Chapter Text
Milah glances up from her work as the door opens. The woman who walks in has the same fearful expression as all the others. The same death grip on her purse handle. The same nervous energy, as if standing still makes her anxious and she wants to be constantly checking over her shoulder. Milah looks away again and resumes her typing. No matter how many times she sees it, that look never fails to break her heart.
“I, um, I need a place to stay,” the woman says, almost uncertainly. Her voice is quiet, and in response so is Ruby’s. Milah tunes out the conversation between her colleague and the new arrival until she hears Ruby ask the woman’s name.
“Belle Gold,” comes the reluctant answer and Milah’s head snaps up at the name. This time she looks, really looks, at the other woman, though she knows that appearances won’t confirm anything. With her wide green eyes and dark wavy hair, Belle reminds Milah of her own younger self. If they really had married the same man, it seemed he had a type. Milah stands from her desk and approaches the other two.
“Hello,” she says, offering Belle a warm smile. “My name’s Milah. I can show you to your room.” For a split second, she thinks that Ruby is going to argue, going to make the same connection she has and accuse her of being unprofessional. A conflict of interest, as the lawyers would say. But of course she doesn’t - she doesn’t know the name of Milah’s ex.
Milah asks the standard questions as she leads Belle down the hall.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Have you eaten recently?”
“Is anyone likely to come look for you here?”
She doesn’t pry, she would never, but she tries to read deeper than usual into the answers, looking for some sort of hint. Belle, like most others, doesn’t volunteer much information. The most personal thing Belle says is when Milah asks if there’s anything else she needs.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a book, would you?” It’s a simple enough request, but Belle suggests it as if it’s too much to ask.
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Milah’s shift ends not long after Belle has settled in. The whole drive home, Milah can’t get the thought of the younger woman out of her head. If Belle is really who she thinks she is… Well, she isn’t quite sure what. But it bothers her. She thinks of Belle, standing in the same place she did, with the same fear and the same haunted look, for exactly the same reason, and it bothers her.
She’s quiet and on edge all throughout dinner. So much so that her husband notices, judging by the worried looks he keeps sending across the table. She insists, almost snappishly, on being the one to clean the dishes afterwards. But once the kitchen is sparkling clean and the next day's lunches are packed and the kids are in bed, Milah can’t hide herself in busywork anymore.
“Something’s bothering you,” Killian observes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Yes. Regardless of how she’d been avoiding this moment, she does want to talk to him. But… “Not without a beer,” she says, heading to the fridge. “Want one?”
“Sure.” She hands him a can before popping open her own. They settle onto the couch and she takes the first few sips of beer to collect her thoughts.
“I think my ex-husband got married again. And I think he’s been abusing his new wife.” Milah’s been holding her posture tall and stiff since they sat down, as she always does under stress, and Killian freezes in turn at her words. Then, he reaches out and takes her hands in his.
“And what makes you think that?” he asks.
“A woman checked into the shelter tonight. With his last name.” Killian rubs his thumbs gently across her knuckles, waiting for her to finish the thought, to voice why this has rattled her so badly. Waiting, but not impatient.
Finally, Milah speaks. “I’d hoped that it would end with me. I’d hoped that when I left and when I got custody of Neal, it would be a wake-up call for him. I thought maybe he would realize he was wrong and either be better next time or stay single forever.” A tear slides down her face, but she smiles, trying to laugh it away. “How foolish, right?”
Killian’s eyes are soft as he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not foolish at all.”
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Milah wakes in the middle of the night with a deep sense of unease, like something is terribly wrong. Killian is sleeping soundly next to her and she stands carefully, silent so as not to wake him.
She moves mechanically through the house, as if in a daze. The lights are all off, she notes. Her eyes scan the floor, looking for anything out of place. The empty kitchen sink is a sigh of relief, though, somewhere in the rational part of her mind, she remembers doing the dishes.
But there!
In the living room, the two beer cans from earlier still sit on the coffee table.
Milah crosses the room quickly to pick them up, glad she remembered in time.
“Milah?” She starles, heart pounding at the sound of her name. She feels like a deer in the headlights as she turns to see Killian standing behind her. “What are you doing up this late?”
“I forgot to pick up the beer cans,” she explains, and she can hear how hollow her voice sounds.
“That’s ok, love. I don’t care about the beer cans.”
“I should have remembered,” she insists, without really meaning to, as Killian takes a step forward.
“It can wait until morning.” He cautiously reaches forward and grabs the cans, tapping lightly at her fingers with his own to encourage her to let go. Milah blinks at the contact, starting to come back to her senses. She's been acting not on decisions she's consciously making, but on instincts honed in her ex-husband's home. She reliquishes the cans. The metallic clink of Killian setting them back on the coffee table brings her fully back to reality.
“It can wait until morning,” she echoes, her voice back to normal. Killian smiles at her and wraps an arm around her shoulders.
“That’s right, love.”
“You don’t care about the beer cans.” Once again Milah repeats Killian’s words back to him. “I don’t think I do either.” Now that she's thinking clearly, Milah knows that neither of them care about beer cans left in the living room. And she knows why she got up to clean anyway. It's not in her nature to be bothered by a mess left out overnight. If she's sleeping, it's not like she's going to see it. A fact for which her ex, who liked to wake up to a clean house, would always call her a filthy slob.
Suddenly exhausted, she sags against Killian's side, needing to be held. He gives her a comforting squeeze. “Great!” he says, trying to sound cheerful despite the tremor in his voice. “Let’s go back to bed, then.”
When they’ve climbed back up the stairs and back into their bed, Milah curls close to Killian. He holds her tight, stroking her hair, and says, “it’s been a while since something like this happened.”
“Yes,” Milah agrees. Her mind is swirling with too many thoughts - Killian’s concern, her skittishness, memories of what just days ago had felt like another life. For nearly eight years she’d managed to push past everything that happened, to move on with her life. But now old pains were resurfacing.