A/N: Yes, I know. It's been awhile yet again. Slowly but surely, right?

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


Chapter 34

She was going to do it. She was going to say it.

She wanted a kid.

Emma paced the length of the cabin, arms crossed under her breasts, eyes staring sightlessly at the bed or the wall, whichever way she happened to be facing. There was no need to be dramatic about it. She just needed to say it.

But how did she say it?

There was a way to say it. There had to be. Something this big had to be special, didn't it?

God, she sucked at special.

Killian was the one who made things special. He was the one who slow danced with her on deck for the anniversary of their first date. He was the one who bought her a gallon of strawberries despite the fact that they were out of season. He was the one who took her night swimming in a hidden lagoon on a forgotten island. He was the one who added a swan pendant to his necklace just for her.

She woke him up in the middle of the night to have sex.

That was as romantic and special as she got (not that he seemed to mind).

Emma wasn't a romantic person. She wasn't soft. She wasn't sweet. She was practical. She was thoughtful. She bought him a new leather coat when his ripped. She sharpened his cutlass when she noticed it was starting to dull. She let him cuddle her until it felt like he was trying to smother her.

Emma Swan didn't do big, special, dramatic announcements, but just saying it felt wrong. You just didn't tell your True Love that you wanted to have a baby without a tiny bit fanfare.

Right?

"Get a grip, Swan," she mumbled, raising a hand to rub her forehead. God, she was actually giving herself a headache. "It's not that big a deal."

Oh, but it was.

The sound of the hatch opening made her stiffen. Each of his footsteps on the stairs made her heart beat faster and her stomach flutter. She could do this. All she had to do was get it out there. Just pluck up the courage, say it, and then wait for him to smile and probably twirl her around. She knew how much he wanted this.

But nerves welled in her anyway when she saw his boots on the stairs. Dear god, she couldn't do this. Yes, she could. She wanted this. She did. For her. And him. But not just for him. That was important.

But maybe she could . . . no, no, goddammit, she was doing this.

Emma squared her shoulders as Killian came into view. "Killian, I—what happened?"

Thoughts of children left her as she took him in. His hair was ruffled, far too ruffled for mere wind to be the cause. His hair was nearly standing on end from having pulled at it, and his face was drawn in a troubled expression that she'd rarely seen in their two years together. It immediately had her heart clenching in worry.

"Killian?" She crossed the room until she was right in front him, placing a hand on the side of his face. "What's wrong?"

Killian stared at her, torn with an inner struggle she couldn't read, until he finally said, "Milah."

Despite her best intentions, Emma felt her walls shudder. Jealousy flared in her stomach, and she swallowed, whether to hold in whatever she might say or prepare herself for whatever Killian might reveal. In her gut, she knew she wouldn't like it either way. "What happened?" she repeated.

"She's in love with me, Swan."

"I know."

"She wants to run away with me."

Emma frowned. "What happened" she repeated, her voice quieter, slightly hesitant.

Killian immediately sought to soothe her. "Nothing you're thinking, love," he said firmly, his hand caressing her cheek. "We're True Love, you and I. I will never know or care for another like I do for you."

They didn't bring it up often, the whole "True Love" thing. Mainly because Emma thought it was cliché. Something out of a storybook. But in times like these, when she felt insecure, she relished hearing it. She liked thinking that it was fate that they were together, that they were soulmates, that there was literally no one who could love her like him.

"I know," she assured him, and he nodded.

His hand went to his hair, grasping and pulling as he walked away from her. He needed to think. He needed to move. "She wants to run away, Swan," he said. "But not like you'd think. She just wants to be free."

"What about her son?"

Killian flinched. "I know."

"She can't leave him."

Though part of him hated himself for it, Killian said, "He'd still have his father."

Emma's eyes widened. "That's not enough."

"Do you really think that's true, or are you saying that because of your own parents?"

"What?"

"They abandoned you. Both of them."

"So?" Emma snapped. "That doesn't mean that a kid doesn't need both parents."

"But what if that relationship is flawed, Swan? What if it's toxic?"

"Just because she doesn't love her husband, doesn't make their relationship toxic."

"But it's a lie," Killian insisted. "It's a bloody farce, Swan, and you know it. She hates him."

"A child needs its mother."

"Emma—"

"Would your mother have abandoned you?" Emma demanded. "Even if she was miserable, even if she hated your father, would she have left you?"

Killian's eyes narrowed. "You're walking a fine line, love," he warned, but Emma shook her head.

"She wouldn't have left," she said. "She wouldn't have left you for a second. I wouldn't have left," she added, her voice strained. "Even if I didn't love you, I would stay. Because every kid deserves both parents."

Killian sighed heavily. "Emma," he said, pained.

"I know," she assured him. "Not everyone is us," she said. With more confidence that she ever would have known herself to possess two years ago, Emma closed the distance between them to place both her hands on his chest, closing her eyes when he bent his head toward hers until their foreheads met. "I . . . I know you and Milah have a connection," she said reluctantly. "I know that you understand her, that she understands you—"

"Not like you, darling," Killian interrupted, feeling as if it was important that he make that clear. "No one understands me like you do."

Emma smiled faintly, cupping his cheek. "And I love you for it," she said. "For trusting me. So believe me when I say that we can't let her just leave."

Killian sighed. "Aye, but I know her, love," he said. "If I don't take her away from here, she'll find someone else. Some bastard like Blackbeard. And then who is to blame?"

Emma didn't have an answer.


Milah knew the moment that Killian and Emma walked into the tavern the next night that she had caused some strife for the couple. Both were far more subdued than usual, Killian especially. She didn't think that she had ever seen him so outwardly brooding and dark since she'd met him. Even Emma's touch seemed to do nothing. In fact, as the night progressed, Milah thought that it only served to make Killian more upset.

She thought she should feel guilty for the trouble she'd caused, but she could only think that perhaps this would secure her desires. Killian was clearly troubled, and she knew it was because he wanted to help her. He understood her. He knew why she needed to leave.

It was Emma that kept him from making a decision.

The night felt like a farce. When Killian could be troubled to smile, it was a slight twitch of his lips, hardly the dashing grins she was used to. Emma, always the quieter of the two, was practically silent, spending most of her time with Vincent and occasionally trading a few murmured words. Worse was the crew, as if sensing the discontent in its Captain and Mistress, mimicked them until the atmosphere in the tavern was downright sullen. The songs they sang were slow and soft instead of quick and loud. The music they played was equally sad and soothing, and the shouts of joy at the gambling tables were lessened to nothing more than chuckles.

And it finally made Milah snap.

Whether it was genuine frustration or a lingering feeling of guilt, she stood up from the table where she sat with Killian who was steadily emptying a bottle of rum. She didn't check to see if he noticed her absence. She was focused on Emma noticing her approach.

And the blonde certainly did. Sharp green eyes immediately snapped to her the second she moved, so quick that Milah suspected Emma had been watching her out of the corner of her eye the entire night. It was something that truly irritated her about Killian's lover. Emma Swan wasn't afraid of confrontation, but at the same time, she avoided it until it was inevitable.

Milah much preferred avoiding such nonsense.

She had a problem, and she was going to bloody well deal with it.

"Do you mind if I sit?" she asked, pausing at the bench opposite Emma's table.

Emma glanced at Vincent. "Give us a few minutes?"

"Aye, lass."

Milah held the boy's gaze when he briefly met her eyes, almost as if to warn her against upsetting Emma, something that Milah nearly scoffed at until she realized just how serious the lad was. "I'll be back with another round," he promised, shooting one last look at Emma before heading for the bar.

Seeing his absence as her invitation, Milah took a seat at the table opposite Emma. She kept her hands clasped but on the table between them, an open gesture meant to combat Emma's defensive posture. The other woman sat hunched over the table, arms folded, while she kept her face perfectly blank.

Milah shifted. "You think I'm making a mistake," she said.

"Yeah, I do." Emma didn't bother denying it. Milah hadn't expected her to. "You can't just leave, Milah," she said. "It's not right, and it's not fair."

"To whom?"

"To your family. Your son."

"And what about me?" Milah insisted. "Why is it always a woman's job, her expectation, to make such personal sacrifices? She loses her name, she loses her dreams, she loses her independence. She gains a new name, and she bears children to carry on that name. That is a woman's life, Emma. There's no thought to woman's dreams, here."

Emma hated that she sympathized. Her travels with Killian had made it clear that she was living a life of untold freedom. She went where she wanted, did what she wanted. More importantly, she was with a man who wanted her to want things and took a ridiculous amount of joy from seeing those desires fulfilled. She was spoiled, something she had never been before in her life until now.

Life in the Enchanted Forest, for a woman like her, for a woman like Milah, could so easily be confining and smothering. People lived a simple life here with very simple roles and desires. Most women she met were content with those roles. They were happy being a wife. They were happy being a mother. And they had no want or desire for more.

Emma understood that. She didn't feel the same way, but she understood it.

But Milah? A woman like Milah could never be content with such a simple life.

And Emma couldn't blame her.

"Look, I . . ." she sighed. "I know you're right. You do deserve to do something for yourself. If you want to travel and see the world, great. I get it. And I get wanting to escape a situation where you feel trapped, like you don't belong . . . but I . . . you can't leave Bae."

"Because you were abandoned?"

"What?"

"Killian didn't tell me," Milah assured, "if that's what you're worried about."

Emma leaned back. "I know he wouldn't say anything," she said. "How did you figure it out?"

"Anyone this adamant must have personal experience."

"My experience doesn't matter. Or maybe it does. All I know is that it hurts, Milah," she said. "It hurts to know you weren't good enough, that something about you drove them away."

Milah frowned. "Bae has nothing to do with me leaving."

"He won't see it that way."

"You don't know that. And he has his father. He won't be alone."

Emma wanted to argue. She was stubborn enough to argue on principle alone, and she very nearly did. But she resolutely clenched her jaw like Killian so often did and stayed silent. Milah would not change her mind, and Emma knew it. She and Milah were much alike in the sense that once their minds were set, there was no swaying them.

Yet this left Emma in a bind. She knew Killian wanted to help Milah. Despite the fact that he didn't agree with her, despite the fact that he never would have done the same, Killian still understood. Emma understood, too. She did. But where Killian was willing to bend, she was resolute. She couldn't let Milah leave her son. She couldn't agree that it was okay.

Emma took a consoling sip of rum, relishing the burn and the warmth that settled in her chest. She met Milah's dark gaze for a long moment. The older woman was so much like Killian, and in the end, Emma knew that her opinion, ultimately, wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Milah was too stubborn, too driven, too tenacious to fold. If she couldn't find passage on the Jolly, she would find another ship. Killian was right in that regard.

So, in the end, despite the fact that every fiber of her being rebelled at the idea, Emma quietly admitted to herself that if Milah was determined to leave, she couldn't deny her passage for the sake of her conscience. It was Milah's choice. It was Milah's life. It was Milah's child.

"I don't agree with you," she said eventually. "At all. But I can't force you to stay here, just as I can't keep you from leaving. That's not my right."

Milah barely kept the smile from her face. Oh, she wanted to laugh! She bit her tongue. "Thank you," she said.

"I'll tell Killian. We plan to leave the day after tomorrow. Early."

"I'll be ready."

Emma nodded and rose without another word, taking her bottle of rum with her as she crossed the tavern to where Killian sat with Bee, Wallace, and a handful of the crew. A pair of loaded die sat in the middle of the table next to a pile of gold and silver pieces. Each man held two cards in their hands, and Emma had no doubt that each of them had more cards up their sleeves. She supposed it wasn't really cheating when everyone refused to play fair.

Two years with Killian and the Jolly and she still didn't have a grasp on the rules of the game. There were certain rolls of the die that were better for some cards and worse for others, and the point system made no sense to her. In some ways it reminded her of a mutation of poker and backgammon. Killian understood it at least, well enough to out-cheat the rest of the crew as he abruptly grinned and threw down his cards with one had while he slid the coins toward him, laughing while everyone else groaned and cursed.

"Swan!" he said, holding out his arm and offering her his knee. Emma sat, her arm sliding around his shoulders, and he inwardly relaxed, his smile as he counted his winnings melting into something easier, more genuine. "With you here for luck, I'll surely win the next round."

Killian thought that perhaps he'd misinterpreted Emma's actions as a truce when she didn't smirk back at him as he expected, a quip on her delectable lips. He watched as she glanced at the men and asked them for a moment alone. Though a few grumbled, they did as asked, and any other time, Killian would have felt pleased (possibly proud) knowing that his Swan had become so firmly a part of his life both as a man and as a captain.

Instead, he frowned as he looked up at her reluctant eyes. "I talked with Milah," she said without prelude. "I told her to be at the docks the day after tomorrow."

Killian felt his jaw drop. He blinked. "Pardon?"

Emma sighed. "I know."

"But, Swan . . ."

"I can't dictate someone's life just because I don't agree with her choices, Killian. So, yeah."

Killian studied her for a moment, shocked and cautiously pleased. He'd never expected Emma to give in. His Swan was stubborn, and he loved that about her, that she was as willful as the sea he sailed, but Emma rarely admitted defeat. And that's what this was for her, he knew. But she'd accepted it anyway, and he was proud.

"Alright, then," he said with the smallest of smiles. "We'll take her as far as Port Royal. Anna Maria is there often enough."

Emma nearly shuddered at the thought of what mischief Anna Maria and Milah could get into together, but she couldn't deny that the two women would get on like a house on fire so long as they were willing to compromise. "That's not a bad idea," she said.

"It happens on occasion." He kissed under her jaw. "Now, please tell me this blasted tension between us is resolved," he said. "I've had a headache all day and rum isn't helping."

Emma's lips twitched. "Well," she said as she leaned closer. "I may know a way to fix that," she said, smiling wider when Killian hummed.

"Really, now?"

"Yeah, really."

"So, what do you say we blow this Popsicle stand?"

"Hey, you used that one right!"

"It's not my fault your bloody metaphors make no sense," he complained before looking at her, pleased as punch, "but I catch on pretty quick, you'll find."

From her place across the bar, Milah watched them leave, hands intertwined. "One more day," she said into her rum. "One more day."


The next night, Milah came to the tavern determined to have a good time. She'd gotten into an argument with Rumple about her frequent goings to such a den of depravity. He was worried about what the villagers would think of her, of how that could reflect on their son. Milah thought that a tired, hard-working mother wanting to unwind after a long day wasn't such a horrible thing.

And, perhaps, she had felt some measure of guilt knowing that tonight was her last night in town, that tomorrow morning Bae would wake up to find her gone, that he'd likely be so very confused. She'd written a letter to him. Emma's words had weighed on her conscience long into the night until she'd written out an explanation to Bae, promising him that she would return for him, that they had adventures just waiting for them. He only needed to wait a little longer.

The note was a comforting warmth in her pocket as she spent the evening dancing and drinking and cheating at cards. Killian and his crew were making the most of their final day in port, and even Emma—by far always the more subdued of the bunch—danced a jig on a tabletop with Vincent that had everyone stomping and cheering, and once Emma was off the table—catcalling—as Killian swept forward in three strides and bent her backwards in a kiss that was borderline indecent. Milah was in such a fine mood that the display only made her wish they would find a room for their own sakes.

As the night wound down, the sailors settled into quieter past times. Cards were brought out. Gold and silver were gambled. Milah sat next to Killian with her own cards, listening carefully as he explained to her the rules of the game and betting the appropriate pieces. She had no money but was instead playing with Killian's cards, which she had initially balked at, as she had no desire to use his money for her own gain, but Killian had given her that sweet grin of his and called it a going-away present.

The night was passing so well that Milah supposed she should have known it would go straight to shit.

She had just won her first hand all on her own to a chorus of cheers and drinks when she heard an all too familiar smooth, if weak voice, "Milah." Everyone near quieted but Milah didn't look up. She could just imagine him standing there, both hands on his staff in his nerves, eyes wide and timid—gentle, really, when she was feeling kind—and it made her stomach roil. He couldn't be here. Not now. Not tonight. "It's time to go," Rumple said.

"Good," she said, pouring another drink. Aware now of both her husband's eyes and Killian's, and oh she didn't want Rumple anywhere near Killian! He wasn't allowed to be here, where she felt so free and new and young. He wasn't allowed to be here where Killian could see him, judge him, judge her . . . "By all means, leave."

Killian took in Rumple—clutching his staff, wrapped in a dirty brown cloak that hid threadbare clothes—and felt a small sense of pity. It was entirely Emma's influence, as he knew that once upon a time he would not have given a rat's arse about the man that Milah would abandon—for that was obviously who it was, and Killian wished that Emma had picked a better time to go man-hunting with Vincent.

He glanced from Rumple to Milah. "Who's this?" he asked. It was polite. Or petty. He wasn't sure which.

Milah, however, was undoubtedly cruel. "Who? Him? Oh, he's no one. Just my husband."

There were a few laughs. Killian didn't laugh, particularly when Bee said, "I thought he'd be taller." More laughs.

"Please." Rumple's voice was soft. "You have responsibilities."

"You mean like being a man?" All of Milah's resentment somehow managed to be conveyed in just six words. She stared at her husband searchingly. Why couldn't he have been brave? Why couldn't he have fought? Why couldn't he have died? That would have been better for everyone. "Like fighting in the Ogre Wars? Other women became widows while I became latched to the village coward." Killian wouldn't have run. Killian would have fought. Killian would have won. Why couldn't Rumple have been like Killian? "I need a break," she muttered, pouring herself a drink. Did she need a break or to drown her guilt? "Run home, Rumple. It's what you're good at."

There. He would go now. He wasn't supposed to be here. Here, where she was young and free and saying goodbye.

"Mama?"

A little boy with wild, wavy brown hair and sweet brown eyes took a hesitant step toward the table.

"Bae?" Rumple cried softly. "You were supposed to wait outside, son."

No. No, no, no. He wasn't supposed to be here. She . . . no, they both couldn't be here. Milah rose without a thought, her note burning in her pocket. Get him out, get him out. She kept that thought firmly in her mind as she gently led Bae out of the tavern and briskly walked home, each and every hobble and thud from Rumple's staff behind her feeling like the beat of a war drum.

"It's time for bed, love," she said once they were home, but Bae was hesitant.

"Are you angry with me?"

She caressed his cheek. "No, Bae. I'm not angry with you. You've done nothing wrong."

"You're upset."

"I'm just tired is all," she said. "Now, go to sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow."

She had walked home fast enough to leave Rumple far behind, a petty trick but one she was glad for as she could now meet him outside and keep their argument from reaching Bae's ears. Rumple was out of breath as he limped toward her. He didn't even have the decency to look angry about it, but she had anger enough for the both of them.

"How dare you," she hissed. "What did you think you were doing, bringing him to a tavern?"

"I didn't want him to be alone."

"Don't give me that. I don't believe you. No, you've always been a conniving one. You wanted him to follow you into that tavern so that I would come home."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true!"

"Who was that man?"

"What?"

"That man in the tavern, the one in black."

Milah laughed, low and mocking. "Oh, this is rich. This is rich. You're jealous."

"I saw you with him."

"Yes, I imagine so. He was right there."

"Not tonight. A few nights past. He walked you home."

"Yes, gentlemen are known to do that."

"You were wearing his coat."

"It was cold."

"Did you think of Bae?"

"What?"

"People in the village will talk . . ."

Milah scowled. "Let them," she challenged. "Let them talk. I don't care. They're all pathetic gossips with hardly a brain to share between them all, and you're a fool for caring what they think of me. You worry about what they think of you." She looked at him in disgust. "I'm going to bed. See you in the morning."

She took great satisfaction knowing that was a lie.


"You're quiet."

"Hm?"

Killian looked over at Emma, who lay on her side in bed, a hand propping up her head as she watched him flip through the ledger and do the same sums she knew he'd done two days ago. A glass of rum sat untouched in front of him, and there was a furrow in his brow that she wanted to smooth with her finger. "What are you thinking about?" she asked. "Did I miss something?"

Killian abruptly tossed down his pen and reached for his drink. "That's putting it lightly," he said before taking a healthy sip. "Milah's husband showed up not long after you left with Vincent."

Emma sat up. "He what?"

"And Bae was with him."

"What?" Emma frowned. "Do you think—?"

Killian shook his head. "I don't know."

"If she changes her mind, then—"

"She won't," he interrupted. "She won't change her mind. This will only make her more determined to leave."

Emma sighed and flopped back onto the bed. Killian came over quietly, his boots scuffing against the floor. He sat down next to her and picked up her hand, lacing their fingers together. He turned their hands this way and that, as if admiring how they looked from all angles, but Emma knew he was only thinking. Finally, he admitted, "Swan, I've got a bad feeling about this one."

She squeezed his hand.

"Me too."


Yeah, they're both right about that.

I'm so sorry this is getting to you after two months. This story is still a struggle for me, despite my best efforts, but I'm trying. And I'll continue to try, I promise.

Thank you so much for your patience.

Quote from next chapter comes from . . . Rumple . . . "Pardon, I must have the wrong ship."

Lots of love,

AC