Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The port town of Havenmere was the kind of place that smelled like fish, sweat, and possibility. Nestled between sloping cliffs and a treacherous reef, it had always served as a pit stop for sailors who needed repairs, rest, or something less legal. It wasn’t beautiful, not in any traditional sense, but to Captain Killian Jones, it was reliable — and just unpredictable enough to be interesting.

Killian’s boots clicked across the uneven boards of the dock, his long coat whipping behind him in the breeze. His ship, The Jolly Roger, bobbed gently in the harbor, battle-scarred and proud. He hadn’t even tied off yet when Smee came stumbling down the gangplank, red-faced and wheezing.

“Cap’n,” he puffed, clutching his side. “Bit of a… situation.”

Killian narrowed his eyes. “What kind of situation, Mr. Smee?”

Smee tilted slightly, wincing. “Sort of the bleeding-from-a-sword-wound-in-my-side sort, if I’m honest.”

Killian blinked, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “Bloody hell, Smee, what happened?”

“Nothing fatal! Just — well, I may have jostled a few dockhands playing dice and one of them didn’t take kindly to my luck. Or my face.”

Killian peered at the crimson stain darkening Smee’s shirt. It wasn’t pouring blood anymore, but it wasn’t a scratch either. “You’re a damn fool.”

“That’s why you keep me around, sir.”

“Debatable,” Killian muttered, then scanned the bustling docks. “You’ll need a healer. And unless you’d like to bleed on my deck, you’re getting one before you step foot back aboard.”

“I heard tell,” Smee said, sucking in a breath as he stumbled after Killian, “there’s someone nearby. A woman. Strange sort. Doesn’t charge much and works quick.”

That caught Killian’s attention. Not the price — the word strange. He liked strange. It usually meant useful.

They found her at the edge of the market square, tucked into a crooked little shack that looked more like a chicken coop than a clinic. A hand-painted sign hung above the door:
“Need Fixing? Come In.”

Inside, the scent of herbs and smoke blanketed the room. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of odd-colored salves, strips of cloth, rusted tools, and half-melted candles. It looked like chaos, but there was a method in it. Every item had a place. Every surface was clean.

And then there was her.

You stood behind a battered worktable, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fingers stained with something dark and medicinal. Your hair was pulled back loosely, though strands kept falling in your face. You didn’t glance up when the bell above the door jingled.

“Sit,” you said simply, pointing to a stool.

Smee hesitated. “Me?”

“No, the other bleeding idiot behind you,” you snapped. “Yes, you.”

Killian smirked.

As Smee waddled to the stool, groaning dramatically, you finally looked up — and noticed the man behind him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black and leather and arrogance. You knew a pirate when you saw one. And this one looked like he actually washed.

“Captain?” you asked coolly.

He raised a brow. “You always treat your patients this charmingly?”

You hummed, inspecting Smee’s wound. “Only the ones dumb enough to get stabbed over dice.”

You cleaned the cut briskly, hands steady and practiced. Killian watched you work, arms folded. You moved with precision — clearly trained, or at least dangerously experienced. There was something sharp about you, like a scalpel: elegant, exact, but not to be underestimated.

“Where’d you learn this?” Killian asked, nodding toward your tools.

“Here. There.” You shrugged, applying pressure to Smee’s side. He yelped. “Ships. Battlefields. A monastery once. Picked it up as I went.”

“Resourceful,” he said.

“Cheap,” you corrected, reaching for a length of bandage. “Most healers demand coin up front. I just demand you don’t bleed on my floor.”

Killian chuckled, genuinely amused. “What’s your name?”

You paused, considering him carefully. His charm wasn’t false — it was dangerous. But he didn’t leer or press.

“Y/N,” you said simply.

He repeated it under his breath, like testing how it felt. You tried not to notice how nice it sounded from him.

When you finished bandaging Smee’s wound, he beamed up at you like you’d personally brought him back from the brink of death. “You’re a miracle worker, Miss Y/N.”

“Try not to get stabbed again,” you replied flatly.

Killian stepped forward, all lazy confidence and pirate grace. “I could use someone like you aboard The Jolly Roger.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re sharp. Quick. You patched up my fool of a first mate without so much as a wince.” He gestured to Smee, who was nodding along enthusiastically. “I’m short a medic. Come with us.”

You stared at him, heart tripping once in your chest.

Go. Run. Leave this place and never look back.

But—
Your hand drifted briefly to your abdomen.

No. Not yet.

“I appreciate the offer,” you said slowly, eyes unreadable. “But I’m not looking to leave. Not today.”

Killian tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask why. Just nodded once.

“Offer stands,” he said quietly. “Should you change your mind.”

With a final glance, he turned and left, Smee hobbling beside him like a very enthusiastic puppy.

You stood alone in the quiet that followed, hand still pressed gently against your belly.

“Not today,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything.

But the wind from the sea whistled through the cracks in your walls — and somewhere deep down, you already knew:

Tomorrow, maybe.

Chapter Text

The sea had always seemed like something out of myth to you. Vast. Untamable. Wild in the kind of way you’d always longed to be. It had called to you before — quietly, subtly, in the low groan of tide-swollen docks or the scent of salt carried on storm winds. But this time, it roared.

You stood before the Jolly Roger, bag over your shoulder, the hem of your coat whipping around your calves as you stared up at her. She was massive. Sleek. Intimidating. Beautiful, in the way knives and wolves were beautiful — all sharp lines and shadow. Just the kind of place a person could disappear.

Killian hadn’t pressed you when you declined his offer the first time. He hadn’t returned to beg you either. But he had left a scrap of parchment tacked to your door the following morning with three words:

“If you’re ready.”

And now, here you were.

With a deep breath, you placed one palm against your belly — a barely-there swell under your thick shirt and layered coat. Just a whisper of a secret. No more than three months along, and already it felt like you were keeping a storm pressed beneath your skin.

“Easy now,” you whispered to it. To them. “Let’s see if we can belong somewhere.”

You climbed aboard.

No one greeted you on the deck, and you were grateful. Killian had likely ordered the crew to give you space. The sails hung limp in the morning calm, but the ship was alive in the quiet — groaning wood, distant creaks, the hum of potential. You walked with purpose, keeping your shoulders squared and your coat pulled close. No one must notice. Not yet.

He met you near the helm.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” Killian said with a knowing smirk, arms crossed casually, like he hadn’t spent the better part of the last hour glancing toward the shore.

“I changed my mind,” you replied, lifting your chin.

“Clearly.” He offered no triumphant grin, no sly comment. Just a nod. “You’re welcome aboard. Your bunk’s below deck. First door on the left. Private.”

“Thank you.” You paused. “And thank you for not asking why.”

He smiled — not smug, not sly. Soft. Like he knew exactly what silence could mean to someone like you. “Everyone’s running from something. The ship doesn’t ask. Neither do I.”

And just like that, it was done. You were no longer a woman standing on the dock. You were crew.

You descended the narrow staircase into the belly of the ship, fingers grazing the railing, taking in every step, every sound. The thrum of motion underfoot. The echo of waves kissing wood.

Your bunk was small — a cot, a sea chest, a worn oil lamp bolted to the wall — but it was yours. More than the room above the clinic had ever been. You placed your bag on the cot and, when you were sure you were alone, let yourself sag onto the edge of it, head in your hands.

A secret stowed away.

You couldn’t keep it hidden forever. The ocean might have been wide, but it was still a ship. Close quarters. Too many eyes. You just needed time — time to prove yourself, to carve a place here, before the truth came out.

Your hand drifted to your stomach again, tracing the outline of your own uncertainty.

And then the memory crept in — bitter and black and unwelcome.

⸻

FLASHBACK

The bar had smelled of cheap rum and dirty men. You’d worked there for nearly a year — slinging drinks, patching brawls, keeping your head down. It was the kind of place no one asked questions, because everyone had something to hide.

But your boss had noticed you.

Not in the way you wanted. Not in the way anyone should ever be noticed.

He was quiet at first — compliments whispered too close to your ear, lingering touches disguised as guidance. You brushed them off, told yourself you were imagining it. But then came the locked room. The grip too tight. The mouth too close. The fear, thick and hot and paralyzing.

You had screamed.

No one came.

Afterward, you scrubbed your skin until it burned. You told no one. Because what could you say that would matter in a place like that? He had power. You had nothing. Not even bruises. Just silence.

Weeks later, when your stomach turned sour and your body changed, you’d known. And you’d nearly been sick from more than just morning sickness.

You considered leaving then. But where would you go?

It wasn’t until Killian Jones walked into your clinic with blood on his boots and freedom in his voice that you remembered what it felt like to want more.

And now here you were.

⸻

You blinked back into the present, eyes stinging. The lamp flickered low beside your cot. You didn’t cry. You hadn’t cried in months. There hadn’t been time for it.

Instead, you stood.

You unpacked. You folded your clothes. You placed your kit on the shelf with practiced care — herbs, bandages, needles, tinctures. Everything in its place.

Because order made sense. Because healing meant you could still do something. Even when your own wounds were stitched together with silence.

Above deck, you could hear footsteps — the crew, no doubt. Voices, laughter, the sounds of life. You weren’t ready to meet them. Not yet. Not today.

But you would.

Tomorrow.

⸻

You placed a hand on your belly one last time and whispered:

“You’re safe now. I promise.”

The sea rocked the ship gently beneath you — a lullaby for the lost.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, that promise might be real.

Chapter Text

You had expected the first few days aboard the Jolly Roger to be quiet. Maybe tense. Maybe worse. You were the only woman on a ship full of pirates — a walking secret with an unspoken past stitched beneath your ribs. But instead of side-eyes or whispered suspicions, you were met with something far more disarming.

Respect.

It started with small things. A mug of water left by your door the morning after your first night. A clean cloth someone hung up beside your bunk. A soft knock before anyone entered your cabin — not once, but always.

And then, the crew.

They came slowly, like animals testing the waters.

First was Smee — of course. Already mended from his dice-related injury, he seemed determined to be your unofficial guide to life at sea. He showed you how to brace yourself against the ship’s sway when lifting things, taught you which stairs creaked like tattletales, and even offered you the better bread rolls during meals with a sheepish grin.

“You get used to it,” he told you one afternoon as you sat in the shade of the quarterdeck, working through your herb supplies. “The movement. The noise. The men yelling all the time. I’ve been with the captain for years now. He doesn’t say it much, but he chooses good people.”

You raised a brow. “Pirates.”

Smee chuckled. “Sure. But good ones.”

Then came the others.

There was Torren, the ship’s quartermaster. A tall, olive-skinned man with a shaven head, covered in faded tattoos that told stories you hadn’t yet asked about. He spoke sparingly and with a low, even voice — like thunder before a storm. But you caught him watching you work once, as you cleaned a rusted blade wound for one of the younger sailors.

“Steady hands,” he said simply, nodding once in approval. “You’ll keep us alive.”

Jasper, the navigator, was the youngest of the lot — wiry, excitable, and constantly humming. He asked you questions constantly. About how poultices worked. About how babies were made. About whether you’d ever seen a kraken (“not yet,” you said, and he looked disappointed).

He was quickly joined by Bren, the burly deckhand with a belly laugh and a love of gambling. You caught him once helping the cook without being asked, and once again carving tiny animal shapes into spare bits of wood. He insisted it wasn’t “soft,” but you noticed he tucked a tiny wooden fox under your pillow after a particularly rough night at sea.

And then there was Malley, the lookout — lean, quiet, and full of dry humor. He’d toss out casual jokes as he passed, always just enough to make you smile but never enough to draw attention.

“I see you’ve got sea legs,” he said one day as you hauled a barrel of fresh water into the galley.

“Do I?”

“You’re not green anymore. That’s the first step. Next you’ll be cursing and spitting like the rest of us.”

You rolled your eyes. “How charming.”

He gave a faint grin. “You’re one of us now. Whether you want to be or not.”

That hit you harder than expected.

One of them.

You hadn’t realized how starved you’d been for something like this — not safety, not just security, but belonging. These men didn’t leer. They didn’t isolate. They didn’t whisper when you passed. They made space for you without making you prove anything first.

Even Killian — though rarely around during the day — seemed quietly aware of how you were settling in. You caught him watching from the helm sometimes, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as you scolded Smee for trying to “disinfect” a splinter with rum. He said little, but his presence was grounding. Like a compass fixed to true north.

Still, your secret weighed on you.

You moved with calculated ease, careful never to bend too much at the waist, always wearing loose layers. You bathed alone in the late hours when the deck was quiet, pressing gentle fingers to your belly each night in the dark.

Three months. Almost four.

The swell was beginning — faint but undeniable. You’d caught your reflection in the polished metal of a lantern and paused, hand ghosting over the small curve.

Not much time left.

But you didn’t think about that now. Not when Smee was calling for your help in the galley again (“someone’s burned their hand and also half the beans!”), not when Bren insisted you teach him how to wrap a proper bandage, not when Jasper dropped another wildly inappropriate question and everyone howled with laughter as you hit him with a spoon.

You hadn’t laughed like this in years.

And when Smee passed you a hot cup of tea later that night, smiling shyly as he sat beside you at the stern and swung his feet over the edge like a child, you didn’t look away.

“You ever think,” he said, staring out at the sea, “that the people you find are more important than where you go?”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He was older than most of the crew, with crinkles around his eyes and a soft roundness to him — not just in shape, but in spirit. A kind man in a hard world.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think that’s exactly right.”

Smee beamed. “Well, don’t worry. We’ve found you. You’re ours now.”

You smiled, letting your head rest gently against the rail, the wind teasing your hair.

Maybe the ocean hadn’t just swallowed your past.

Maybe it was giving you something back.

Chapter Text

Killian Jones had captained many crews in his lifetime.

He’d seen brutes and bastards, poets and cowards, thieves with hands like silk and sailors with fists like cannons. He had learned long ago how to read a man with a glance — how to spot weakness or fire, how to smell fear or trouble before it ever reached the deck.

But you? You were different.

He hadn’t known what to expect when you stepped aboard the Jolly Roger. He had offered you the position not out of pity, nor strategy, but because something in the set of your shoulders told him you belonged at sea — or perhaps needed it more than most.

And now, in the days since you’d arrived, he’d found himself… watching.

Not with suspicion.

Not even with caution.

But with something quieter. Something far more dangerous.

Admiration.

You moved like someone who had nothing to prove, but everything to protect. You never barked orders, never raised your voice. But when someone was hurt, yours was the only voice that mattered.

He had seen you stop Bren from trying to rip a fishhook out of his own palm by gripping his shoulder and saying, “You’ll do far less damage if you let me.” Bren, a man who had once broken a barrel with his bare hands during a drunken bet, had sat down immediately like a schoolboy.

You had calm in your veins and steel in your spine.

And damn it all if the crew didn’t work smoother with you around.

They were rowdy still, loud and wild as all good pirates should be — but something about you softened them. Kept them sharper. They laughed more. Ate better. Fought less.

Even Smee had stopped dropping things.

Killian stood at the helm most mornings, hand on the wheel, watching you below as you moved between crates or sat cross-legged on the deck, grinding herbs for salves. He noticed the way Torren made sure you never lifted anything too heavy. How Malley would hang around a beat longer when you were working, quiet but close. How Jasper’s jokes had started to circle around you like a protective ring of noise.

You were already theirs. And whether you knew it or not, you were already his.

But he hadn’t said as much. Not yet.

It wasn’t just your skill that intrigued him — though it helped. It was the way you listened. You watched storms with the reverence of someone who understood their fury. You laughed with the crew, but never too loud. And in the quiet hours of the evening, you often stood near the edge of the deck, eyes scanning the horizon with something too heavy to be simple longing.

Tonight was no different.

The stars were out, scattered like spilled salt across the dark. The wind had settled to a gentle hush, and the sails swelled like the breath of something sleeping. Killian stood at the helm, his posture casual, one hand resting on the railing.

Below, you stood at the starboard rail, your back half-turned, your face lit faintly by the moon. You were wearing that oversized coat again — the one you’d arrived in. He didn’t miss the way you sometimes pulled it tighter when no one was looking. Or how your hands would rest, just briefly, against your lower belly when you thought yourself alone.

He hadn’t asked.

He wouldn’t. Not until you came to him.

But he knew something was being carried. Something private. Sacred.

And yet, none of it changed what he saw in you.

You looked up suddenly and caught him watching.

He expected you to look away. Most people did when they met his eyes.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you raised a brow. “Keeping an eye on me, Captain?”

He smirked. “Always.”

You tilted your head, playful but not cruel. “Planning to throw me overboard if I miscount the bandages again?”

“Not unless you miscount the rum.”

You laughed — soft, genuine. The sound pulled something loose in his chest.

“Fair enough,” you said, stepping toward him. “But you’ll have to take that up with Smee. He’s been stealing extra for the stew.”

“I knew it,” Killian muttered under his breath.

You stopped beside him at the helm, close enough that he caught the scent of clove and pine from your hair — some healing oil, probably. Something meant for wounds, not for drawing the captain of a pirate ship to distraction.

You leaned your elbows on the rail. “So… do you always lurk from the shadows like this? Or am I just lucky?”

“I call it captaining,” he said smoothly. “It just happens to involve shadows. And occasionally admiring skilled crewmates who’ve managed to wrangle my misfits better than I ever could.”

You looked over at him, eyes catching the starlight. “You think I’ve wrangled them?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “They’re all half in love with you.”

“And you?”

He blinked — not expecting it, not so soon. But your smile softened the blow.

“I mean,” you added quickly, brushing a hand through your hair, “do you think I’ve done well?”

Killian let the corner of his mouth turn up. “Better than well.”

You nodded, looking away. A shadow passed over your face — subtle, fleeting, but real.

He wanted to ask. About the way you rarely touched your food unless Smee made it. About the shadows beneath your eyes. About the secret you carried like a locked locket behind your ribs.

But instead, he asked nothing.

Just stood beside you, watching the waves roll out beneath the stars.

You didn’t move either.

For a while, the silence was good.

Not the brittle kind that followed grief or fear — but the kind that came when two people stood side by side and didn’t need to fill the space.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “You’ll be all right here, you know.”

You glanced at him.

“I mean it,” he said. “Whatever you’re carrying — you’re safe now. And not just because I said so. Because they’ve claimed you.”

You swallowed, throat working against a knot of something old.

He watched your jaw tighten, then release.

Then you gave a small nod.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I just… hope it lasts.”

He wanted to promise that it would. That nothing would ever harm you again. But the sea made fools of men who made promises they couldn’t keep.

So instead, he said the only thing he could.

“Then we’ll fight to make it so.”

You looked at him.

And for the first time since you stepped aboard, your guard dropped — just a little. Enough for him to glimpse something fragile behind your steady calm.

Enough to know he would protect it.

No matter what.

Chapter Text

The ship slept like a beast in calm waters, all soft creaks and rhythmic breathing, the wind gentled to a lullaby against the sails. Somewhere below deck, the crew snored in mismatched harmony — the kind of coarse symphony only pirates could manage. But above, on the deck kissed silver by moonlight, you found peace.

It had become a ritual, these stolen hours of solitude. After the meals were done, the wounds checked, the laughter dimmed. You would pull your coat tighter around your growing belly — still small enough to hide, but not for long — and slip up to the main deck, barefoot sometimes, to feel the grooved wood beneath your feet. You walked the length of the ship with slow, even steps. Let the sound of the sea rinse your mind of the day.

Salt in your lungs. Stars above your head. Stillness inside your bones.

Here, you were just a woman at sea. No past. No pain. No one asking questions you didn’t want to answer.

And yet…

You weren’t alone tonight.

“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?”

You didn’t startle. You’d felt him before you heard him — the subtle hush of boots, the faint shift in the air.

Killian stepped into the moonlight like he belonged there. The dark of his coat open, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his hook glinting as he crossed the deck toward you. His hair was loose tonight, ruffled by the breeze, and his eyes — always sharp, always watching — looked softer somehow in the dark.

“I could say the same, Captain,” you murmured, turning your gaze back to the sea.

“Ah, but I’m the brooding type,” he said, stepping beside you. “Pirates are expected to haunt their own ships like ghosts.”

You gave a soft laugh at that. “Then what does that make me?”

He glanced at you sidelong. “A mystery.”

You said nothing for a moment. Just leaned against the rail, fingers curling around the cool wood.

He didn’t press.

He didn’t have to.

The silence stretched again, companionable this time. The waves lapped gently at the hull. Above you, the moon hung full and pale, draping the sea in silver. For a while, there were no words.

Then, quietly, Killian spoke.

“I used to walk like this every night. Alone. Back before the crew. Back before… everything.”

You glanced at him. His eyes were distant, searching something only he could see.

“There was someone,” he said, voice careful. “Her name was Milah. She was fierce. Stubborn. Always called me out when I deserved it. Loved the sea like it ran in her blood.”

You listened in stillness, letting him offer the memory without judgment.

“She was taken from me.” His jaw tightened. “Years ago. By a man who thought power made him a god.”

There was venom in his voice now, bitter and buried. But then it faded, leaving only something worn behind — grief long carried, sharpened to something manageable.

“She loved the stars,” he added more softly. “Said they were the only thing that stayed still when the rest of the world moved.”

You looked up at them, your hand unconsciously resting over the curve of your belly.

“They’re constant,” you agreed. “Even when you aren’t.”

He turned to look at you, curious.

You hesitated — words pooling on your tongue like stones you hadn’t meant to spill. The sea made people speak. Maybe that was why you came out here every night — to hope someone might.

“I… used to believe that peace was a place,” you said at last. “A cottage. A quiet life. Somewhere no one knew my name.”

Killian was silent beside you.

“But now I wonder if peace isn’t a place at all,” you continued. “Maybe it’s a person. Or a moment. Something small that doesn’t ask anything from you.”

He studied you, but didn’t pry. His gaze was steady, open.

You turned to him, searching his expression in the moonlight. “Why did you really let me on this ship?”

His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed.

“Because you looked like someone who needed a way out,” he said simply. “And because I trust my gut. It told me you were stronger than you looked.”

A pause.

“And because you stitched Smee’s ear back together without flinching,” he added with a smirk.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “He was very brave about it.”

“He screamed like a banshee.”

You laughed harder now, the sound pulled from you by surprise — unguarded and real. Killian’s grin widened, eyes crinkling.

“You’re good with them,” he said, more softly now. “The crew. They listen to you.”

“I think they just like the way I boss them around.”

“Well, they respond better to you than to me.”

“That’s because I don’t yell.”

“That’s because you have all your limbs,” he countered, raising his hook with dramatic flair.

You laughed again, and this time it felt easier — like the ache you always carried had loosened a little.

He turned his body toward you then, leaning against the rail fully. The breeze caught his hair, and his eyes searched yours.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said gently. “But if you ever want to… I’ll listen.”

Your throat tightened. Not with fear, not even with sadness — but with something fragile. Gratitude, maybe. Or grief.

“I don’t know how to talk about it,” you admitted, your voice quieter than before. “It still feels like if I say it out loud, it becomes real again.”

Killian nodded, the understanding in his expression near unbearable.

“Then don’t speak it,” he said. “Just let it be yours for a while longer.”

You nodded slowly, eyes burning but dry.

A moment passed.

Then he offered his arm, mock-formal. “Come. Let me escort you to your quarters like a proper gentleman.”

You arched a brow. “Is that what you are?”

He smirked. “For tonight, love.”

And for once, you took his arm.

You let him walk beside you, slow and steady, the silence comfortable now. The deck creaked beneath your feet. The stars wheeled overhead. And something — fragile and flickering — warmed in your chest.

You didn’t know if you could ever tell him everything.

But tonight, you believed you might one day try.

Chapter Text

The cannon fire came just after dawn.

The Jolly Roger had been trailing a merchant vessel with suspicious flags for the better part of a day. Killian had suspected the ship was hiding something — spice trade or possibly stolen gold — but he hadn’t expected it to open fire unprovoked.

Still, pirates adapted.

And the Jolly Roger? She thrived on chaos.

The morning broke in a roar of smoke and splintered wood. The deck erupted in action — men shouting, boots thundering, weapons drawn and teeth bared. Killian’s orders cut through the fray like a whip, and the crew moved as one: practiced, quick, a machine made of sea-worn limbs and stubborn survival.

You, meanwhile, had never moved faster in your life.

By the time the enemy ship had limped into surrender — dragging smoke and shame in its wake — the Jolly Roger was battered but not broken. She’d taken a hard hit to the starboard side and lost a sail, but the men were mostly intact.

Mostly.

“Bring him here! Quickly!” you barked, clearing a space on the deck near the mast.

Bren staggered forward, one arm limp at his side, blood soaking the front of his shirt. Torren followed behind him, cradling a leg wound and trying not to swear loud enough to make the deck blush. Smee had a black eye and what you were fairly certain was a fractured rib, but was still trying to pass out cups of water while limping.

The adrenaline dulled the throb in your lower back. The ache in your legs. The quiet, stretching pressure in your belly that you’d learned to recognize as a warning sign: slow down.

You couldn’t.

Not now.

You tore fabric strips from an old sailcloth for makeshift slings, cleaned wounds with rum (to Torren’s very vocal horror), and kept pressure on a nasty gash across Jasper’s thigh for nearly ten minutes until the bleeding slowed.

“Someone hand me the needle,” you called, pushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “Now.”

Malley passed it to you, wide-eyed.

You didn’t stop to reassure him.

The sun was rising higher now, the sea calm again in the aftermath, as if nothing had happened. The ship creaked with the sound of healing, grumbling, and bandaged groans. The scent of blood and sea salt clung to the deck like smoke.

You tied off the last stitch and let out a slow breath.

Then the world tilted.

Just a little.

Enough.

The corner of your vision went white. A roar of static filled your ears. Your stomach lurched and your knees buckled—but only for a second. You caught yourself on the railing and blinked hard, forcing the wave of dizziness down.

Not now. Not in front of them. Not when they need me.

You straightened, willed your spine back into place.

“You good, lass?” Smee asked, eyes narrowing.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly. “Just tired. Been on my feet all morning.”

Killian’s voice broke through the din, sharp and clear: “Smee, take over cleaning up. Y/N—rest.”

“I’m not finished—”

“That’s an order.”

You turned, ready to argue, but stopped.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t scolding.

He was looking at you.

Really looking.

His dark brows were drawn low over those sea-glass eyes, not with frustration but concern. His jaw was tight. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword — not out of threat, but like he needed to hold something to keep still.

The moment stretched.

You didn’t argue.

Instead, you turned and walked to the edge of the deck where the railing curved into shadow, lowered yourself slowly onto a barrel, and pretended to fiddle with your satchel of supplies.

Killian stood nearby, giving instructions to the others, but you could feel his gaze drifting back to you again and again like a compass needle to true north.

Later, once things had quieted and the wounded were dozing or playing dice in a circle of complaints, he came to sit beside you.

“You’re not fine.”

You didn’t look at him. “It was a long morning.”

“You nearly fainted.”

“I didn’t.”

“Nearly.”

You breathed in through your nose, sharp and steady.

He waited. Patient. Silent.

Eventually, you said, “I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He didn’t ask more. Didn’t press. But something passed between you — an unspoken knowledge that he’d seen it. That he knew something was off.

Still, he didn’t call you out.

And that silence — that choice — made you ache more than any wound.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re too good for this ship.”

You looked at him finally.

His smile was small. “You could’ve gone anywhere with your skills. Become someone respectable. Healer to a noble family. Surgeon in a royal fleet. And instead, you’re here. Fixing the likes of us.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I like the chaos.”

“Or maybe you needed a place no one would ask questions.”

Your heart stuttered.

He didn’t say it cruelly. There was no edge in it, only truth — spoken gently. Without judgment.

Your throat tightened.

He turned his head toward the sea. “I won’t ask. Not yet. But whatever storm you’re running from, just know—” he glanced at you then, eyes darker than before, “—you don’t have to weather it alone.”

The words lodged in your chest like a harpoon. Not painful. Just deep.

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

He stood slowly, offering you his hand. You took it. His fingers were warm.

He helped you to your feet with a strength that was steady but not overbearing.

“Get some rest,” he said. “Smee’s already telling everyone you saved his life again.”

You rolled your eyes. “I stitched his eyebrow.”

“He nearly died of dramatic exaggeration.”

You smiled, small but genuine.

And for a moment, as he walked you toward the captain’s quarters — just to make sure you got there safely, he said — you allowed yourself to imagine what it might feel like to tell him.

Not now. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Chapter Text

The sky split like a wound.

Thunder cracked so loud it made your ribs rattle, and the Jolly Roger groaned beneath your feet as she cut through the towering waves. Rain lashed across the deck in sheets, slicing sideways with needle-like fury. The ropes snapped like whips overhead, sails flapping and shrieking in protest.

Killian shouted commands over the roar, his voice hoarse with salt and urgency. “Brace the mainsail! Torren, grab that line—Malley, don’t you let go!”

You were soaked to the bone, every inch of you screaming with the cold. You clung to the railing with one hand, the other gripping your satchel tight to your chest. Your knuckles were white. You’d already checked on the wounded — Bren had a gash across his cheek and Smee had a bloody nose from being slammed into a crate, but nothing life-threatening. Not yet.

But the storm was still young.

You tried to move toward the steps leading below deck, shouting something no one heard, when the ship pitched sideways with a sickening lurch. Your boots slipped. The world spun.

Your back hit the deck, hard. Then your shoulder. You rolled, dazed, heart thundering, and felt the sting of wood tearing skin along your forearm. Before you could regain your footing, a second jolt slammed into you — the ship rearing up, and your body flying back down.

Everything went black.

⸻

You woke to warmth.

Not heat. Not fire. But warmth, gentle and steady, against your skin — soft fabric, dry clothes. A dim room. Candlelight flickering across polished wood and the faint scent of aged rum and sea air.

Killian’s quarters.

You blinked slowly, disoriented, heart pounding. The storm still howled outside, muffled now by the thick hull and walls. You tried to sit up.

“Easy.”

His voice was soft — lower than usual, almost careful.

You turned your head and saw him beside you, seated in a worn chair. His coat was gone, sleeves rolled up, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. His expression was unreadable — storm-dark eyes watching you with that quiet intensity that always made it hard to breathe.

“What happened?” you croaked.

“You fell. Hit the deck hard.” He held up a small tin of salve. “Cracked your head, bruised your ribs. Nothing broken, but it was close.”

You reached up instinctively and felt the bandage near your temple. Then the dull ache in your side caught up with you, blooming with every breath.

“I was trying to get below deck,” you muttered.

He raised a brow. “In a storm like that?”

You gave a weak smile. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He didn’t smile back. Not yet.

Instead, he dipped a cloth into the warm water basin and gently touched it to the scrape on your cheek. You flinched, but he paused, waiting until you relaxed again. His hands were steady. Always steady.

And then—

Then he reached for the hem of your drenched shirt.

“I need to check your ribs,” he said quietly. “I’ll be quick.”

You hesitated.

You didn’t dare move.

The shirt clung to your skin — soaked and cold — and beneath it, your secret had grown harder to hide. The small swell of your stomach had rounded over the last week, not yet obvious in your usual layers, but unmistakable now, soaked and stretched as the fabric clung like a second skin.

Still, your hands were too weak to stop him. Your thoughts too slow to lie.

So you let him lift the fabric — just enough.

His eyes flicked to the bruises on your side, his jaw tightening. But it wasn’t the bruises that made his breath catch. You saw it.

Just for a second.

That flicker.

That subtle widening of his eyes. His hand froze mid-motion. His lips parted as if to speak — and then closed again.

The room went very still.

But he said nothing.

Not a word.

Instead, he gently lowered the shirt back down and reached for the blanket at your feet.

“Rest,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re safe.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too dazed, too sore, too wrapped in the shock of the storm and the warmth of his room and the silence that now felt too deep.

He tucked the blanket around you and stood, watching you for a long moment.

You turned your head, eyes fluttering shut. Sleep came quickly — heavy and full of salt and sea.

You didn’t see him step away to the window.

Didn’t see the way he dragged a hand through his hair.

Didn’t hear the breath he let out, slow and tight.

Or the quiet words he muttered to himself:

“Bloody hell… what are you running from, love?”

Chapter Text

The morning after the storm dawned deceptively gentle.

The sea, now calm, glimmered with early light, the sky soft with streaks of rose and silver. The Jolly Roger rocked with the rhythm of a lullaby instead of battle drums. The crew was quiet — not somber, but tired — bruises bandaged, sails mended, everything smelling of salt and fresh rope.

Below deck, Killian’s quarters remained dim. The curtains were drawn, the air thick with warmth and a faint trace of his cologne — leather, sea, and spiced rum.

Y/N stood barefoot on the wooden floor, pulling one of Killian’s spare shirts down over her torso. It smelled like him — a fact she ignored. The shirt was long, comfortable, and just loose enough to drape past the gentle round of her belly. But when she reached for her trousers, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror mounted by the wall.

She froze.

The shirt clung to her abdomen in the morning light, revealing more than it hid. She slid on the trousers as she continued to look.

The swell was unmistakable now. Not large, but no longer deniable — the gentle roundness where there used to be flat lines. Her hands hovered there for a moment, then she pulled the shirt tighter and reached for her coat.

Too slow.

The door creaked open.

“Cap—oh—!”

Malley.

The youngest crewmember — barely seventeen and forever eager — froze in the doorway with a fresh loaf of bread clutched in his hands. His blue eyes went wide, darting from her face to her belly, then back again. His mouth opened like it might form a word, but nothing came out.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Malley’s expression flickered from confusion to panic. “I—I’m sorry—Captain said you might be hungry, I didn’t think— I just— I didn’t see anything, I swear, I—!”

She moved.

No thoughts. No explanation. Just motion.

She swept past him before he could finish his sentence, brushing the edge of the doorframe with her shoulder, feet barely touching the floorboards as she fled down the hall.

“Y/N—wait! I won’t say anything—!”

But the damage was done.

Even as she rounded the corner toward the storage hold, she could hear the sound of startled whispers behind her — Malley’s hurried voice, stumbling over an apology, and the distinct shift in tone from other crew nearby. She couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t have to.

They knew.

Or they would.

The air grew tighter as she pushed deeper into the belly of the ship, down the familiar ladder, past the rows of crates and stacked netting, to the dark corner she knew would give her a moment to breathe.

She reached the supply closet, wrenched the door open, and slipped inside. Slamming it shut behind her, she turned the lock with trembling fingers. Her back hit the wooden wall.

And then silence.

No sounds from above. No footsteps. Just the creak of the hull and the beating of her own heart, sharp and loud in her ears.

No thoughts yet.

Not yet.

Just breath.

Just dark.

Chapter Text

The hull creaked gently around her.

The Jolly Roger, battered but steady, groaned like an old tree in the wind as it cut through open waters once more. Somewhere above her, boots thudded lightly against wood. Ropes strained. The faint rustle of sails hummed like distant thunder.

But here — in this narrow sliver of storage tucked between crates of lantern oil and sailcloth — it was dark. Stale. Still.

Y/N sat curled in on herself, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to them, breath shaking.

She didn’t know how long she’d been in the closet.

Minutes. Hours. Time slipped sideways when you were full of grief and the kind of bone-deep fear that could root you to the floor. Her hands trembled in her lap. Her fingernails had dug small crescents into the flesh of her palms. Her throat ached, raw and burning from crying without sound.

She couldn’t cry loudly. Not here. Not with ears above and voices already whispering.

She didn’t deserve their comfort.

Not after lying.

Not after hiding something this big.

Her breath caught in her throat again, sharp and sudden. The sound that came from her was broken — a gasp that collapsed into a silent sob as she folded further in on herself. Her body shook. The salt on her cheeks dried and re-wet over and over as fresh waves came.

They’ll throw me out.

The thought wasn’t rational — not with the way the crew had joked with her, laughed beside her, trusted her in pain and panic — but trauma didn’t know rational. Trauma only remembered the slamming door behind the bar. The way her boss had smiled when she screamed. The silence that followed when she told the owner and was told not to make things messy.

Trauma only knew that no one ever stayed when you needed them to.

No man ever protected what wasn’t his.

No family ever accepted you when you came broken and bruised.

Not truly.

So she stayed.

Still.

Hidden.

Silent, except for the tremble of her breath and the occasional sniffle she bit down hard, as if the sound itself might damn her.

She rested her palm across her belly at one point, too numb to notice when she did it. The soft curve rising beneath her hand wasn’t accusation. It was quiet. Waiting. Still growing despite her world unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the dark, her voice hoarse and tiny. “I’m so sorry, my loves.”

A faint shuffle echoed beyond the door. Someone walked past, paused. She stiffened. Footsteps retreated.

No one knocked. No one called her name.

She was grateful for that. She didn’t want their pity. Not now.

Not when she couldn’t bear to see the change in their eyes — the shift from respect to resentment. From family to liability.

Not when this ship had become the only place she had felt safe in what felt like years.

And now she’d lost it.

All because of the truth she’d tucked away under layers of linen and silence.

Her stomach churned with dread, nausea rising again — whether from stress or the pregnancy, she couldn’t tell. She curled tighter, as if she could make herself small enough to disappear into the cracks of the ship.

The wood beneath her was cold, but familiar.

The ship moved gently, as if unaware that everything inside her had splintered.

The sun passed overhead, and still she did not move.

Not even when she heard Smee’s voice calling softly from somewhere far above, not even when someone else — maybe Torren — asked if anyone had seen her. Not even when Killian’s voice, sharp but controlled, barked an order she couldn’t make out.

She stayed.

And hoped.

Hoped for time. Hoped for courage.

Hoped that when she finally opened the door… the world outside wouldn’t have stopped waiting for her.

Chapter Text

The air in the storage closet had grown heavy.

Y/N had cried herself hollow — not empty, but raw, like a cliff face after a storm. She sat motionless long after the tears dried, clutching her knees, her mind buzzing with what-ifs and worst-case endings. But the silence outside began to shift.

At first, it was footsteps.

Then… noise.

Not shouting. Not raised voices in anger. But movement — a hum of low voices, the scrape of wood, laughter?

It made no sense.

Eventually, her body ached too much to stay curled in place. Her legs had gone numb hours ago, and her back protested as she shifted and slowly stood, leaning against the closet wall to catch her balance. Her eyes were swollen, lashes sticking. Her throat was sore.

Still, her hand hovered near the latch, trembling.

She waited.

Then slowly, cautiously, she unlocked the door and stepped out into the dim corridor.

The lanterns were lit — soft, flickering golden halos guiding her path as she crept up the ladder. Her bare feet made no sound, her breath caught in her throat. Every board creaked louder than it should, but no one turned, no one snapped at her to explain herself.

And when she reached the deck, the world tipped.

Not with judgment.

But with… chaos.

Wood was everywhere — splinters, boards, nails, a hammer mid-swing.

“Hold that steady, will you?” Torren, one of the more serious crewmen, barked good-naturedly at Malley, who was grinning as he fumbled with two uneven slats of cedar. The boy nodded, clearly excited, eyes darting toward Y/N for only a second before turning back to his task. No one stared. No one glared.

They knew.

And yet…

“Captain said it had to be stable enough to survive a hurricane,” muttered Bram, the ship’s quartermaster, as he held up a long piece of railing that had clearly been salvaged from a damaged bit of the deck. “So we’re making the bloody thing sea-worthy.”

“A floating crib?” Smee chuckled from where he sat cross-legged on a coil of rope nearby, two knitting needles clicking away in his weathered hands. A small pile of soft, half-finished baby garments sat in his lap — mostly too tiny to imagine any real human wearing them, but detailed with surprising care. “Well, you never know. Start ‘em young, I say.”

Y/N stood frozen in the shadows of the doorway.

It couldn’t be real.

Just ahead, Halric — the usually gruff cook — was bent over a ledger, muttering to himself.

“Blankets, bottles — wait, do babies drink rum? No. Gods no. Get tea herbs from port. Ask the healer about colic… what is colic?”

Beside him, rough hands were sanding something down. A younger crewman named Peake held up two small, smooth pieces of wood, shaped into gentle curves.

“Made these for ‘em,” he said, proudly. “Rattles. Carved from scrap driftwood. Polished it with oil so there’s no splinters. Even made the holes small enough they can’t choke.”

He spotted her then — just standing there, stunned.

His face lit up, not with guilt, not with awkwardness, but with a crooked smile of pride.

“They’re not done yet,” he offered, voice low. “But they’re gonna be good ones.”

She still couldn’t move.

Smee glanced up then, too, and his eyes softened. He folded one of the half-knit pieces and set it aside.

“Evening, lass,” he said gently, like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t disappeared for half a day.

“We were wondering when you’d come out. Hope you don’t mind we took some initiative. Ship might not be a nursery, but it’s yours as long as you’ll have it.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came.

Just a trembling inhale — not quite a sob, not quite laughter.

The wind tugged at her hair. The deck creaked as another piece of the crib was secured in place. She could still see the bruises on Bram’s knuckles from the last skirmish, the calluses on Smee’s hands, the oil on Peake’s sleeves — pirates, all of them.

Men who fought. Men who stole.

Men who, somehow, were building cradles.

For her children.

One by one, the crew looked her way. Not all at once, not in confrontation — but in small acknowledgments. A nod here. A smile there. No questions. No expectations.

Just… acceptance.

Y/N blinked hard, tears rising again uninvited — but this time, softer. Different.

She took one step forward.

Then another.

Not quite ready to speak.

But no longer needing to hide.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t crying when he found her.

But she wasn’t far from it.

Killian stood at the edge of the quarterdeck, watching her from just beyond the soft spill of lantern light. She sat on a barrel near the mainmast, her fingers absently tracing one of the tiny wooden rattles Peake had proudly presented earlier. Her eyes were distant, wide and watery, and her shoulders were hunched like she’d spent the day bracing for a blow that never came.

He hadn’t interrupted her earlier.

Not when she’d emerged, pale and stunned, and saw the crew building a future for her children without being asked.

Not when Smee had offered her a bundle of half-knit clothing with a crooked little smile.

Not when she’d stood there with her hand resting over her belly, so visibly moved she couldn’t speak.

But now — now she looked alone again. Not hiding, but fragile in a way that tugged hard at something behind his ribs.

Killian moved forward, the wood beneath his boots quiet. She heard him, but didn’t turn.

“I didn’t expect…” she began, then stopped. Her voice was thin, stretched. “I didn’t expect kindness.”

Killian came to stand beside her, one hand resting on the railing as he looked out at the starlit sea. He didn’t answer at first. Just let the silence breathe.

Then, gently, “We don’t deal in expectations much around here.”

She huffed a breath. Not quite a laugh.

“Only in sails and steel?”

“And loyalty,” he said, glancing down at her, eyes soft but steady. “In this crew, no one’s just here for themselves. We fight for each other. Live for each other.”

He paused.

“Bleed for each other, too. You know that firsthand.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight.

“Does that loyalty apply to… surprises?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Depends. You planning to steal the ship?”

She shook her head. Her fingers tightened slightly around the rattle. Then she looked up at him — really looked at him — and the fear was still there, buried deep beneath the surface of her exhaustion. But so was something else: hope. Tenuous and flickering, but real.

“They’re twins,” she said quietly.

The words felt like dropping stones into a still sea.

Killian blinked.

“Twins.”

She nodded, her other hand moving instinctively to cradle the swell of her stomach — barely visible still, but undeniable to the man who’d helped her out of soaked clothes just nights before.

A beat passed.

Then Killian’s lips curved into something wide and warm and completely startled.

“Well, bloody hell,” he breathed. “You’ve been full of secrets, haven’t you?”

“I wasn’t hiding them out of shame,” she said quickly, panicked, before he could continue. “I just… I didn’t know if I’d get to keep them. I didn’t know if I’d be allowed to.”

His face fell just enough for the smile to soften into something far more serious.

He crouched in front of her then, knees creaking slightly, until they were eye to eye. His tone shifted — low and steady, like he was trying to anchor her.

“Y/N,” he said, “listen to me.”

She did.

“You belong here. On this ship. With us.” His eyes flicked to her stomach. “With them.”

He let the next words come slowly, clearly.

“No one gets left behind. Not a sailor. Not a soul. Not even when they’ve got extra cargo,” he added, with a faint smirk that didn’t quite disguise the weight in his voice.

She laughed, a watery thing that surprised them both.

Killian rose again, standing tall, and turned toward the crew clustered near the bow. Several had been trying to eavesdrop with all the grace of drunk gulls.

Without hesitation, Killian cupped his hands to his mouth and called:

“Oi, lads!”

Heads turned.

“They’re twins!”

A beat.

Then—

A roar of excitement. Cheers erupted, someone whistled, Bram hooted loud enough to scare the gulls off the rigging. Halric cursed (fondly) about having to double the damn list. Peake threw his hands in the air like he’d won a card game.

“Two babies!” Smee shouted, waving his knitting. “Double the laundry, double the mischief!”

Torren clapped Bram on the back so hard it nearly knocked him into a barrel. Laughter rang out, ragged and joyful, like they’d all just discovered treasure buried in plain sight.

Killian turned back to Y/N, watching her face shift — fear still present, but losing ground fast to something warmer. Her eyes shone again, and she smiled through it.

“See?” he murmured.

“I see,” she whispered.

For now, she didn’t say more. She didn’t tell him the full truth — not yet. The pain of that night, the violence that made these children, was still too sharp. But she could believe this for now. This care. This crew. This unlikely, wonderful chaos.

Killian watched her for another long moment, then gave her a quiet nod, and left her to her thoughts as the crew went back to work.

Y/N stayed where she was, holding a tiny wooden rattle in one hand and her belly in the other, heart beating like a war drum in a lullaby’s rhythm.

For the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

The sea was calm that evening. Not still, not silent — the waves still lapped gently against the hull, the ropes still creaked with the sway of the ship — but it was calm in the way that allowed truth to settle between two people like dust on a table long cleared for honesty.

Y/N stood at the bow, wrapped in her own thoughts, her fingers curled protectively around the swell of her belly. The moon silvered the deck around her. She hadn’t noticed Killian’s approach until his coat brushed her sleeve.

She didn’t turn, not right away.

“I need to tell you something,” she said softly, voice barely louder than the sea.

Killian didn’t speak. Just waited, still and steady beside her.

She drew in a long breath.

“The babies… the twins… they weren’t made with love. Or choice.”

His hands, which had been folded behind his back, slowly dropped to his sides. Still, he said nothing.

“My old boss,” she continued, voice tighter now. “At the tavern. His name was Garrett Wren. He was the owner, the one who paid the barmaids in bruises and beer tokens. He’d been watching me for months, cornering me when I was alone. The night it happened, I’d already packed half my things. I was going to leave.”

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t cry — not this time. This time, she was steel.

“But he got to me first.”

Killian’s fists were tight at his sides. His knuckles were white, but he didn’t interrupt her. She glanced at him, half-expecting revulsion or pity.

But what she found was… fire. A cold, dangerous fire.

Not at her. For her.

“I never wanted to be someone’s tragedy,” she said, her voice finally breaking. “I just wanted to go. Disappear. Start fresh.”

Killian turned fully toward her now, his eyes unreadable. Then, gently — more gently than she’d ever expected from a pirate captain — he reached out and laid a hand over hers where it rested on her belly.

“You’re not a tragedy,” he said. “You’re the bravest bloody soul I’ve met, and I’ve known my share of brave fools.”

She laughed, choked and wet and unsteady.

He didn’t pull away.

“I can’t undo what he did,” Killian said quietly. “But I can promise you this: he’ll never touch you again. No one will.”

Her brows furrowed slightly at his tone, but before she could question it, he added, “And if you’ll let me… I’d like to help raise them. The twins.”

Her heart stopped.

“Help raise—?”

“I want to be their father, Y/N,” he said, calm and sure. “If you’ll have me.”

A long silence fell. Not heavy, not awkward. Just… full. Like a ship just before the anchor lifts.

She looked at him then, eyes shining under the pale moonlight, and though no kiss passed between them, something deeper did — a quiet, bone-deep knowing.

A yes, without the need for words.

⸻

That night, Y/N finally slept in Killian’s quarters without fear. She was curled on her side, his spare blanket tucked under her arm, when the ship began to shift. She barely stirred.

They’d docked.

Killian stood on the gangplank an hour later, the moon still high, his coat billowing in the sea breeze. The men were gathered in a semi-circle, silent and waiting.

“He hurt her,” Killian said flatly. “Garrett Wren. A tavern-owner in this town. He assaulted her. She’s carrying his children. She’s afraid. And I won’t have that.”

Not one man spoke for a moment.

Then Bram cracked his knuckles. “Say the word, Cap’n.”

“I trust you,” Killian said, gaze steady. “She doesn’t know we’re docked. She never will.”

“Understood,” Halric murmured, already turning.

Smee didn’t joke, didn’t knit, didn’t smile. His face was unreadably hard as he followed the others off the ship into the fog-thick streets.

Killian didn’t go. He stayed at the helm, hands gripping the rail, staring toward the dark town where a man named Garrett Wren would not wake up the same.

⸻

By morning, the crew was back.

No blood on their clothes. No smirks. No fanfare.

Just a fresh load of bread and fruit, some soft cotton for swaddling, and a pile of new spoons.

Y/N never asked.

The town faded behind them as the Jolly Roger returned to open water.

She stood beside Killian that morning, wind in her hair, a warm hand on her belly and a steadier one resting gently on his sleeve.

Uncharted waters lay ahead — but she wasn’t sailing them alone anymore.

Chapter Text

The ship had settled into a steady rhythm, like a lullaby rocking gently across the waves. And in that rhythm, Y/N had found something she’d never had before — not just safety, but a kind of joy that felt like sunlight warming a place inside her long thought dead.

The crew had returned from port without a word about Garrett Wren, and she hadn’t asked. She knew in her bones that whatever had been done had been final. And that was enough.

The twins — as the crew had begun to affectionately refer to them as if they were already bunking below deck — had become part of the ship’s identity. Her belly had started to grow in earnest, rounder by the week, and no man on the Jolly Roger so much as flinched when she passed. In fact, they got out of her way with a nervousness usually reserved for loaded cannons.

But it wasn’t fear. It was reverence.

And for Killian… it was something else entirely.

He was steady beside her now. Not demanding, not overly sweet. Just present. He’d begun joining her nightly routine — those quiet walks around the deck when the stars shone brightest. They would talk sometimes, but not always. Some nights they just stood side by side, letting the silence fill in the gaps.

Tonight, the stars stretched low and lazy over the sea, and the ship was quiet beneath them. Y/N stood near the bow, hands cradling her belly. Killian came up beside her, his coat brushing her arm like always.

“Twins,” he said softly, smiling like it still startled him. “Every time I look at you, it feels more real.”

“They’ve started kicking,” she said, resting one hand lightly on her stomach.

His eyes widened. “May I…?”

She nodded, and he reached out, calloused fingers tentative at first as he laid his hand gently across her belly. A moment passed — then a solid little thump met his palm. He let out a low breath of laughter, startled and utterly undone.

“They’re strong,” he murmured.

“They’ll have to be,” she said, smiling faintly. “They’ll be born pirates.”

He looked at her then — really looked. And something shifted.

“You are,” he said suddenly, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “The strongest woman I’ve ever met. You didn’t just survive—you lit a damn lantern in the dark and kept walking.”

Her breath caught.

She didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it didn’t matter. But when his mouth met hers, it was soft — not tentative, not unsure, just… right. Like coming home after a long storm.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was real.

When they pulled apart, they stood there for a long moment, foreheads almost touching, eyes closed to the sea.

⸻

The kiss might’ve stayed just theirs… if not for Smee.

“CAPTAIN!” he bellowed, appearing suddenly on the deck below with a raised tankard. “WE’RE TOASTIN’ THE LITTLE BARNACLES!”

Y/N blinked. Killian groaned.

Within minutes, the entire crew had crowded into the galley — lanterns lit, mugs overflowing (some with rum, others with juice for those on duty… and for Y/N, of course, a frankly horrific lemon water concoction that Bram insisted was good for pregnant people).

“To the wee sea goblins!” Halric shouted.

“To the belly bounty!” added Bram.

“To the Captain’s other treasure!” came a shout from somewhere near the back.

Killian just shook his head with a grin, then raised his own glass. Y/N watched him, cheeks still warm from their kiss, as he stepped forward.

His voice was steady. Strong.

“I’ve known many ships,” he began, “and many crews. I’ve been to dark places and made darker choices. But what we have here — this — is more than gold and sails.”

He turned to Y/N, his gaze soft.

“This woman came aboard a stranger, and in time, became our healer, our heart, and now — a mother to two future deckhands who’ll probably steal all our rations and tie our boots together while we sleep.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

Killian raised his mug higher.

“To her strength. To her fire. To the new life she carries. And to the men who’ll stand behind her, always.”

The room erupted in a cheer so loud it rattled the walls.

Y/N kissed him again, this time before the crew, soft and sure. The men hooted, clapped, and at least one mug was dropped in the chaos. No one cared.

⸻

That night, Y/N settled into Killian’s quarters like she’d always belonged. The bed was warmer now, the air quieter, the ship somehow smaller and more sacred.

Killian lit a lantern low and joined her, careful not to crowd her as she tucked one hand beneath her belly and the other in his.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispered.

He nodded, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Aye. We already are.”

Outside, the stars spun above the sea.

And inside, in a room filled with nothing but love and lamplight, a family was beginning.

Chapter Text

The Jolly Roger cut through the morning mist like a dagger, its sails snapping smartly as it eased into port. The town was a familiar one—small, bustling, and mercifully friendly to pirates who kept their blades sheathed and their coin flowing.

Y/N stood at the bow as they docked, her hands braced on the railing, watching as the shore grew closer. Her belly was round now, full and unmistakable. The twins had taken to tumbling at odd hours, especially when she was trying to sleep. Still, she smiled as she felt them flutter. Life was growing inside her, and now, around her too.

The moment the gangplank was lowered, the crew dispersed like rowdy children on a field trip — but with a list.

Smee held it up proudly, wrinkled and scrawled in a handwriting Y/N was pretty sure belonged to Halric. “Right! Blankets, bottles, clothes, those teeny tiny booties—oh, and Bram said we need a chamber pot ‘cause the babies will be poopin’.”

“Thank you, Smee,” she said dryly, laughing despite herself.

Killian took her hand, guiding her down onto the dock slowly. “You’re not to carry a thing. That’s an order.”

“And if I disobey?” she teased.

He raised a brow. “Then you’ll have a crew-wide mutiny, and I’ll be forced to tie you to the mast.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed.

⸻

The town was nearly picked clean of baby goods by the time the Jolly Roger crew was done. At one point, two burly pirates were seen debating the merits of wool versus cotton swaddling. Smee had three separate debates about whether pacifiers were necessary. Halric, for some reason, bought an entire barrel of pickled vegetables “in case the babies crave ‘em.”

Killian, meanwhile, quietly visited a small artisan’s tent on the far edge of the market. When Y/N found him again, he was tucking something carefully into a velvet pouch. He didn’t say what it was, only grinned and kissed her hand.

Back on the ship, the transformation had already begun.

One corner of the captain’s quarters now bore the beginnings of a nursery — small, yes, but made with love. The crib had been stabilized with sea-hardened wood, and above it, dangling from a carved crossbeam, was the gift Killian had commissioned: a mobile of tiny wooden swords, moons, and stars, all painted with gentle sea-glass hues.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, trailing a hand across it.

But later that night, as the moon cast silver light across the deck, her thoughts turned darker.

She found Killian near the helm, watching the stars.

“They’re going to be born into a world of danger,” she said, voice low. “Pirates, warships, storms… I know this life. It’s not gentle.”

Killian looked at her, truly looked, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

“Come with me,” he said softly.

⸻

They disembarked the next morning just after sunrise. She didn’t ask questions, simply followed as Killian rented a modest cart and two steady horses. The road out of town was quiet and winding, leading through stretches of golden countryside, tall grass waving in the breeze. After about an hour, the land opened up.

There, nestled in a shallow valley, were five houses. Simple but sturdy, made of weathered stone and painted shutters. A barn stood nearby, and a small orchard dotted the hills behind.

Y/N blinked. “What is this?”

Killian stepped beside her, looking out over the little settlement.

“Home base,” he said. “We built these years ago. A place for the crew to rest when the sea gets too heavy. Rotations of men come here when they’re between jobs. But…”

He turned to her now, eyes soft and unwavering.

“…one of them is ours now. For you. For the twins. And I’ve made some changes.”

He hesitated only briefly before going on.

“I’ve decided to sail merchant routes — for a few years, at least. Trade, supply delivery. Safer ports, gentler waters. I can’t give up the sea entirely, but I can change what I do. For you. For them.”

She opened her mouth, overwhelmed. “Killian, you didn’t have to—”

He shook his head before she could finish.

“I know. But I wanted to. And the men? They insisted.”

She stared at him.

He chuckled softly. “You think I came up with this on my own? Smee said, and I quote, ‘No captain worth his salt has his children sleeping on cannonballs and rope coils.’ Halric said he’d mutiny if I didn’t get you a land-based bed before the babies arrived. Even Bram helped pick the orchard.”

She laughed, choked and watery, tears stinging behind her eyes.

He reached out, brushing one gently away. “You don’t have to need it to deserve it, love.”

That undid her completely.

⸻

They spent the night in the little house, testing the mattress, lighting the fireplace, letting the wind through the open windows. It smelled like lavender and sea salt and new beginnings.

By morning, when they returned to the ship, the deck didn’t just feel like a vessel anymore.

It felt like a home they could leave… and come back to.

Because now, they had both.

Chapter Text

The ocean stretched out endlessly, a silver-blue quilt stitched with waves and salt, and Y/N stood barefoot on the deck of the Jolly Roger, a needle and thread in her hand.

The sail had torn again — a jagged split near the bottom from the last sudden gust that nearly cost them the mizzenmast. It wasn’t a large tear, not enough to delay their course or warrant the usual fuss, but she’d noticed it, and that was enough.

She stitched carefully, the sun warm on her back and the swell of her belly pronounced beneath her laced tunic. The twins kicked occasionally — always when she leaned too far forward — but she only paused, smiled to herself, and resumed her work.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting?” came Bram’s voice — kind, but cautious — from behind her.

Y/N didn’t even look up. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be swabbing the starboard stairs before someone breaks their neck?”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Right, then.”

She smirked.

⸻

It had been two weeks since they’d docked at the valley home Killian had shown her, and something had shifted — not just in their lives, but in the rhythm of the ship itself.

She had never asked to be seen as fragile, and while the men had panicked at first — one even gasping at the mere sight of her lifting a small bucket — they had, over time, learned to walk the line between protective and patronizing. She suspected it was Killian’s influence. Or maybe Smee’s quiet lectures at night. Either way, they were adjusting.

Now, instead of offering to do things for her, they offered to do them with her. That made all the difference.

⸻

By midday, Y/N was tending to a rope burn on Tarlow’s wrist. The young crewman hissed as she applied a salve made from dock root and clove oil.

“Do they really move around?” he asked suddenly, glancing at her stomach.

She glanced up, arching a brow. “The twins?”

He nodded, eyes wide and innocent. “I just wondered if they, like… wrestle in there or somethin’.”

Y/N snorted. “Yes. Constantly. I suspect one is plotting a mutiny.”

Tarlow’s face paled just slightly. “Wouldn’t put it past ‘em, being Captain Jones’ kids and all.”

The words made her pause — not in fear, not anymore — but in the quiet realization that no one questioned it. Not who fathered them. Not whether they were welcome.

They were his. In the eyes of the crew. In the eyes of the ship.

In the eyes of her heart, too.

⸻

That evening, Killian returned from his quarters with her herb pouch — restocked. Not just with her usual salves and tinctures, but with a few she hadn’t even requested yet. Ginger, to ease the nausea. Chamomile, to soothe her nerves. Raspberry leaf, for the later months.

She blinked up at him from her seat near the helm.

“You even sorted them by use.”

He tilted his head. “Am I to be insulted or kissed for that?”

She grinned, tugging him down gently by the collar of his coat. “Neither. Just… thanked.”

He leaned in, kissed her brow without hesitation, and pulled back to straighten her shawl where it had fallen.

No grand gestures. No declarations.

Just quiet, constant love — as natural as breathing.

⸻

That night, as the crew gathered to share stories and pass a bottle around, Y/N sat nestled against a barrel, warm in her coat, watching the men laugh and argue about whether halibut was a real fish (Bram insisted it was a government lie). Her sewing sat in her lap, half-forgotten. Across the deck, Killian glanced over and caught her watching.

He smiled.

So did she.

This — this balance of strength and softness, independence and intimacy — was not something she had ever thought she’d have. Not after what had been taken from her. Not after what she’d feared she’d become.

But here she was. Still herself. Still whole.

Just… growing.

Chapter Text

It began in silence.

The ship was still, the Jolly Roger rocking gently at port beneath a silver-laced sky. The moon cast a pale glow over the harbor waters, painting the sails in shades of peace. Most of the crew were tucked into their bunks or hammocks, a rare night without threat or storm.

Y/N was wrapped in Killian’s arms, the warmth of his body pressed along her back, one hand resting gently on the curve of her belly. The twins had been unusually quiet that night — something she had whispered about to Killian earlier with a laugh, relieved for once they weren’t using her ribs as a sparring arena.

But then — the silence shattered.

A seizing pain gripped her, sharp and deep, like a rope being yanked taut from within. Her eyes flew open. A gasp tore from her lips.

“Killian,” she whispered, voice tight.

He stirred immediately. “Darling?” His hand found hers, squeezing gently, but the tremor in her fingers made his brow crease. “What is it?”

And then she groaned.

The sound was low and guttural, unguarded in a way she never allowed herself to be. Killian bolted upright, all traces of sleep vanishing like mist.

“Y/N?” He was kneeling beside her now, his hook moving to cup her cheek, his human hand brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t answer right away. Her jaw clenched as another wave hit her, and tears sprang to her eyes.

“The babies,” she managed to say. “They’re… they’re coming.”

Killian’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Now?! But we’re—we’re two weeks from due! We’re docked—home is—bloody hell.”

Then came the shouting.

⸻

From above deck, boots thundered as the crew heard her cry again. Doors slammed. Hammocks groaned. Smee was the first to appear, breathless, his hat on sideways.

“What’s wrong? Is she—? Is it time?!”

“She’s in pain, Smee!” Killian snapped. “Send for a midwife—no, two! No—three, in case one’s drunk and one’s dead!”

“Aye, but where do I—?”

“Just run!”

Smee ran.

Behind him came Bram, shirt half-buttoned and holding two wet cloths and a spoon. “Do we need broth? She needs broth, right? I’ll make broth!”

“You don’t even know how to cook!” shouted Calder, who was lugging a sack of linen toward the cabin. “We need blankets. Clean ones!”

“No, warm ones!” added Thatch, sliding down the stairs with an armful of rope. “Wait. Why did I bring rope?!”

Killian was half-carrying Y/N to the bed in his quarters by then, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. She was breathing through clenched teeth, murmuring numbers beneath her breath as if counting might control the rising tide of pain.

“Easy,” he whispered, voice a rough balm. “We’ve got you, darling. I’ve got you.”

She nodded, her face pale but set with steel. “Don’t let them panic…”

Too late for that.

⸻

Outside, chaos reigned.

Someone had begun boiling water on a small firepit they’d set up in the galley. Thatch was convinced they needed to sterilize everything — including his own hands, which he’d plunged into scalding water until Bram yanked him back cursing.

Smee returned breathless, shouting, “No midwives at this hour! But I paid a boy to run and fetch one!”

“How much did you give him?” Calder demanded.

“All of my coin!”

“That was your rum fund, man!”

“She’s having twins, you twit!”

⸻

Inside, the world was quieter — but only just.

Killian had helped Y/N lie back on the bed, piling pillows beneath her head and gripping her hand like it was an anchor. Her face was slick with sweat, but her eyes were clear.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t want to do this here. I wanted…”

“Shhh,” he said, brushing his lips to her knuckles. “You don’t apologize to me, love. Not ever. We go where we must. And if this is where they come — then this is where we meet them.”

Another contraction hit and she gritted her teeth, her back arching.

Killian’s heart shattered with each sound of her pain.

He shouted for Smee. For water. For towels. For the gods to take the pain and give it to him instead.

But through it all, Y/N bore down, clinging to his hand, eyes shut tight.

⸻

At one point, Calder peeked in with a tray. “Juice. Water. Tea. I—I don’t know what she drinks when she’s in labor.”

Killian turned, blood and sweat staining the cuff of his shirt. “All of it.”

Calder nodded, dropped the tray, and retreated like he’d faced a kraken.

⸻

The hours passed slowly, like dragging a net across a stormy sea.

No midwife yet.

No babies yet.

Only Y/N, fighting through wave after wave of pain. Only Killian, wiping her brow and whispering promises he wasn’t sure he knew how to keep. Only the crew, tripping over each other in the narrow halls, arguing over birthing cloths and trying not to cry.

And yet, despite the chaos, something held them all together.

Not just duty. Not just fear.

But family.

Chapter Text

The midwife arrived barefoot and breathless.

Her shawl was clinging to her shoulders with the morning mist, and her eyes had the kind of hard-earned calm only age and many midnight labors could bring. Smee guided her aboard with trembling hands, stammering about twins and pirates and boiling water, but the woman barely listened. She’d heard it all before.

“I need clean linens, a bowl of warm water, strong hands, and no men inside unless I say so,” she barked.

Then Smee told her who was already inside.

“Oh,” she said. “Well. Captain stays, then.”

She stepped into the cabin and shut the door behind her.

⸻

Inside, the world had narrowed to three people.

Y/N was soaked in sweat, her hair plastered to her face, her body trembling. She was already deep into labor, her hands clenched in the sheets, breath coming in ragged gasps. Killian was beside her, still in his shirtsleeves, his hook long since tossed to the floor as he held her hand in both of his.

“I can’t,” she whispered once, when the pain crested so high her voice shook with it.

Killian pressed his forehead to hers.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered back, voice raw but steady. “You are, love. You’re braver than any sailor I’ve ever known.”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and wet. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Then I’ll still be right here,” he said without hesitation. “Every moment. Every breath. You don’t face this alone.”

She cried out then, but not from fear. From another contraction.

⸻

The midwife worked swiftly — hands weathered but sure, voice low and grounding as she guided Y/N through the next hours. She checked her progress, gave soft orders for water and cloths, adjusted pillows beneath her back. But she never raised her voice.

She didn’t need to.

Killian never let go of Y/N’s hand.

He knelt beside her, murmuring to her between each wave of pain, brushing hair from her face, whispering her name like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. When she screamed, he didn’t flinch. When she sobbed, he kissed the backs of her fingers. When she said she couldn’t do it anymore, he reminded her, gently, that she already was.

“You’re almost there, my darling,” he breathed. “You’re so close. Just a little more, and they’ll be in your arms.”

Time stretched.

Then—

A cry.

Sharp. Wet. New.

Y/N choked on a sob as her body sank back into the bed, her arms reaching instinctively. The midwife moved with grace, catching the infant and wrapping it in cloth as if she’d done it in her sleep.

“A girl,” she announced, her voice breaking into something tender. “She’s strong.”

The baby’s cry rose again, tiny lungs protesting the world she’d just arrived in. Y/N reached for her without thinking. Killian helped her shift up, and as the midwife placed the baby against her chest, Y/N fell apart. Not from pain now — from wonder.

“Thea,” she breathed. “Hello, little star.”

Killian’s hand was trembling where it pressed against her back.

But it wasn’t over.

⸻

The second came harder.

Twins, the midwife had warned gently, rarely took turns politely. But Y/N found something inside her — some last reservoir of strength — and bore down again. Killian held her through it, kissed her temple, told her how proud he was of her. And this time, when the final cry split the air, it was Killian who let out a broken breath of relief.

The midwife laughed softly as she lifted the second child. “A boy,” she said. “Stubborn, like most men.”

Y/N was crying again — sobbing now, whole-body shudders as Killian wrapped the newborn in a blanket and helped guide him to her waiting arms. She held one baby in each arm now, trembling but whole, her eyes wide with awe and disbelief.

Killian moved behind her on the bed, steadying her, wrapping his arms around the three of them.

“Thea and James,” he whispered into her hair. “Perfect.”

⸻

For long minutes, no one spoke.

Thea let out a gurgling yawn. James hiccuped once and snuggled deeper against Y/N’s chest. Killian took off his shirt and gently laid James against his own skin for warmth, while Y/N did the same with Thea. Their bodies were pressed together, their foreheads touching, the babies warm between them.

“I didn’t know…” Y/N whispered, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know I could feel like this. Safe. Full.”

Killian kissed her temple. Then her forehead. Then rested his own brow there, breath trembling.

“You are,” he said. “You always will be.”

Tears slid silently down his cheeks. Not from fear, nor grief — but joy so deep it nearly undid him. Joy he hadn’t believed he could feel again.

He kissed her forehead again, reverently.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For them. For you.”

Y/N closed her eyes and leaned into him, their children between them, and the world outside forgotten.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned with still air and soft light, the kind of quiet that didn’t quite belong on a pirate ship. No calls from the crow’s nest. No laughter, no raucous jokes. Just the gentle creaking of the Jolly Roger swaying on the tide.

Inside the captain’s quarters, it was warmer still — full of soft baby sounds and the hush of a world newly changed. Y/N sat propped against pillows, hair loose around her shoulders, the glow of motherhood not just in her cheeks but in the calm steadiness of her eyes. In her arms were two bundles wrapped tight in blankets, one pink-cheeked, already yawning, the other squirming with a hiccup.

Killian stood near the door, one hand braced against the frame. He had never looked more undone or more proud.

“They’re waiting,” he said gently, voice low. “You sure you’re ready?”

Y/N looked down at the two tiny lives resting against her and nodded. “Let them in.”

⸻

They came in slowly, one by one, as if stepping into sacred ground.

Smee was the first.

He removed his cap before he even crossed the threshold, smoothing what little hair he had and blinking rapidly behind his spectacles. His hands were clasped tight together, knuckles white.

“I… I hope it’s alright,” he murmured, eyes on the babies. “I knitted these weeks ago. Didn’t know the sizes, but I… I tried.”

He unwrapped two soft bundles from the crook of his arm — impossibly small outfits, one a sky-blue jumper with tiny anchor buttons, the other a pale yellow one with a stitched rose at the collar.

Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered, tears rising instantly.

Smee stepped forward. His hands shook as he offered them over. He looked at the babies, truly looked, and his lower lip trembled.

“I’ve known Killian a long time,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Seen him fight for many things. But I’ve never seen him look the way he looked last night. Or the way he looks at you.” He sniffled. “I’m proud of you. All three of you.”

Before anyone could respond, he gave a small bow and turned quickly, pressing a hand to his mouth as he excused himself in a hurry. No one teased him.

⸻

Finn, the wiry, freckled helmsman, followed.

He was always loud, always cracking jokes — but today he was quiet, reverent. He crouched beside the bed, rough hands hovering awkwardly.

“May I?”

Y/N gently placed her son into his arms. The man looked like he was holding a holy relic.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Look at him. Look at this wee lad. He’s got Killian’s scowl already. Gonna run this ship in no time.”

The baby let out a tiny, indignant grunt and Finn actually gasped. “He’s got a voice! A right pirate’s cry!”

The others chuckled behind him, but Finn looked up at Y/N and added, more seriously, “He’s lucky, you know. Both of them. To have you.”

⸻

Ronan and Vale, the ship’s main riggers — one tall and broad-shouldered, the other lean and quiet — came together. Ronan refused to hold the babies, simply knelt beside the bed and stared in awe.

“They’re smaller than a sack of flour,” he said in disbelief. “And worth more than all the treasure we’ve ever stolen.”

Vale, on the other hand, took Y/N’s daughter into his arms, his large hands trembling.

“I’ve seen death a hundred ways,” he murmured, looking down at her. “Didn’t know I’d ever see something like this.”

⸻

The gruff cook with a beard like seaweed and a voice like gravel, stood at the foot of the bed and simply wept. Not loudly. Not for show. He just stared, arms crossed, as fat tears rolled down his weathered cheeks.

“You tell me what they like when they’re older,” he said thickly. “I’ll learn to cook it, I swear on the sea.”

⸻

Even Jasper, the youngest and most excitable crew member, who’d accidentally walked in and discovered Y/N’s pregnancy, came forward nervously, wringing his hands.

“I didn’t mean to ruin anything,” he whispered, looking ashamed.

Y/N smiled, exhaustion and grace soft in her face. “You didn’t ruin a thing.”

He beamed, all freckles and joy, and whispered to the baby girl, “Hello, Miss Thea. I promise I’ll always watch the rigging and never drop anything near your head.”

⸻

By the end of the hour, the captain’s quarters were full of pirate-sized men holding baby-sized socks, passing blankets between them like fine silk, staring with the kind of quiet reverence only the truly undone can offer.

Killian stood against the wall and watched it all unfold, arms crossed over his chest, a quiet smile touching the corners of his mouth. Y/N caught his eye from across the room.

He mouthed, “Thank you.”

And she, surrounded by outlaws who cried over tiny hats and made oaths of protection with calloused hands, mouthed back, “No, thank you.”

It wasn’t just a crew anymore.

It was a family.

And the Jolly Roger had never felt more like home.

Chapter Text

The Jolly Roger raised anchor under a golden morning sky, her sails catching the wind like wings catching light. With the sea calm and the sun kind, it was the perfect day to begin again.

Y/N stood at the rail, one hand braced on the worn wood, the other gently cradling her side. Though her body was still sore, slow to stretch and reclaim itself, her spirit was light. In the crook of her arm, nestled in a sling of soft cloth, was Thea — already fussy, already strong. From behind, Killian pressed close, one arm snaking around her waist, the other supporting their son James in his own sling.

“Two weeks old,” he whispered into her hair, “and they already rule the ship.”

Y/N leaned back into his chest, content. “They’re pirates. It’s in their blood.”

Killian chuckled, a low, fond sound, then kissed the side of her head. “That it is, Captain’s wife.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile. “Do you have to say it like it’s a title?”

“It is a title,” he countered, feigning offense. “The most important one aboard.” He paused, his voice softening as he added, “Besides, they’ve already started calling you that.”

Y/N blinked, turning to glance up at him. “Who has?”

Killian looked immensely pleased with himself. “Everyone.”

⸻

It was true. The crew — rough, roguish, and loyal to the core — had begun to refer to her with reverence that carried more weight than rank. Sometimes it was just lass, still their medic and friend. Other times it was Y/N, spoken with the familiarity of kin.

But when they said Captain’s wife, it wasn’t mockery or formality. It was a claim of protection, of admiration, of pride. It was what they called her when they needed a decision made in Killian’s absence. What they muttered with affection when one of the twins cried in the middle of the night and they rose to help.

It was, in every sense, a name earned.

⸻

The ship adjusted to its new rhythm like it was born for it.

Y/N healed slowly — with rest, herbs, and the kind of care no one thought pirates were capable of. Gray, their cook, brought her special broth every day, muttering gruffly about “milk production and strength,” as though it offended him to say the words. Ronan fixed the cradle so it wouldn’t slide when the ship rocked. Vale carved her a footstool from spare lumber. Even Jasper took to scrubbing the rail she leaned on daily, saying, “Salt’ll roughen your elbows, Miss.”

And Killian… Killian became something else entirely.

Gone was the man who prowled decks with a blade and a glare. In his place was a father utterly undone. He carried Thea tucked against his chest in the mornings, crooning half-forgotten lullabies in a voice soft as silk. He rocked James in the evenings by the galley stove, whispering stories about far-off lands and sea beasts.

One night, Y/N found him in the hammock below deck, both babies asleep on his chest, his hook hanging loosely off to the side, his human hand curled protectively around their small backs. He didn’t hear her at first. He was humming — some quiet, wordless tune.

She stood watching, and for the first time in a long time, cried without pain.

⸻

The crew took turns walking the deck at night with the twins.

Finn claimed the late-night shift, insisting “pirate babes oughta know the stars.” Smee often took the just-before-dawn walk, singing old lullabies in a surprisingly beautiful tenor. Even Gray rocked them occasionally, muttering, “You bite anyone, I’ll feed you to the gulls,” though he always tucked an extra blanket around their toes.

Routine emerged — not like a march, but like a song. Meals, repairs, sails trimmed by day. Cooing, cuddles, quiet laughter by night. The sound of soft cries no longer startled the men. They simply acted — bottle in hand, blanket at the ready.

⸻

Killian held Y/N close every night, his arms wrapped around her waist, his lips often pressed to her bare shoulder or her temple. More than once, he’d murmur against her skin, “Didn’t know I could love like this.” He would trace lazy patterns across her belly — not with lust, but reverence — whispering to her how proud he was.

She, in turn, grew bolder with her love. She kissed his hook when he frowned at it. Braided his hair to keep it out of his eyes when he fed the babies. Called him her compass when she got overwhelmed and he pulled her back to herself.

⸻

One afternoon, they sat at the bow, watching the horizon. The twins dozed between them in a makeshift padded basket lined with Smee’s knitted blankets.

“We’re doing it,” she said softly, almost in disbelief.

Killian smiled at her, wind tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Aye. With wind at our backs and love at the helm.”

She smiled at the cheesiness, but it struck her chest like a bell.

Love. At the helm.

It was real. It was theirs.

And it was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The sea stretched wide and blue around them, the kind of clear day where the horizon shimmered with possibility. The sails billowed overhead, full of wind and freedom, and the deck of the Jolly Roger echoed with laughter — high-pitched, squealing laughter.

Three years had passed, and it showed most clearly in the smallest of feet now thundering across the wooden boards.

“Thea!” Y/N called, laughing despite herself as her daughter — hair wild and full of salt-air curls — attempted once again to shimmy up the rigging. She was halfway to the first rung, her tiny boots discarded somewhere near the galley stairs, when Killian swooped in from the other side of the deck like a hawk.

“Not again, little barnacle,” he said, scooping her under one arm like a sack of flour.

“No fair!” Thea whined, squirming even as she giggled. “Uncle Vale said I could!”

“Uncle Vale,” Killian called over his shoulder, voice sharp but amused, “is going to lose his ration of rum if he teaches my daughter how to climb before she can write her own name.”

A few yards away, James — quieter, thoughtful, his mother’s eyes and his father’s smirk — was already clinging tightly to Killian’s leg, watching his sister get scooped with wide, adoring eyes.

“Up too?” Killian asked, crouching to ruffle his son’s brown curls. The boy nodded solemnly and was promptly hoisted onto Killian’s hip, where he nestled in like he belonged there more than anywhere in the world.

Y/N leaned on the rail, one hand on her hip, watching her whole life unfold in the sunlight.

⸻

The twins had been born at sea, and it seemed they had no intention of ever living anywhere else.

They had grown into it like ducklings to water — fearless, sun-kissed, and louder by the day. James preferred the quiet rhythms of the ship, his fingers trailing along the ropes, watching the gulls in wonder, or listening intently to the stories the crew told. Thea was all fire and motion, her laugh like gulls wheeling above the waves, her energy enough to wear out three grown men before breakfast.

And speaking of men — they had no shortage of uncles.

Smee was, by unanimous agreement, the favorite. He told the best bedtime stories (often improvised, often wildly inaccurate) and gave hugs that swallowed both twins whole. His lap was a safe haven when one of them scraped a knee or woke from a nightmare. He had sewn them little jackets — blue for James and deep red for Thea — both bearing the tiniest embroidered anchor on the chest.

Vale, ever the rogue, taught them card tricks and sleight of hand until both children could “steal” his hat before he knew it was gone. Ronan carved them wooden sea creatures to play with, each one painted with careful hands and coated in a finish that tasted like lemon oil and patience. Gray, the cook, grumbled every time they snuck into the galley but always had extra honey biscuits waiting.

Even Nix — quiet and standoffish to most — had taken to teaching James how to tie intricate knots, his rough hands guiding the little boy’s with surprising tenderness.

They were adored. Absolutely, wildly adored.

⸻

But their favorite person, without question, was their mama.

Y/N had become more than a medic, more than the Captain’s wife. She was the heart of the ship. When she walked the deck, babies at her hip or herbs tucked into her apron, the men stood a little straighter. When she called out orders in Killian’s absence, they listened without hesitation. When a storm rose, it was her calm presence that steadied the crew more than any anchor.

She was their healer, their compass, their family.

And when she knelt down and pressed kisses to two small cheeks, murmuring praises or wiping tears or promising stories after supper — the whole ship felt it. Like a lullaby woven into the sails.

⸻

That afternoon, as the sun dipped golden over the waves, the family of four sat on the bow.

Killian lay on his back, James curled on his chest, tracing the edge of his father’s hook with one curious finger. Thea leaned against her mother’s side, tired but too stubborn to sleep. Smee sat nearby, telling a story about a sea serpent who wore spectacles and only ate books, not ships.

The crew bustled quietly around them — repairing sails, preparing supper, humming shanties. But no one spoke too loud. No one disturbed the peace that had settled on the deck like a warm breeze.

Killian reached over and laced his fingers through Y/N’s.

“Still think you’d be thrown off the ship?” he asked softly.

She looked at their children. At her family. At the sea stretched endlessly around them.

“Never,” she whispered back. “I think I was always meant to be found.”

He leaned over, pressed a kiss to her forehead — that spot he always came back to — and closed his eyes.

The twins giggled. The crew laughed somewhere behind them. And above it all, the Jolly Roger sailed forward, the wind at their backs, and love at the helm.