a/n: Hi! I know what you're thinking… I've seen this story before, haven't I? Yes. Yes you have. (Though, if you're new to this story, hello and welcome, please enjoy!)
I deleted it a while ago thinking it wasn't fair to leave it up unfinished if I had no plans to continue writing. But, literally out of the blue the other day, inspiration hit me and I was able to actually finish it! Can you believe it? I can't.
So, rather than keeping it for myself and my own enjoyment, I thought I'd share with anyone who still wanted to see how this tale ends. I know it had a bit of a following and I still get questions about it to this day.
As an added benefit of this reposting, I've made some grammatical changes (because sometimes you re-read and you go, wow yikes I messed that up lol) and added some extra bits here and there to add some color and zing. May as well, right?
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! And I swear it's going to be finished this time. I have an actual ending written and ready to publish!
If you just want to read the new parts, tune back in for chapters 14 and onward :)
Love you friends!
/
One
He slams the front door closed and it squeaks on its hinges, swinging and clattering against its cracked and broken frame.
He shoves his fist into his jacket pocket, straightening his gaze ahead of him with a white huff of his breath in the frigid air to mingle with the fog that has descended onto the island.
His boots crunch on the rocks as he carries himself onward and he takes note of all the things he has in store for his day. It isn't much, never is, and he curses his sailor's blood for the ungodly hours.
The ground is still damp from last night's storm and the air still smells of it. It had been an unruly thing, the storm, and he'd woken several times at the sound of lightning spiking nearby.
As he walks toward the lighthouse, he shifts his gaze to the ocean that's lapping up against the shore nearby. The water sprays at him and he grits his teeth, breathing in salty gusts of air through his nose.
He narrows his eyes, stopping dead in his tracks the instant he notices a lump lying at the shore, the foaming water washing over every few moments.
The blood drains from his face and his heart begins to pound just a little bit faster, a throbbing beginning to sound in his ears.
He stares for a moment longer, then shifts his gaze a little further up the shore to a brown basket nestled in seaweed and wet sand.
Curiouser and curiouser.
His brow furrows slightly and he pulls his hand free from his jacket so he can comb through his hair nervously.
He starts for the two washed up mysteries quickly, breaths coming out in nervous, shaking huffs, and when he reaches the blue lump, he kneels down beside it.
It's a woman.
She appears to be a few years his junior with sopping wet blonde hair and fair skin. When he examines her, she's breathing, but she's passed out cold. There's blood oozing from a wound in her forehead and he's sure something's wrong with her leg, because it's twisted obscurely.
He winces a little, unsure of what to do. He's about to stand and lift her over his shoulder to help her when a high-pitched squeaking and crying emanates from a little further down the beach in the brown basket.
He can hardly hear the ocean now with how loudly his heart races in his ears.
He rises slowly, cursing under his breath as he makes his way toward it.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, looking down at the basket.
There is a baby, not a small baby, but a baby nonetheless, lying inside, wrapped tight in a blanket, squirming and crying. It's cheeks are red and it looks absolutely miserable.
He can't blame him. A day like today leaves much to be desired.
Killian Jones crouches down beside the child and holds out his arms, glaring briefly at his hook for a left hand, then, with a shake of his head, he reaches in and carefully lifts the child into the crook of his arm.
Having never held a screaming baby before in his entire life, he hasn't a clue of what to do. He bites down on his tongue and grimaces.
"Quiet down," he tries, "You'll get nowhere crying like that."
The child, miraculously, stops.
Killian sighs. "Let's get you inside then. Can't have you out to freeze, hm?"
He stands again, reaching down for the basket with his hand before turning to trudge back to his residence. Worry fills him from head to toe as he looks at the woman again.
Since she's out of it, she can wait until he's settled the child down. He thinks he knows better than to leave such a small human being out in the cold of the morning with no nourishment or comfort.
The baby squirms in his hold and he winces again in fear, because it isn't as if he has a firm hold on the fragile being. He finds his pace quickening almost instinctively.
Killian pulls the door open with his index finger and it slams behind him loud enough that it makes the child cry again. He starts hushing it as he sets the basket on the table in his kitchen, knocking over a bottle of beer from last night in the process.
He doesn't bother to clean up his mess, deciding to take the child into the small living room off of the kitchen where he builds a cradle of sorts out of blankets and pillows he can find.
He settles the fussing child down into the center of the mess and goes to stoke at the fire that's dying out in the fireplace. While it's warming up, he goes into the kitchen for milk.
He thinks that's what babies eat, right?
He isn't sure if it should be cold or warm and hesitates with the milk glass for a few moments, struggling to even find something to use that will fit in the child's mouth. He decides on using a cleaned beer bottle for the time being and warms up the milk in the microwave before pouring it into the bottle and carrying it into the living room.
"Here we are," he says gruffly, setting himself down next to the lump in his couch. He awkwardly shifts the baby and uses his thumb to cut off the flow as he settles the lip against the child's mouth. "In we go. You're hungry, aye?"
It takes a few moments and some of the milk dribbles out on the baby's chin, but eventually, all of the milk goes straight into the hungry child's stomach, the baby's eyes falling closed as it continues to suckle.
Killian figures he'll have to find something to use as diaper cloths. He'll do that after bringing the woman inside.
It's a mystery to him how two people could wash up on his island.
It isn't as if he's in a highly trafficked area. It's not even in a shipping lane. In fact, ships rarely come along- only for his monthly supplies.
After the boy finishes the milk, Killian puts the beer bottle on the floor and looks down at the child with a furrowed brow.
He hasn't spent nearly enough time around children to know what to do with him now that he's eaten, and Killian sighs as he decides to strip him of the damp blanket and outfit he's sporting.
Killian tucks the boy into the pillows and blankets again, covering him up so he thinks he's warm, and then carries the wet and cold items over to the fire, hanging them to dry.
With one final check on the sleepy child, he nods to himself and zips up his coat to go grab the mystery woman.
He isn't a horrible man. He likes to think himself rather good on his better days. But he isn't a man who enjoys the company of others. In fact, one of the reasons he's still on this island is because he can't stand himself around others.
He can't trust himself around others.
Killian takes a sharp breath of the cold air and lets it back out of his nose, eyes set determinedly on the blue and yellow lump on the shore.
When he reaches her, he sighs, balling up his hand tightly into a fist before leaning down to scoop her up and onto his shoulder. He's careful with his hook and he grunts a bit when her weight is added to him. She's not very heavy, but he's not used to carrying much weight, so he is quick when he makes his way back to his home.
He moves with expertise through the small residence to his bedroom, the only bedroom, and settles her down on his bed.
She's absolutely soaked to the bone and incredibly cold to the touch. Her blonde hair fans around her head, some of the strands sticking to her peaceful cheeks and forehead.
She's still blissfully unaware of anything that's happened, so Killian hesitates for a moment longer before deciding to start the fire in his room.
As soon as the flames breathe warmth into the small room, he goes to the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulls out blankets to cover her with.
He decides that he should take her dress off to try to avoid hypothermia, so he takes a deep breath, leaves the blankets at her feet, and sets to peeling the wet article from her flesh.
Luckily for him, she's out enough that she doesn't wake as he's taking her britches off, and he purposefully covers her with blankets before he goes to find her something of his to wear in place of her dress while it dries.
Carefully, Killian puts a long sleeved shirt over her top and a pair of loose-fitting pants over her bottom, then slides a pair of socks over her feet and covers her with three blankets, ensuring her entire body is tucked safely and securely beneath them.
Her teeth have begun chattering, a new development that's somewhat assuring.
In the process of slipping the pants on, he'd noticed bruising around her right knee and his thoughts easily drift to wondering what could've happened to her, but he can't know until she wakes, so he stores his curiosity and continues to ensure she's sufficiently warmed.
He figures he'll have to tend to her wounds later when she's awake and can tell him more and decides to go check on the child instead while she sleeps.
Killian leaves his bedroom after draping the woman's clothes over the fire to dry. His boots clump along the hardwood floor noisily and he sighs as he settles onto the couch beside the sleeping babe.
If there was anything he'd imagined his day as being like, it wasn't this.
He was supposed to check on the lightbulbs and make note of what needed fixing after the storm, get started on the list, and then drink himself to sleep after a supper of whatever he might scrounge up.
He isn't sure he can just leave the child and the woman here, not when they might wake up at any moment, so he watches the tiny being as he breathes before nodding in affirmation and carrying the tentative baby bottle into the kitchen.
Killian goes about fixing a stew from what he's got in the pantry and figures a way to feed the child with things in his cabinets.
He's sure the woman will be quick to mother him. Perhaps the child belongs to her- he isn't sure.
And anyway, he won't be stuck with them for very long. Just four weeks before the supply ship comes and he'll send them out and away from him again. He'll just have to deal with them in the meanwhile.
He settles back against the cabinets as the stew cooks on the stove, thinking about what he'll do about sleeping arrangements for the coming few weeks, when he hears the child erupt into a screaming cry.
He springs to work, grabbing the already heated milk from the stovetop and bringing the new bottle with him so he can comfort the infant if it's what it needs.
Killian sits beside the lump of blankets and pillows and lifts the child, whose fussing comes to hiccups as he settles him into his arms.
He frowns at the baby. "'s that all?"
He doesn't enjoy holding the child. It's awkward and uncomfortable and it reminds him all too much of a past he'd very much like to forget, so he sets the boy down again and is greeted by his wails once more.
He growls a little, shaking his head.
"You don't understand," Killian says sternly. "I can't hold you."
For a moment, they're sitting there in a stare-off of sorts, and Killian locks his jaw, shaking his head again before opening his mouth to reprimand the shrieking child when his bedroom door opens.
His gaze shifts immediately to the woman, who looks pale and sickly, leaning against the door jamb with all of her weight.
He stands, holding his arms out as she staggers a little.
She swallows and opens her mouth, looking down at the screaming bundle of flailing limbs on the couch.
Killian hastily lifts the boy into his hold to quiet him again and it works. It's overwhelming to hear his cries, to say the least, and when he moves to go to her, she follows him with her emerald eyes.
"Where am I?" she asks, voice wavering.
He shakes his head. "Don't worry yourself with that. You need to get back into bed."
Killian sets the child down with a wince of anticipation, receiving what he prepared for when the child bursts out in upset. He herds the woman back into the room and watches her cautiously as she limps back to the bed.
She groans and pain creases her forehead when she lies back down. "I heard... crying."
He nods and somehow tucks her back in under the blankets.
"Aye. Apologies. The child appears to have quite the set of lungs." She blinks a few times and he finds himself without words. "Is he… um, yours?"
The woman shakes her head, wincing a little. "No."
Killian runs his eyes down to the base of the bed and shakes his head again, a sigh slipping from his lips at the development. He looks back to her face.
"I'm Emma."
Killian hesitates, shifting a bit on his feet while he examines her sick face. He doesn't know what to do about her. She's clearly running a fever and it's not like he can force her to rest if she doesn't want to.
"Emma, why don't you get some sleep? You don't look well."
She scoffs, closing her eyes. "There was a storm and I fell from the top deck of the ship. I think I broke my leg."
She winces, then reaches down to pull the blankets away.
Bloody maddening woman.
She examines the leg with pain written in her features and he mentally groans, because he certainly is no doctor and she's stranded here with him for another few weeks.
"I could... try and set it," he tells her quietly. Her gaze flits over to him and he sees apprehension in those solid green eyes. "I set many bones in my time in the navy."
She studies him for a second before falling back with a loud sigh.
"Fine."
He eyes her warily, unmoving.
From the other room, the child is still screeching and sobbing and it's making his blood boil angrily, because he is no longer on his own. He no longer has the stability and security of being by himself. He has two people, two needy people, that he's responsible for.
In all of his time as caretaker of the lighthouse, it's been task after task and menial chores, followed by drinking and television- if the damn satellite worked.
It gets lonely, but he's better that way. He can't hurt anyone if he's by himself.
As his hand settles against her bare leg, he searches for the break. He gives her no warning, which in hindsight was a bloody awful idea, and she screams when he sets the bone with a loud crack.
Two screaming strangers in his tiny home on an island in the middle of nowhere. Bloody perfect.