIRE.

Maria stomped down along the arch of his foot. He grunted, but held on to her. Her elbows were pinned at her sides, but her hands were free. She pinched the inside of his upper thigh. Hard. He let go with a cry of pain.

Maria bolted, dodging his companion, adrenaline giving her wings.

She ran in the direction of town, screaming. HELP. FIRE.

There was a chance someone was still awake. If she could get back to the Siren, Stavros would help her.

Running in blind terror, she almost collided into a solid presence in the middle of the road. No – judging by the skidding of pebbles and the way strong arms gripped her before she could fall, swinging her around with a momentum that caused her to cry out – someone had been running up the road. Running up to her. Someone had heard her cry for help.

Maria could have sobbed in relief. The person – a man – had shoved her behind him, not even looking back, and was advancing on her assailants. She could hear the scuffling as they approached.

She wanted to collapse to her knees. Her lungs were on fire. But she made herself look.

That white shirt. That dark hair. That predatory stalk.

Her mind was slow to react, even as she heard the shouts and jeering from the drunken sailors.

Then, in German. "I should kill you."

And, like a film in slow motion, as her mind caught up, Maria watched as Captain Von Trapp punched her blond attacker square in the face.

The man fell back with a cry, and his companion swore and closed in. They were both shouting insults. But they didn't stand a chance.

Maria watched in undulated fear and horror as the men swarmed him, and the Captain pounced. He struck with his leg, kneeing the blond sailor in the gut, while simultaneously blocking a punch from the other. As Blond stumbled forward, the Captain delivered a solid punch to his jaw. He went down, and stayed there.

Captain Von Trapp twisted around to the other man with a growl, and Maria caught a glimpse of his face. His expression was stone, his eyes blazing fire. An avenging sea god.

Maria had seen bar fights at the Siren. Drunken brawls were raucous, loud and messy. But this – this was different. Swift, ruthless, executed with military precision.

The other sailor landed a punch against the Captain's shoulder, but before he could pull back, Captain Von Trapp had grabbed hold of his arm, propelling him forward, driving his fist right between his shoulder blades. The man fell, rolling away. He darted backward as he stood, keeping his downed companion between himself and the Captain.

Captain Von Trapp paused, breathing heavily. He took a step forward, hands balled into fists, and the other man fell back another step. There was fear in his dark eyes. They'd been men – drunken, cowardly men taking advantage of a lone woman under the cover of darkness – but beside the Captain, they were boys.

"Go." The sound was a harsh bark in the night. The Captain jerked his head toward Blond, still unconscious on the ground. "Take him with you." The man nodded wordlessly.

"If your goddamned boat is still in Milos by morning…" The Captain took one final step forward, his voice dropping to a growl, "I will personally make sure your filthy hands are removed, and then other precious parts will follow, you miserable excuse for a man."

And then he turned away. Towards Maria. His hands relaxed at his sides.

She didn't see what happened to the other men. Didn't see how the drunkard managed to get his unconscious companion away from Captain Von Trapp.

She could only stare at him. He stared back.

Then she drew a shuddering breath, remembering how to breathe.

"Georg."

It had been a long time since Georg Von Trapp saw red.

It came on with gale-like force, uncontrolled like spreading wildfire. An icy rage gripped him, even as hot blood thrummed through his body. His senses tunneled. He saw nothing but the two men trying to force themselves on her, heard nothing but her scream in his ears. He would destroy them.

But it was over before it began, really. The two boys were bumbling idiots, and they were drunk. Georg sent them packing before he did them any lasting damage. He'd lived enough war not to want anyone else's life on his hands.

And then, there was only silence. And her.

And she was stumbling towards him, staggering into him, her small hands finding his arms in a vice-like grip. In the same frantic, urgent way, he reached for her, hands tumbling over her hair, her face, her shoulders, leaving a smear of blood against her cheek.

The need for reassurance, for confirmation. The need to know it was over, and they were alright. He'd seen it often during the war, lovers finding each other on and off the battlefield. In the moment they clung together, Georg forgot they hardly knew each other, forgot their acquaintance before now had been limited to one drunken conversation and one very unsatisfactory farewell.

It could have been seconds, it could have been hours. When the moment finally passed, the young Fraulein pushed away from him, holding him at arms length, looking him over. The hysterical look in her eyes had cleared, but she looked pale, eyes wary.

Georg didn't ask if she was okay. He knew she wasn't; knew it would take time for her to process what had happened, to feel any measure of safety. Was this the first time? Georg wondered with no small measure of guilt. He'd as good as pushed her back toward the other men at the Siren. He'd left alone, let her leave alone, even after he'd felt the subtle change in the atmosphere at the bar, as the crowd became more drunk, less restrained, more sinister… Goddamnit! He was a coward.

"You're bleeding." Her voice was hoarse from screaming.

Georg looked at his hands for the first time. There were flecks of red against his skin and a trickle of blood from one of his knuckles. He shook his head. "It's fine. It's more their blood than mine."

She mirrored his headshake. "I live that way." She lifted her chin in the direction up the road. "We should get you cleaned up."

He suspected she needed the company more than he did cleaning up, but Georg found he wasn't ready to return to his boat alone, either. Their earlier encounter had felt unfinished, and now he was left with uneasy concerns and more questions.

They walked beside each other in silence. The path wound up the hill, and Georg could almost feel the air becoming fresher. A collection of squat, white buildings came into view as they rounded a corner, nothing more than three or four clusters branching from the main road, the houses fanning against the hill as though they'd broken free from the town below and were straining to reach the peak. Fraulein Maria led him along the road, turning down a narrow cobblestone pathway before stopping at a flight of stairs. Georg had noticed that feature earlier down in the port, the way external stairs led to most of the upper stories. The stairs opened onto a large stone patio, with several doors lining the wall. He waited as Maria silently unlocked one of the doors, and followed her through the arched doorway into her apartment.

The room was small, but bright as Maria turned on the light. Georg blinked, not used to being surrounded by brilliant white stone, which made the place seem both bigger yet more confined. It was sparsely furnished. There was a small kitchenette in the corner with opening shelving, with a couch and table and chair set taking up the rest of the room. There was a single door at the far end of the room, which he supposed led to the bedroom.

"I'll get my first aid kit," Maria mumbled, walking toward the door without looking at him. She didn't wait for him, didn't offer him a seat, and he had the sense she desperately needed a moment alone to collect herself.

Georg sat down in one of the wooden chairs at the table. It'd been years since he'd been inside a woman's home. No – not that long. He'd last been at Elsa Schraeder's luxury penthouse not even two years ago. But it had felt different. She'd had an interior designer and art collector who'd managed the space, who frequently swapped decor to keep with the latest trends. She spent most of her time entertaining in the parlour, and he couldn't remember her ever cooking in her state of the art kitchen. Despite being well acquainted with it, Georg never truly had the sense that Elsa's house was a home – which at the time suited him just fine.

He'd forgotten the feminine touches. A floral tea set. A single flower in a brightly coloured vase. Pastel patterned tea towels. Tasseled cushions. The entire effect was soft, intimate, womanly…

It affected him strangely, and he tensed as Fraulein Maria walked back into the room. She had changed into a simple brown dress, and bound her hair in a kerchief the way country girls did back home. She placed a rectangular plastic box on the table, and opened it to reveal a mess of first aid things – jars of ointments, rolls of gauze, bandages, and several small bottles of pills that he assumed were painkillers. It was a very complete kit, he supposed, and he wondered uneasily if Maria hurt herself so often – or was hurt so often – that she needed such a kit.

She went to fetch a small bowl of water, adding it to the table. Georg watched at she stood at his side, and started to free a roll of gauze. She was quiet – she'd hardly spoken more than a handful of words to him since they'd started walking, and even then, her voice had sounded hollow – and didn't meet his eyes.

"Wait," he said suddenly, lightly gripping her wrist to catch her attention. If she wasn't okay, then he should talk to her, instead of letting her busy herself with his wound and burying her thoughts. In the military, it would have been called debriefing.

She started, freezing at the touch. "Yes, Captain?"

He quickly withdrew his hand. "How about some tea, first?" He nodded toward her turquoise tea-kettle on the small stove.

"Umm… alright." Maria looked taken aback for a moment, but then retreated toward her kitchenette. Her hands shook as she filled the kettle. Georg didn't offer to help. Sometimes, keeping the hands busy was better at settling the mind than talking.

Sure enough, by the time Maria poured the water, her hands were steady. "How do you take your tea, Captain?" She turned to him, seeming more animated, and her voice was back to how he remembered it.

"Err…" Georg wasn't a tea drinker, but it seemed absurd to say so when he was the one who'd suggested it. "With honey, please."

She brought two cups to the table, and slid into the chair across from him. Silently, she took a sip, then wrapped her hands around the cup. As he reached for his own saucer, he realized his hand was throbbing. He ignored it as she asked quietly, "how did you find me?"

Georg sipped at his tea. "I was down along the beach. Umm – walking." He'd been pacing the length along the water, and he'd been doing it since he left the Siren, feeling inexplicably agitated as his mind kept returning to the problem that was… Fraulein Maria. He cleared his throat. "There were a few other sailors hanging around by the water, and I noticed when a few of them took off."

Maria cocked her head. "You followed them?"

He shook his head. If he'd had the sense to follow them, he'd have had the sense not to have left her alone. "I heard screaming a few minutes later. I heard you."

The little colour in her face drained. Georg continued gently. "Once I heard you, I put the two and two together and ran up that path by the beach. But you were screaming 'fire'."

Not that it mattered what she'd been shouting – he would have responded to that terror in her voice regardless, but it left him a little curious.

The remark ended up being the right thing to say. Maria's expression brightened a little, and she gave him a small smile. "Someone told me once that if I were ever in danger, screaming fire was the most effective way to draw attention. Not everyone will help out of the goodness of their hearts, but everyone is afraid of spreading fire."

The reasoning surprised a swift chuckle from him. He'd never thought about it – never had reason to. But he was lucky. He was a strong, able-bodied man. He'd had years of military training. He'd never had to think about self-defense. But as a girl…

The thought caused his chest to clench painfully. In tenderness. In agony. In despair.

"Thank you," Maria was saying now, shaking him out of his thoughts. "For saving me."

Georg cleared his throat, still shaken. "You looked like you were doing just fine on your own, to be honest." His words were rewarded with another impish smile. "Who taught you all of that?"

All that self-defense he theoretically did know – the delicate part of the foot, the sensitive inner thigh… making use of your elbows, going for the groin – all the knowledge he should have but never thought to impart, never occurred to him would be crucial information. Was it too late, now?

Maria was answering him. "A – a lady I used to live with, before I left to become a governess. She shared it with me in secret, when she learned I was going away. About screaming 'fire', about how to get away. I had led a very… sheltered sort of life, you see. I didn't know much about – " she waved her hands in an encompassing gesture, " – the world. I was shocked – we didn't learn… was discouraged from thinking about… um, violence and those kinds of things..." Georg had the impression Maria was skating over parts of her past, but let her continue. "She told me there was no predicting who I'd come up against and it was better to be prepared." She shook her head in a disbelieving way and laughed. "If I ever see her again, I'm going to kiss the floor! She was so right!"

Georg raised his eyebrows at the strange idea of Maria kissing the floor, but let it go. It must have been some sort of inside joke from her past. "Have you ever had to use it before?" He asked instead.

"Once. But the man was so drunk he probably would have fallen over on his own."

He didn't know whether to feel relieved that no one had assaulted her before now, or alarmed that she was speaking so matter-of-factly about it, as though she expected such things to happen. What a dangerous sort of life she led! Putting herself in harm's way night after night, living alone on an island in the middle of nowhere. Did she have family who knew where she was? People who cared, people who would know if anything happened to her?

The worry and inexplicable fury must have shown on his face, for suddenly she was backpedaling. She had a tendency to do that, he noticed, a keen sense for picking up and warding off hostile situations. It must come with the job.

"Milos is actually very safe," she was insisting. "You don't need to worry about me."

"Safe!" Georg didn't know if he wanted to roll his eyes or shake her. "You were jumped tonight! Who knows what would have happened if – " if I hadn't been there.

"I would have made it back to the Siren and called Stavros," Maria said calmly.

"You do this every night! If anything were to happen to you on these roads, no one would even know!"

"I'm very careful when I walk. I pay attention." She coloured, the pink flush of her cheeks spreading to her neck. "Usually, anyway. I was… distracted, tonight." She looked away.

Georg took a deep breath, biting his tongue. It wasn't his place to chastise her, to tell this grown woman how to live her life – she wasn't his wife, wasn't his sister, wasn't his daughter. He wasn't anything to her.

As though she'd read his mind, Maria conceded quietly, "this night could have ended badly, I know."

Georg remained silent, wavering between words of comfort and wanting to drive home his point – that one day, it still might end badly.

"Thank you again, Captain. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful for what you did. I really am." She looked at him with huge eyes, sincere and solemn. "Truly, you saved me… my, erhm…"

She cut off abruptly, like she'd said something wrong, flushing even brighter and mumbling something unintelligible. She gestured vaguely again, toward herself. Georg looked on, bewildered, until suddenly it clicked, and he nearly choked on his tea.

"What?!"

"What?" Maria was crimson.

If Georg hadn't been so shocked, he would have laughed at how absurd they sounded.

"No – nothing!" He insisted, not wanting to offend. "I'm just surprised, that's all. I wouldn't have thought… I didn't expect – well… you work as a showgirl at the Siren!"

Georg winced immediately. That was not how he wanted to say it at all. He knew she was still young, had sensed she was more naïve than she let on… but a virgin? Working as a dancer and a barmaid in a seedy port bar? That made the entire predicament even worse! At least he had the sense not to say that part out loud.

He expected an angry retort. He'd deserved it, the assumptions he made – and voiced – about her virtue. He'd been an ass. But instead, Maria burst into laughter, ducking her head in an endearingly demure gesture. Her eyes twinkled wickedly as she peeked at him. "I'm sorry, Captain – I suppose I should have found a job at the Maiden Voyage, shouldn't I?"

He gave a bark of surprised laughter, which melted into a chuckle. She was fearless, and it astounded him most of all that she could find a reason to laugh in a moment like this. "Maria – I'm sorry…" He shrugged helplessly, a smile still tugging on his lips. She'd disarmed him, entirely.

Maria shrugged, standing up from the table and coming around to him. "You're not acting at all like a sea captain," she told him, her voice still playful, "to be so easily flustered."

It was true, Georg thought belatedly, how affected he'd been by her revelation. Her innocence should be of no concern to him at all.

Maria rummaged through her first aid kit, and then dropped to her knees at his side with a heap of gauze. "Let me see your hand."

Her hands were gentle as she began sponging blood off his arm. He leaned into the chair, watching her head tilt this way and that. More than once she paused to blow the tendrils of hair that'd escaped the kerchief off her face, a girlish gesture that contrasted strangely with the tenderness of her hands. It was a new side of her he was seeing, and he was fascinated all the more. "And you are nothing like anything I expected to find here." He spoke aloud without even thinking.

"And what were you looking to find?" She wasn't looking at him. She'd asked it mildly, offering him to answer however he wished.

"Oh, nothing. Or everything," he mused. "Something new. Or perhaps just pretending to be madly active. Activity suggests a life filled with purpose."

She glanced at him, astute as ever. "Could it be running from memories, Captain?"

He chuckled, a small, hollow sound. No – he wasn't running from memories. Not at all. He almost wished it were still just that.

"I thought you were calling me Georg," he said instead.

"Only in life-threatening situations", she said easily.

He blinked, feeling oddly like he was being rejected and trying not to look affronted. He reminded himself that drawing boundaries was her specialty.

Maria's fingers passed over a spot just below his outer knuckle, and white-hot pain shot up his arm. He muffled a yelp, and would have jerked his hand back if she hadn't been holding on to it.

She dropped her gauze and looked at him with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, did I – "

Georg shook his head, pulling his hand back to take a closer look. It looked normal, now that Maria had cleaned off the blood, if only mildly swollen. The spot she'd touched was throbbing again, radiating from the knuckle of his little finger. He prodded the area, and gave a grunt of pain. "Broken," he ground out, hand smarting.

"Broken?!" Maria looked anxiously at him.

"See here?" Georg stretched out his arm to show her the back of his hand, pointing out the fifth knuckle. "Boxer's fracture." He had had this particular sort of fracture before, in his brash youth, and had seen it countless times in the military when pissing contests between his men disintegrated into over-enthusiastic scuffles and fist fights.

"Not the end of the world," he told Maria, who was still staring at him with a worried frown. "We'll just bind these two fingers together, like this – " he pantomimed the action, " – wrap the hand up, and it'll be fine in a few weeks."

He could see Maria taking a breath. "Okay," she said gamely, and set to work following his instructions. Georg could tell she'd never done it before – it took her several tries to wrap the gauze around his fingers, head bowed over his arm, the top of her forehead wrinkled in concentration. He sat silently, patiently waiting as she figured it out.

He found himself oddly affected by the image – sitting in a worn kitchen chair, this young woman kneeling before him, bathed in warm light, her fingers gentle and coaxing against his hand. Georg felt a peculiar sense of buoyancy creep over him, like something within slowly unfurling, like a fist unclenching, like a flower opening into the sun.

And then, like a shellfish sensing danger, he felt himself tense reflexively. Maria must have noticed, for he heard her inhale as she looked up again. "Does that hurt?"

"No," he managed. The word came out more as a gasp.

She went back to bandaging his hand. All was quiet, but something had shifted. Surely she felt it too, for after a few moments she asked in a whisper, "what happened to your wife?" Her head remained bent over his hand.

"She died," he told her, and there was no bitterness in his voice. "Of scarlet fever. Seven years ago this coming fall."

Her fingers paused, lingering above his. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yes."

They lapsed into silence – an underscored, intimate sort of silence, the spell that'd been woven between them cocooning them in a world of their own.

"Was her name Brigitta?" Maria asked at last, reaching for the tape to bind his bandages.

He blinked in surprise. "No. Her name was Agathe."

"Oh!" Maria finished up, and rocked back on her heels to look at him. "It's just that yesterday I noticed… well, your yacht is named The Brigitta, and I assumed…"

Georg nodded in understanding. It wouldn't be the first time someone had made that mistake, but he seldom bothered to correct them. "The tradition of naming ships after women is well known," he concurred.

"Oh," she said again, and looked perplexed. "So is your boat named after… your mother?"

He had to laugh. "No, it is not. Her name was Hedwig. And before you ask, it's not named after my sister, or my aunt, or my housekeeper." Their eyes met, and he sighed at the earnestness in her face. "Brigitta is my daughter's name."

He watched as her eyes widened and her mouth made a perfect, comical 'o' of shock. "Oh!" Maria gasped, and her hands flew to her face, embarrassed by her outburst. "It's just - you don't look at all like a… I mean, you haven't said a word about…" She had turned bright red again, a look he found he wasn't at all sorry to elicit. "I just didn't expect you to have a daughter, that's all," Maria finished feebly.

"I have five."

"Five!"

"And two sons."

"Seven children?"

"Yes, well, my wife and I were married quite some time. Eleven years, in fact. My children now range from seven to eighteen." Georg had not once spoken of his children these past couple years – not since he and Elsa Schraeder had broken off their engagement and he'd left Austria. As though if left well alone, everything he'd known and held dear would vanish behind vines and bracken like the long-lost castles of his daughters' beloved fairytales. And now that'd Maria had stumbled upon his ramshackle past with her innocent question, Georg found himself flinging the facts at her, almost petulantly as though to say so there, now you know. It was shameful, really, but also a little bit cathartic.

"So why did you choose to name your boat after Brigitta?" Maria asked inquisitively. He could tell by her face she'd processed and accepted the new information about him, mastering her shock admirably. She stood to take her teacup to the sink.

"Brigitta was the only one whose birth I wasn't able to attend," Georg answered. "I received leaves from the military for my first three, and with Kurt I just happened to be home at the time." He ticked off his fingers as he went through the children. "And I had already retired when the two littlest arrived."

Maria nodded along, and Georg felt strangely deflated, like he was playing a one-sided tennis match. He wanted her to hit back. He wanted to put the shots just outside her reach, to throw her off balance. He didn't know why he was goading her, what kind of rise he was hoping to get out of her.

"After Brigitta was born, I sent for Agathe to bring her to meet me in a new boat, which we later christened in her name," he finished. He stood too, picking up his own cup with his good hand.

Maria leaned against the counter, looking thoughtful, watching as he added his cup to hers. "And your children, when you are sailing?"

He tried to keep his voice light. "They attend boarding school during the year."

His admission hung in the air between them; the inevitable blow, the winning shot, the moment the magical transformation was revealed and the young beauty found herself staring into the eyes of a beast.

For a moment he heard her cry of outrage, but then realized he had imagined it.

Maria only nodded again, slowly. "How often do you see them?"

"One or two weeks a year, at the end of each semester."

"They must miss you very much," she said, voice wistful.

Georg felt compelled to explain, certain she hadn't understood the story. "After Agathe died, I hired a series of governesses to help with the children." He did not tell her that he expected the governesses to raise the children, while he, well… but Maria gave him a swift look that seemed to see through it. He fumbled. "Anyways, well, it's been difficult as you can imagine, with the seven of them. None of the governesses stayed. The twelfth and last governess I hired fled in the middle of the night claiming the house was haunted. And she was a nun from the Abbey! Imagine that nonsense!"

Maria's hands had flown to her mouth, although he couldn't figure out which part of that had shocked her.

"If a battle-axe of a nun from Nonnberg couldn't even manage them…Well, the children have done very well at boarding school. The director is very pleased with their progress." He paused. "I've been very happy with the arrangements."

Georg had lost track if he was trying to justify or condemn himself.

"Happy?" Maria echoed. Her tone was more bewildered than accusatory, but Georg again found himself on the defensive, feeling anger simmer beneath his words.

"It's for the best," he all but spit out. "When you are a widower with seven children… The options are limited."

Maria seemed to accept this, giving a small shrug of acquiescence. Now, he watched her as she turned on the tap and gave the teacups a rinse. There was disquiet even in the silence – the eye of the storm.

"Many widowers marry again," she remarked, as she finished with the cups.

The space between them went taunt. Georg froze as she added, her tone entirely conversational, "then the children would have a mother again."

The storm hit like a whirlwind, sucking the air from the room. Hurling debris, deafening, blinding, everything fracturing the way his life had when he'd agreed to the very thing she was suggesting. From there, it had all unraveled.

Maria took a step back, sensing the threat.

"And who, pray tell, would want to marry a man with seven children?" His voice seemed to stalk her, low and dangerous. He took a step forward. The distance between them closed. She stood very still. His words punctured the room, the fangs of a predator poised to strike. "Who, in their right mind, would want to marry a man like me?"

For who could ever learn to love a beast?

"Look at me." Even though she already was. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd brought his good hand up to her face, tracing her cheek, her jaw, gripping her chin. She stared at him, frozen, eyes wide with shock… and fear, hardly daring to breathe. They were so close he could feel the warm swirls of her shallow breaths. "Would you?" It could have been a purr or a hiss. "Would you marry me?"

She didn't respond. Two spots of colour burned on her cheeks, and the rest of her was deathly pale. She took a trembling step backward, just enough to slide out of his grasp. Her eyes filled, but her voice was steady. "I think, Captain, the more important question is whether you want anybody to marry you."

Maria turned her back on him and walked away, disappearing through the door into her bedroom.

Georg came to his senses with a silent gasp, like he'd been doused in ice water. What was he doing, grabbing her when she'd just been assaulted? When all she was doing was trying to make conversation? When she'd offered warmth and he'd been downright terrifying. He'd lost control, he thought in disgust, and this time it wasn't even the alcohol. There was no way he was going to forget the look on her face anytime soon. And – because something about this night, and this woman, was hell bent on making him feel – Georg was filled with a sense of shame, which only grew as long moments passed and still he stood alone.

Finally, Maria reappeared in the doorway. "I behaved badly," he rushed to say, even as she glared at him with blazing, angry eyes. "I apologize." She said nothing, and he added, hating himself for the hesitation, "I should take my leave."

"Don't be foolish, Captain." She threw the words at him. "You're hurt." She lobed a pillow she'd retrieved from her room onto the couch. "You would be better off leaving in the morning."

Maria crossed the room and placed the throw she'd been holding in her other hand onto the table – the surface furthest away from him. Then, she turned and vanished back into her room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

A/N(2): First of all, (I know I gave warning of my absence but I still feel badly about it!) apologies for this long delay between instalments! But hopefully I've redeemed myself with this loooong chapter? ;)

Disclaimers: the art of self-defence scene inspired by Sarah J Maas's "The Assassin's Blade". And of course, the fairytale (and G's self-loathing) inspired by Disney's "Beauty and the Beast". ALSO, I have to give credit to the reader who wondered in my LAST story (We Can Start From The Beginning) if G sent his kids to boarding school, and I said at the time I couldn't imagine him following through with it. Well - your comment inspired me, and now I have! Ta-da!

Thank you to everyone who is following along, and huge huge thanks and gratitude to those who took the time and left a review! LOVE hearing your thoughts. xx