Author's note:

Sorry for the delay! Normally I aim to update my stories on Mondays, but I had a busy week (and it will be rather busy in the next days, so I might be a bit irregular. Wanderer of Worlds will update soon, too. I am not yet entirely happy with the next chapter for it, this one here came a lot easier. I know people are waiting, you will get a new chapter, I promise :) Until then, I hope you enjoy this chapter as well (I know I did - I like injured, suffering pirates, okay?!).

Charity Case

Crelest had always had a gift.

She knew what people needed. Not what they wanted, no. But what they needed. And she had a way of making people realise what they needed. It was something she had always known how to do, even when she was but a little girl. She had soon realised it gave her an enormous advantage, one she had learned to use. Giving people what they needed inspired them to give her what she wanted. No sense for charity.

Crelest was no longer a child but her gift had stayed. And she still used it. It was a gift that had proven surprisingly handy in her line of work. Fulfilling desires most men – and women – didn't even know they had made her talk of the town. Highly in demand. Although no one would ever admit that they sought out the services of the woman, sooner or later they all found their way to her. For her, it meant powerful friends at important places, information that could mean trouble for a number of people, and – because a lady with a lot of information lived in danger of having her life cut short around here – protection. For herself and the girls she had under her wings.

Crelest was a whore. She didn't bother sugar coat it, she was not ashamed of what she did. On the contrary, she walked the streets of The Cove proudly, head held high, a smile for those that meant her well and those that meant her ill all the same. She was the untouchable. Even though people did indeed touch her, no one could actually claim to know her. The woman with many faces.

The Cove, the only major city in Neverland, was a pit of everything ugly and sinful and very well worth hating. In a world where no one grew old, this place was the equivalent to hell. The place where souls went to rot when their childlike innocence was gone. The place where Peter Pan dumped those he had no use for anymore. How she had found her way here, she could not remember, but one thing was true: once you end up in The Cove, you will not leave alive.

The city of pirates and thieves, prostitution and dark superstitions. The stinking streets crowding with filthy travellers, gipsy witches, gamblers and whores, skull and crossbones flags waving over every single ship in the large port of The Cove.

She spent most of her days in the tavern, serving beer and stew to travellers, overseeing the pleasurable company of the girls she coordinated. Six girls in total. On the rare occasions when Crelest had to go to the market herself, she was frowned upon by the oh so upstanding citizens, mostly their wives who deemed her an abominable human being. She smiled it off, knowing that their husbands would seek her out to get their unmet needs fulfilled. Crelest did no longer walk the streets for money, she had outgrown that. By now, she had legitimate clients. She was being booked for at least an hour, paid beforehand, and she could make her own schedule so long as she earned the needed share of cash in one night.

She had seen the new ship arrive this afternoon when she had gone to the market. Another vessel full of unfortunate souls trapped on this godforsaken Island. A ship sailing under no flag, which gave many people cause for rumours and concerns. But she hardly bothered. She would learn who they were soon enough. Men who had been at see a long time usually found their way to a whorehouse rather sooner than later so that evening she looked out for new faces in the tavern. But she lost interest quickly as the travellers did not seem to have the money or the time to waste on pleasurable company.

It was not until late that night, when her last client had left, that Crelest would find herself outside the tavern for a smoke. It was a cool night, rain was falling and most people had retreated inside. Most, but not all. There seemed to always be time to rough up someone's night. She heard the fight around the corner but did not bother to look. It sounded like someone was being terribly beaten up by at least four men and after a while, these four walked out of the alley and spotted the woman leaning against the wall.

"Evening Ma'am." one greeted with a grin, tipping his hat to her. "You wouldn't have company to spare?"

"My night's over. And even if it wasn't, I doubt you could afford me." She replied coolly, blowing smoke in his face. He coughed a little and took a step towards her, clearly insulted. His breath smelled of rum.

"Watch out there, maybe next time I'll use you as a punching bag." he growled.

"Maybe. Or maybe I'll sell your liver to a witch."

He looked down. A thin sharp dagger was pointing at his stomach and he took a step back.

"Whore!"

"Damn straight." Crelest confirmed. The three other men pushed him along, since there was no gain for them here anyways and she watched as they wandered off. She finished her cigarette, then tossed it into a puddle. Then she looked into the alley the men had just left. There was hardly any light, but she could see the figure of a man on the floor, he wasn't moving. She was weighing her options for a good minute before she gathered her skirts and walked closer to the miserable figure in the dark. When she got close enough to assess his state, she stopped and watched him silently. A sad picture of a man, beaten up, his face bloody and bruised, his dark hair wet from the rain and dishevelled from the fight. He held a broken bottle in one hand and a shining silver hook in the other. But all the weapons in the world clearly didn't do you any good if you were drunk and up against four bullies.

He was a stranger. She had not seen him in the Cove before and that sparked her interest. Had he arrived with the ship? The sea surrounded him, so she assumed that he was indeed a sailor.

For a moment she did consider leaving him there for the dogs. She had already turned on her heel when her conscience kicked in. She sighed and turned back, hands on her hips.

"Hey sailor."

He looked up. Good, so at least he was awake. He opened his eyes and even in the dim light of the alley she could tell they were the most irritating blue she had ever seen. The eyes that could do wonders for a face – even if he was beaten up and clearly hadn't shaved in a while, those were eyes that made him undeniably handsome. He eyed her up, inspecting her appearance. The cheap, dark purple skirt, the hem dirty and wet from the muddy street. A dark corsage framing her upper body, no blouse under it but a shawl over her bare shoulders to keep away the cold. Long black curls fell over her left shoulder, she had a simple, adorned comb tucked into them, was wearing big but probably cheap earrings. Her lips were bright red in her pale face, her light blue eyes framed with dark kohl.

A weak smirk appeared on his face.

"If you hope I will pay for any of your so-called services, I must disappoint."

She raised both brows.

"If you hope I will let you enjoy any of my so-called services, then I must disappoint."

She turned to leave. Who did he think he was, to look down on her? Big, rude words from a man lying in the gutter. But as she tried to leave, she was suddenly pulled back because her skirt was caught on something. She turned to see that he had pinned down the hem with the hook he was holding.

No. Not holding. It took her a moment to realise that the hook was his hand. She looked from where the tool had pierced her skirt to his face. "Did you just punch a hole in my skirt?"

"I'm sorry." He apologized. It was hard to tell if he apologized for the skirt or for the rude words before.

"You should be. Who are you to insult me?"

He shrugged weakly.

"A pirate…"

"Pirate? You are a pathetic drunk, that's what you are." She corrected. He fell silent, staring into the darkness before him. Again with her quick tongue! She felt bad already when she saw it, when she realised that it had been exactly what he had wanted to hear. She sighed, then went down to take the broken bottle from his hand. He had cut himself; blood was on the sleeves of his black shirt. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up, hm?"

"Just leave me here. I don't need your help." He growled. She placed a hand on his cheek and made him look at her.

"Yes, you do. You very much do need my help. You don't want my help. There's a difference." She said softly. He stared at her, irritated for the briefest second because for some reason the way she spoke – the tone of her voice, the way her lips moved, her choice of words – was familiar. Reminded him painfully of the very woman he had just lost. A trick of his mind. It had to be. The rum making fun of him, making him believe that this woman could in any way be like Milah when really, no woman ever could. Certainly not a common whore in the streets of the Cove. "Now come on, on your feet!" She ordered and pulled him to his feet. She could tell his leg was hurt, she had to support him as they left the alley and turned to the tavern. She pushed open the door. The tavern was almost completely abandoned, the girls had retired for the night and the bar was closed – it only was for about four hours of the night, before the first people already arrived for the morning drink. She took him upstairs, down a corridor and to her room. It was not a particularly big room, consisting mostly of a bed, wardrobe, and a small oven to keep out the cold. The bathroom was one she shared with the girls. She placed the pirate on the floor.

"You will wait here, don't move unless it is to take off your clothes. You are filthy and smelly and I don't want that on my bed or my clothes. I will be right back. Don't get any ideas!"

"I won't. You're not my type anyways…"

"Honey, I am everyone's type." She corrected him by the door, then closed it behind her. He stayed behind in silence and didn't move for a moment. Then he slowly sat up. He was hurting. His ribs were stinging with pain, so was his leg and he didn't even want to think about his face right now. But what was worse, so much worse, was the pain in his left hand. His hand that wasn't there anymore, but it felt like it was and it was in pain. Pain he couldn't ease because there was nothing there. So much pain that he actually wanted to cut it off again just so the pain would stop. The last few days at sea, on their way here, how often had he intuitively tried to clench his fist? Tried to scratch the back of his hand? Only to find it gone. Replacing it with the hook had calmed him a bit but still, the pain was real and at night, when he took off the hook to sleep, it was almost driving him mad. He couldn't even remember the last time he had slept through a night. Oh… yes he could. It had been when Milah had still slept next to him. Just knowing she was there was all he needed to sleep – the warmth of her body, the beating of her heart next to his, her breath on his skin…

He took off his coat and tried to open the red brocade vest but he was struggling. Like he had struggled so much in those past days. It was infuriating how much one relied on a second hand. He was practically useless without it! He even had trouble putting on shoes, or eating. The only thing he could do like it was seared into his very existence was steer his ship. He was quite sure by now that even if he were blinded, had his second hand and both legs cut off, he'd still be able to sail. Somehow.

When he looked up from his thoughts and his struggle, he found Milah sitting next to him, her smile that made him smile. Her voice when she said: "It's because you were born with the sea in your blood, love."

He was pulled back to reality when the door opened and the whore returned – and Milah was gone, which hurt just as much as it had the first time. He turned towards the woman. She carried a bowl of water, had a piece of cloth over her shoulders, bandages and a bottle of alcohol in the other hand. She put it all down, then turned towards him.

"Still dressed?" she asked.

"Can't wait to get me naked?" he promptly replied with a weak smirk, but moving his face hurt like hell. She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Why do all men think their naked body is the most glorious thing to ever happen to a woman…" she mumbled to herself, then went to her knees next to him, helped him take off his vest and his shirt. Underneath, he was wearing a number of leather straps on his shoulders that stabilized the hook over the stump where his hand had once been. Her gaze wandered to the hook automatically. "Fresh, isn't it?"

"Why would you say that?"

"You're slow. You're not used to it yet. So I guess you only lost it recently."

He evaded her gaze and she waited a moment, before she sighed. "May I take it off?"

"No." he snapped.

"Have you had someone look at it? Someone with medical knowledge? The wound could get infected and you'd die a gruesome death. Trust me, I've seen what happens when the fever starts eating your flesh, when your meat starts to rot while you're still alive. It is not pretty."

"You have medical knowledge?" he asked sceptically, almost something like amusement in his voice.

"My father was a physician. He taught me one or the other thing."

He flinched. Well didn't that sound familiar? Much like Milah. Her father had been a physician, too. A physician, who had been drafted to the war and died there while trying to save injured men on the front. He died a hero. And then Milah had ended up marrying a coward. It had never surprised him that she had been so disappointed in the Crocodile. And after all these years, he was still a coward. And Milah would ask the same, wouldn't she? Ask to see the wound, so she could make sure he was going to be alright. "Well if you don't care, that's fine. But then leave, I don't want you dying in my room."

"Fine, take it off. Whatever…" he mumbled, more to himself. She nodded, then slowly helped him take off his black shirt. His skin was badly bruised, she could practically watch his chest turn blue and she could see him flinch every time he moved. But she was as careful as she possibly could. Then she opened the straps, took off the Frame with the hook and inspected the stump. He looked away. Refused to look at it and it just confirmed what she already assumed. It was recent.

It had been chopped off clean. Probably one swift move, like they cut off the hands of thieves in Agrabah. The skin had trouble healing, probably because he kept it in the frame most of the time, it was red, oozing, looked hastily stitched, and just from looking at it she could feel the itch.

"Who did this?" she asked. He turned towards her with a perplexed expression.

"What?"

"Someone treated it. Who?"

"A crewmember." He replied monotonously. For a moment he had thought she asked who had taken his hand. And his mind had been blown back to that day on board his ship. To the laughing daemon crocodile that had cut off his hand and ripped out the heart of the woman he loved. Taken more from him than he had even thought possible.

"Have you removed the thread?"

"Not yet."

She inspected it again, this time closer and he flinched when he felt her pull his skin. She didn't let him irritate her.

"I can't take them out just yet, but I need to clean it, just to be on the safe side."

"Do what you want." he replied with a shrug. Pretending he didn't care but she knew he did. Because he still refused to look at it.

She took the piece of cloth, soaked it in the clear liquor.

"This will hurt like a bitch." She said. She didn't even bother to say it nicely, because it would be exactly as painful as it sounded and what was the point in telling him otherwise? She began cleaning the cut and stitches and she could see him grit his teeth, clench his other fist in an attempt to distract himself from the pain. "It'll get better, you know. But sooner or later you'll have to look at it. It's part of you now, it's part of who you are."

"What business is it of yours?!" he snapped at her. Intensely defensive when it came to his hand. It didn't surprise her. It was exactly the reaction she had expected from someone with such an injury.

"None." She replied with a shrug. "How did it happen?"

"Again, none of your business."

"I kind of want to know if I am harbouring a fugitive who had his hand cut off for trying to steal from the Sultan or if you are just an idiot who fell into his own sword."

"Well, no pity." He grumbled.

"You don't need pity. And I don't have the time or patience to listen to you whine about it. You will find no pity here."

He turned to look at her.

She was the first to say this to him. His crew was tiptoeing around him like he was Humpty Dumpty balancing on the wall and would fall and shatter at the slightest disturbance. Smee was the worst. He looked at him like he was a beaten dog, defeated, the loser. Exactly like he felt and that was infuriating. Probably that was the reason why he had picked a fight tonight. He wanted people who didn't care who he was or what had happened. Everything just to escape those gazes full of pity. In a way she was right. He didn't need pity. It was the very, very last thing he needed.

"You don't know what I need." He finally said. She looked up from her work and met his gaze.

"I know exactly what you need."

"I need revenge!" he declared through gritted teeth. She smiled.

"You want revenge. What you need is something very different. You'll see one day. Not today. Not next year. But one day, you'll see."

He watched her work, mystified by her words.

"You're a strange one." He declared. He saw the corners of her mouth twitch up into a smile.

"I've been called worse."

"What's your name?"

"Crelest." She quickly replied. He raised a brow.

"Your real name. Not your street name."

She looked up again, with a smirk to rival his own.

"You'll have to earn that."

He flinched again, had almost forgotten the painful work she was doing. It was odd how familiar it felt to be here. Something about her – Crelest – that reminded him so much of Milah. Yet others things that were completely off about her. "You still haven't told me how it happened."

"I'm not a fugitive. Or a thief."

He left it at that. She waited a moment, to make sure he didn't change his mind. Then she shrugged.

"Fair enough. I'll bandage it for now but you have to keep the hook off for a while, so it can heal properly. And find a physician to remove the thread in a few days. Now…"

She took a clean piece of cloth, water and alcohol and turned her attention to his face, cleaning the cuts he had there. They didn't talk while she worked and she was remarkably collected and concentrated even though he was following her every move with his sky blue eyes and he knew from reliable sources that he could be highly distracting when he wanted to. But she was professional after all. She cleaned his face, his good hand, his chest, bandaged him then looked down. "You're going to have to take those off, too."

"You are really insistent that way."

"Nothing I haven't seen before. Off they go!" she ordered. He rolled his eyes. She didn't take no for an answer but was already busy taking off his shoes. He opened his belt, brows in a frown because he was extremely conflicted. Strangely, before Milah he had not given a care in the world to undress for any woman. Now… it did almost feel like betraying her. He had to force himself to categorize Crelest as a physician, hoping to view her as completely neutral and detached from anything remotely sexual. But he was only moderately successful. After all, she was a whore, she did literally earn her living with being sexually desirable and to deny she was a beautiful woman would be an insult to her.

When she noticed he was struggling, she helped him to his feet and literally helped him take off what little was left of his clothes. "Sit." She ordered.

"Yes Ma'am."

She looked up with a smirk, heard the tease in his voice. He sat down on her bed and she could see why he had trouble doing so. There was a deep cut in his left thigh, it looked like there was glass left in it and it was a miracle they had missed the femoral artery (she was actually quite happy she still remembered the term from all those years ago) – he could have easily bled out in that alley, he probably had no idea how close it had been. Great. Blood on her bed after all. She sighed. She reached under her bed and pulled out a leather folder, inside what looked suspiciously like surgical equipment. She took a clean pair of tongs and he raised a brow alarmed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing with those?!" he asked.

"I need to get the glass out. Do you want me to get you milk of the poppy?" she asked, nodding her head to reinforce her opinion that drugs would be appropriate. But he shook his head.

"Just get it over with. Give me something to bite on."

"You don't owe anyone a brave face, you know?"

"Yes, I do." He returned, staring at the wound on his leg. She sighed but did give him a wooden spoon – also in her little toolkit. He drew in several breathes, then took the spoon between his teeth before nodding. She sighed, then sat down next to him. She pulled a corner of the blanket towards them so he could at least cover himself a little, then she poured alcohol over her own hands to clean them, placed the tongs next to her and leaned over him, holding his upper body down with hers.

"Ready?"

She didn't wait for him to reply but pulled open the cut with three fingers and poured fluid into the wound. She could feel his entire body tense, could only imagine the pain, was almost sure she heard the wooden spoon crack a bit under his bite. And she wasn't even halfway there. Calmly, perfectly concentrated, she cleaned the wound and then she saw it, a large shard of glass. She put away the alcohol and took the tongs. Without a word she reached into the wound, as careful as she could, increasing pressure on both his leg and his upper body to keep him steady. She was increasingly impressed. She had expected she would need at least another two girls to hold him down. But then again, a man who had just lost his hand did probably have a certain resistance to pain. She got a hold of the shard and removed it carefully. There was some blood, but it was a manageable amount. He had been incredibly lucky! She put away the tongs, cleaned the wound again. Checked if there was more glass. Removed it. And after three rounds, she was sure she had gotten it all. She got a rough needle and thread, the best she had available here – nothing like what her father used to work with but it would have to do. It took eight stitched to close the cut, then she looked up. "Whoever you owe that bravery to, they better be worth it."

He didn't reply, looked a bit pale and it was a miracle he hadn't fallen unconscious. She wrapped a bandage around his thigh, very stable and professional and so tight he was quite sure his leg would fall off. But the pressure numbed the pain and he guessed that was the idea. Finally he managed to take the spoon out of his mouth, his teeth deeply marked into it.

"She is." He replied in a shaky voice.

Crelest smiled weakly.

"Of course she is." She replied. Of course. A woman. That would have been a first – a handsome, available pirate. Experience showed they were either hideous enough to make one question their sexual orientation, or they were pretty but in fact married with kids. There was no in-between. She sat up, took his legs and pulled them up onto the bed so he had to lie down on her pillow. The she turned towards him.

"Anything else hurt? While we're at it?"

"Just my pride." He sighed. She smirked.

"Oh from what I've seen I dare say your pride is intact." She replied. He forced his lips up to a smirk that would have come more easily if he weren't actually exhausted. "I didn't even ask: What's your name?"

He looked up with those disarming blue eyes.

"Killian. Killian Jones." He replied. She smiled brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead.

"Well then. Rest, Killian Jones. And try not to get in trouble again? Next time, there might not be a charitable whore around to patch you up. And we both know you don't want to die, don't we?" she said. She reached over, actually pulled the blanket over him and then got up to leave the room with his dirty clothes. When he was alone, he raised the stump, where his left hand used to be. Now cleaned and neatly bandaged. And the first time he actually looked at it.