mother and childs isle

malia

personally, I don’t see them as the OTP that will eventually have a child. It’s not outside of the realm of possibility, yes, but for me I don’t see that as end game for them.

That being said, it’s not bad to imagine…

In her very long life, she had seen many, many things. She’s seen monarchs fall, castles erode, villains love, heroes stumble, and magic overflow. She’s seen stars collide, streak across the night sky. She’s seen the sun turn red with spilt blood, the sky grey with mourning. She’s seen children, used and abandoned, grow strong of their own volition. At this point, she was sure that she has seen everything, and despite herself, she was sure that nothing could ever surprise her anymore.

But again, she finds herself always pleasantly surprised.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harry so scared.”

She looks at her daughter, at her sterile white apron, and she smiles.

“Where is he?” she asks. Jane pointed to a corner where Harry is standing, sitting, then pacing around, fingers running through his hair, trusty hook catching on the leather folds of his coat. He looks a frazzled mess, like any expectant father should, but observing him now, she could see exactly what Jane meant by scared.

When she makes her way to him, he glances up at her with unfocused eyes.

“She’s doing pretty well.” She reports. Harry breathes out a heavy sigh, laced with pure anxiety and just like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he slumps back in his seat, exhaustion written all over his face.

She takes the empty chair next to him.

“Me mum died, you know.”

It’s a quiet admission, so soft she, for a moment, thinks she imagined it. But she looks at him and sees his baby blue eyes cast toward the ground, electric and a little wet and she doesn’t take his hand, but she puts one on his shoulder.

“Father went fuckin’ nuts after.” he continues, barely above a whisper. His grip on his hook tightens, knuckles sickly white. “He drank every day ‘til he couldn’t see straight. Never bothered with the babe. Some wench on my father’s crew had to be the one to take care of her– named her CJ, even. I couldn’t–” He hissed, a sharp intake of breath. “I couldn’t even look at 'er.”

She squeezes his shoulder. “That was so long ago.”

Harry laughs, bitter and sharp. “Not to me.”

They settle into silence once more, heavy and suffocating. She sits with him throughout, hand on his shoulder, eyes trained to the same spot on the floor. Beneath her touch, she can feel the faintest of trembles.

It’s awhile before he speaks.

“We never… We never thought we’d get this far.” He says, looking up to the ceiling as his hands go slack, the hook now dangling haphazardly from his fingers. “On the isle, people didn’t get hitched. No one got attached. They could be used against ya. I knew a lass– one of Ursula’s grubby cooks, she was– she and her brood were the happiest to ever live in that wretched place. One day, she came home, as you do, after a day scavenging fer food, and her da–”

He stops, and scrubs a hand, roughly, against the stubble that grows on the cut of his jaw.

“Her da and her mum and her little brothers– all of them, offed by those goblins that run around. They used hatchets. There were guts everywhere.”

She winces. But her hand stays on his shoulder.

“Uma and I– we were thirteen when that happened. We never talked about it, outright. But…” Here, he looks up and meets her eyes. “It stuck.”

She doesn’t reply– she holds his gaze, instead. It’s been so long since she’d last seen Harry Hook roam the halls of Auradon prep. The man sitting before her now is a certified first mate of the kingdom’s largest navy fleet. But underneath the sterile, fluorescent lights, hunched over and scared and hurting and frightened, the man before her looks less like a man, and more like the boy he was never allowed to be.

She wants to embrace him. She stops herself.

“You’re not on the Isle, anymore.” She says.

Harry shakes his head. “It doesn’t make any difference.” He insists, turning away to look at the curtain that separates him from his sleeping captain. “Godmother, the fear I felt there everyday is the fear I feel now. The grief. The pain. I feel it.” He hisses again, low and long. Then, he jabs his own chest with his thumb. Once. Twice. “Here. Right here.

"And I thought– I thought after we got out… I thought maybe it’d all go away.”

There’s a bitter laugh in his voice, swift and heavy, like the breath had been knocked out of him with a painful kick to the stomach. She gives his shoulder another squeeze.

As if prompted, he looks back at her and tries to smile.

“I might fuck up with this kid.” He says, voice wavering. “Fair warning.”

She can’t help it. She laughs.

“Love is…” She starts, thinking for a moment. “How do you youngsters say it?”

“Fuckin’ bonkers?”

“Exhilarating.”

Harry blinks. Then, with a small nod, says; “Aye. Something like that.”

“Mom–”

They look up at Jane, who has her head poking out of the sterile curtains separating them from Uma.

“Mom, it’s starting.”

A thrill runs through her, jolting her hand off Harry’s shoulder. Still, she keeps her composure and nods. “Give us a minute.”

When she disappears behind the curtain again, she turns back to her charge.

“You look sea sick.” She says, gently.

Harry swallows, thick. “What do I do?”

Fairy Godmother has seen many things in her long, long life– fear, pain, sorrow, the dawn and the happiness it brings. All of these, she sees now, swimming in Harry’s baby blue eyes, wide with trepidation, haunted with memories of places too terrible to name.

And love. So much love she thinks he could drown in it.

(He already has.)

She reaches for his shoulder. Squeezes it once more.

“Well,” she grins. “I think you know.”

A few hours later, the room is quiet, save for the steady beeps of the monitor in the corner and the baby…

The baby is a girl, swaddled in thick fleece blankets, dwarfed in Harry’s arms.

“Malia.” Uma breathes, tired but happy and full of awe.

Harry strokes the child’s cheek, gentle and reverent. He kisses Uma’s forehead.

“You did it, love.” He whispers, so soft, no one else hears. “Malia. Our little lass.”

But Fairy Godmother does, the words echoing with so much affection in the caverns of her ears. Harry smiles down at the babe, who yawns, and in the deepest parts of her soul she knows that he would not withhold any part of himself from his precious child.

She leaves the new parents be, slipping out of the room and walking down the hall with a spring in her step.

She has seen many things. But she never, ever gets tired of seeing a heart welcome another into its arms.