Disclaimer: I do not own OUAT.

Spoiler Alert: Spoilers up to the season 1 finale. From there it will be AU.

Rating: T

Pairings: , I'll update if I decide to add any other pairings.

Summary: Rumpelstiltskin is a grey area in the world. So is it so bad, Belle wonders as he touches the exposed skin beneath her mask, to let him believe she is some ghost, a music box ballerina brought to life to torment him? Is it so bad to live in the grey?

AN: I've written quite a bit of fiction in my time but never posted anything on this site so be kind. =) Sort of in love with Rumple/Belle right now, and I needed to write this because of that lol. Obviously there are spoilers for episode 1x12 "Skin Deep" and I will be trying to follow the series in my chapters until they diverge from the general plotline of this fanfiction. I made Belle a "Storybrooke name" but if her real one is ever revealed later in the series, I will prolly go back and edit that name in just to avoid any confusion. I do have this as Rumpelstiltskin/Mr. Gold & Belle but I will go into other couples later on, though R/B are the main focus. I love them I just don't think the writers are going to make them "the couple that saves everything". Even though I wish they would lol. Oh and last thing, I do know that in the fairytale world, they probably would not have had the French language let alone French children's songs. Plus Emile de Ravin's accent is Australian. It's just an homage to Beauty and the Beast's origins. Anyway, enjoy!

In the Grey

Chapter 1

"Nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour."

-Robert Frost

Rumpelstiltskin stopped counting the years long before the Dark Curse came rolling through the mountains in a dark cloud. He didn't even remember how old he had been when his skin was traded for toad's flesh and the infinite, ageless power crackling beneath. But he knew he was eighteen once upon a time. He was eighteen and pliable and in a family low on sheep. His father was not a business man—a quality which would prove to be hereditary until magic cured its master—but he knew a good trade when he saw one. And a whole flock of sheep was a good trade when it came to a young girl's dowry.

Rumple's new wife was thin and sallow. Plain. He was never bothered by it though. He had been raised to expect nothing above average and to get by with far less. No matter how much his mother assured him of the opposite, the couple never loved each other the way a husband and a wife should. They were good friends though, and that was plenty for the both of them. It did, however, make the project of conceiving more than slightly difficult. They were all elbows and knees and awkward fumbling. It was to be expected in the beginning but a continuing pattern told of a lack of compatibility that the couple chose to leave unspoken.

Two miscarriages and a lack of effort found Rumpelstiltskin far older than custom deemed normal when he held his first and only child. It wasn't long after that he went to battle a hero and came home a coward. He may have never loved his wife the way the fairy tales said he should, but it still hurt to wake to a hole in his home where a part of his family used to be. It still hurt to lose his best friend. And most of all it hurt that her shame in him was strong enough that she left her only son. Rumpelstiltskin vowed then that no one and nothing would ever take that boy from him.

He made good on the promise. Problem was that all magic came at a price, and he had never sworn to stop his son from leaving. It was lonely for a time and he never did stop missing Baelfire. But as it turned out, when he had no one to lose, power really was all it was cracked up to be.

And then came Belle. Lovely, sweet, brave Belle who fretted over chipped cups and spilled milk but never cowered from him. Falling in love with her was effortless. Her lips were warm and soft and perfect against his and he almost didn't notice the tingling sensation growing behind his eyes. Almost. The beast emerged then, thorn lodged in his paw. It wasn't long after he forced Belle to take her leave that he realized the accuracy of her parting words. Rumpelstiltskin was afraid. He feared a beauty such as she could never love the man that lay dormant beneath wolf's clothing. He feared she would find herself disappointed and throw him away like old fruit left out to rot. It would kill him and there would be no magic left to numb the pain.

But by the time he realized his cowardice, it was far too late. Really, she was probably better off without him. He forgot that princesses were bartered and sold and moved like pawns on their father's chess boards. He forgot what people would think she had done in her long stay alone with him in the castle. He forgot that her betrothed, her only prospect, was now a wilted rose being trampled by the creatures that wandered through his hedges at night.

When the queen finally visited, his newly acquired sullen demeanor had not faded. She knew what he had lost. She knew what his love's kiss would have done to him. She knew Belle's name was not Margie or Verna. But the corrupt beauty was nothing if not antagonistic, and she had been searching a long time for a nerve that would set his blood on fire. She knew she had found it. The word "tragedy" filled his heart with dread. He still inquired though, voice laced with foolish hope that he was wrong about the implications of that word. Perhaps the woman casually making herself a cup of tea was just searching for the same attention she always craved. Belle's father, he was told, had shunned her and Rumple almost let himself breathe. If it was a home she needed, he would provide it. He would never make her dust or launder or fetch him straw again. She could kiss him until every fragment of dark magic was eradicated from his veins.

But the queen had more. She laughed at him as she spoke of the merchant king's cruelty and faded effortlessly into a nonchalant tone for the two words he knew were coming, the two words didn't want to hear. He prayed to whatever god would still listen that she wouldn't say it, that he could just pretend Belle wasn't buried ten feet under or burned to ash and sprinkled on a lawn that he might one day mistakenly tread on. But no god hears the devil.

Belle—his Belle—was dead. And as expected, the words left him breathless.

Three people were to blame: his own foolish self, her father, and that god damn queen. He crafted the Dark Curse for her and reveled in making her kill the only person she loved in this world. That piece of justice was…serendipitous. It only took a few days for her to enact the spell, correctly this time. He had no windows in his prison but he could feel it approaching, welcomed it. The cloud of black made his throat ache as he inhaled deeply. Waiting, waiting…

Mr. Gold, a new name that he knew immediately, woke with new memories, false memories. He retained his old ones, as he knew he would, but the new were still vivid and containable alongside them. His leg hurt again, the only downfall to this odd new reality, and a cane with a golden handle awaited him beside his bed. He had his estate, as promised, with all his belongings transferred to places where he could find them. He searched hours for one item though. It had to be there, couldn't not be there. Finally, in the back of his dresser he saw a glimpse of cobalt on porcelain and he could breathe again.

He never stopped missing Belle. Desperately, erratically. It was a nagging splinter only lodged deeper when extraction was attempted so he stopped trying. And much like before, he found that when he had no one to lose, power really was all it was cracked up to be.

…

She remembered odd things. And within that layer of limited knowledge, she had categorized her memories into two groups. Because when all she had to do was stare at dingy padded walls and a barred window, she had time for that sort of thing.

The first category, she called a vague actuality. These were things she knew should be true. They were computers and high school science. And a father with a temper who shut her out in the snow until her brain had gone all loopy from frostbite. "Vague actuality" felt dream like in quality. It was far away and its edges hazy. She wanted so badly to believe in those memories. Because maybe if she could really accept them as truth, they would release her from her cage.

The second category was what kept her from that end. She didn't know quite what to call these memories but they were vivid and real. They were of merchant kings and ogre wars and silvery-green skinned beasts with hidden, charming hearts. They were of chipped tea cups and red roses and suitors who only wanted to know the extent of her dowry.

They were of a master who spun straw into gold.

The nurses told her she was Leila French but the name sounded dry and meaningless on their tongues. Her name was not Leila, she knew that much. They wanted her to believe of course, and perhaps they even believed it themselves. But that was not her name. She was more certain of that than she had been of anything in her entire life. No matter which life turned out to be the real one.

Fake or not though, "Leila" was the only name she owned. She knew only one other and it was too long, too…unusual to be hers. But it held meaning instead of leaving her feeling empty and emotionless as others did. It was almost sacred, as though speaking it could conjure its master's form.

Rumpelstiltskin. She longed to speak it, call it out in hopes that it did the hold the magic it hummed with.

But no matter how much she wished to say the name, or her own name, or her own fake name, her vocal cords were powerless to do so. No doctors—the few she had seen—knew why exactly. Sound simply refused to escape her.

It was cherry jello day—Monday, though she had never kept track enough to know that—when the monotonous routine that "Leila" had grown accustomed to was finally shattered. This was the day that time began again in her cave beneath the earth. It was fairly obvious that this ward of the hospital was located mostly below ground level. The windows at the top of the padded cells were at the base of the building, peeking just over the grassy earth. They were mirrored on one side, allowing patients a view of the exterior world but shielding those outside from the fright of seeing in. Criss-crossed iron bars protected the glass inside and out. Otherwise, it was actually a lovely view of the well kept grounds at the back of the hospital and of the forest that lay behind. She imagined the area was mainly for the family of upstairs patients or for the patients themselves when they were in need of fresh air. It gave her some sense of entertainment to watch them, to pretend she was a part of that foreign, outside place she longed for.

Leila tucked her calves beneath her, sitting up on her shins to look out once again. The yard was empty today, as it seemed to always be on cherry jello days. There was one person, though: a scarecrow of a man who came from the forest, instead of the hospital, in regular rotation. He was obviously a bit older than she, his brown hair flecked with white and lines in his face beginning to set. And always he wore a gardening apron, rubber boots, and a suit.

'What kind of a person gardens in a suit anyway?' she thought with amusement each time he visited. He hummed with it too though, the same magic as that long and sacred name. Batty as they said she was, she tried to tell herself it was all in her head, an illusion made real in her sickly mind. But he practically buzzed like an angry beehive.

A stone bench sat in front of her window but on the left side, never hindering her view as she was only able to peer out the right anyway. This day, the strange man sat there, giving her a perfect view of him when she pressed herself flush against the wall and tilted her head to the side. He was talking to himself it seemed, or at least mouthing something as the muscles in his neck remained still instead of the erratic twitching that came with the effort of speaking aloud. She had become quite adept at reading lips in her stay in the psychiatric ward. It was the only hobby she had been allowed to develop really. It was for that very reason that the girl's brow furrowed in confusing when deciphering his words came with difficulty this time. Within a moment though, she had worked it out.

He was speaking French, more like singing actually. Or he would have been had he allowed any sound to escape him. It was odd to see a man as imposing and stern as he miming a child's tune, even if he did do solemnly and at a far slower tempo than normal. Her chest bounced in a silent giggle and, for reasons she did not understand, she could not help mouthing the words along with him.

'Dans la forêt lointaine,

On entend le coucou.

Du haut de son grand chêne,

Il répond au hibou:

Coucou, coucou,

On entend le coucou.

Coucou, coucou,

On entend le coucou.'

The man stopped, head pivoting in her direction. Picking up his cane, he planted it firmly on the grass in front of him and stood up. Usually, he would have made his way back to whatever gardening awaited him among the trees but, this day, he turned toward her instead of away. She pushed herself as close to the wall as she could. It took more effort, but he was still almost fully visible to her with only the very top of his brow cut off from view. He cocked his head to the side, looking down at her window with a quizzical expression. Even if she could speak, she knew he would not have heard her. The walls were soundproof. She smiled a little though and waved, knowing his view of the action was obstructed. As expected, the man did not respond and after a long moment simply shook his head, making his way back into the forest.

…

It was a Tuesday when Henry grew suspicious of another of his mother's many shady activities. He remembered the day because the whole chain of events boiled down to one mistake: Henry had thought it was Thursday. On Thursdays he always met his mother at her office for dinner before going to see Dr. Hopper. But it was not a Thursday. Meticulous as she may have been, Regina had no way to plan around other people's absentmindedness. Had he not forgotten the order of the week, he may never have seen the hospital blueprints laid out across the mayor's desk. But he did. And had his mother not left her small white paperweight directly next to a room labeled "Psychiatric Ward", he might not have even cared. But she did.

'What kind of fairy tale characters would the Evil Queen lock in a loony bin?' the boy asked himself silently. He found the answer quite simple really. Important ones.

Regina returned to her office to find her son slouching in his usual position on her couch, backpack laying on the floor between his calves.

"Henry?" she started, genuinely confused by his presence. "What are you doing here?"

"Don't I have an appointment with Dr. Hopper today?"

She smiled, all blood red lips and sharp teeth, "Sweetie it's Tuesday. You're two days ahead of the rest of us."

"Oh," his brow furrowed, working the pieces out in his mind, "I guess I thought it was Thursday." Regina's eyes darted to her desk. Her feet followed almost immediately, heels leaving a staccato rhythm in their wake.

"It's alright. I was just getting ready to leave anyway. What do you say we go out for some ice cream?" She began folding up the floor plan laid out so neatly on her desk.

Henry wrinkled his nose a little, "Nah, I'm not really hungry yet. What's that?" Of course he knew exactly what it was, but he had found that feigning ignorance usually worked best on her in cases such as this.

"City Council is looking into adding a new wing onto the hospital," she was all business but quickly smiled, switching her tone so it dripped with honey. "Just boring mayor stuff." Her son wasn't nearly as fooled as an outsider might have been. This was one of her guises to deflect from the secrecy of something. The codes to all three of the hidden ward's entrances weighed heavily in his pocket. He smiled. It was best that she believed she had won. For now at least.

…

Thursday found Mr. Gold locked in a cell, feeling reluctantly reminiscent over "moments spent elsewhere". Emma returned to work exasperated and angry that her promised thirty minutes with Henry was cut to a mere fifteen. Regina, cold as ever, was unconcerned with anyone's happiness but her own. It was so clear to Emma why the young boy had constructed such an elaborate fantasy, his mother heading it off as the main villain. She would never understand the depth of the mayor's heartlessness.

Sheriff Swan entered the station to find Mr. Gold exactly as she left him. His suit was still surprisingly well pressed for a man who had just beaten the shit out of someone, he was still seated as close to the bars as the bolted down bed would allow, and he looked entirely uncomfortable with his position in the small cell. There was however one exception.

"What's with the cup?" she asked, sauntering up to the bars.

"Regina has seen fit to return my property." He looked up at her with one of his odd smiles. They always looked fake, as though some invisible being had snuck behind him and stretched his mouth into a grin. She didn't know why, but she expected him to set the object in question to his side after it had been brought under her scrutiny. He did no such thing. In fact she thought she saw his grip tighten possessively, probably thinking she planned to take it from him.

"Well that was…unusually nice of her actually," Emma said instead. She took a step backward, moving toward her desk. The action made her feel a bit like she was retreating from a coiled rattler.

"Yes," he gave only half a smile now and, though genuine, this one was not happy either, "the mayor can be quite accommodating when it suits her."

She began to ask what he meant by that when another point, having just struck her, rose quickly to her mouth instead, "Wait a minute, is that what all this is about? A chipped tea cup?"

"Just a cup, yes."

"Mr. Gold," she had forgone her plan to flee to her desk and sat on the arm of the blue couch beside him instead, "you beat a man to the point of hospitalization over more than something so…replaceable."

She could see his jaw tighten under the skin, "I was under the impression that we already had this discussion Ms. Swan."

"You'll have to refresh my memory." His shoulders fell imperceptibly. He could sense her preparing for battle, her face stern and eyes set. The thought physically exhausted him. Mr. Gold—no, Rumpelstiltskin was tired of fighting.

"You know as well as I that there is nothing wrong with your hearing dearie." Emma raised a silent brow. He sighed, "What he took is not 'replaceable'." She understood immediately that the two sentences were connected to one another. He was speaking of more than just table settings now.

"Mr. Gold, if someone is in trouble, you need to—"

"My apologies sheriff, but it is not your day to be the valiant hero. The only tales I have to tell are of an empty heart and a chipped cup." It was the first time those words had come from his own lips. Echoing the sentiment stung old wounds more than he had imagined it would.

She found herself a little taken aback by the openness of the statement and paused for a moment. A moment too long.

"I'm done talking." And suddenly the Gold she knew well (or as well as anyone could know the elusive man) was back, all stone faced and sharp. His weaknesses shriveled back inside him, retreating into their stronghold. He let the guise of an unlovable beast wash over him once again and locked himself inside.

No armor, though, could keep him from maintaining his grip on that little, damaged piece of china. And Emma's increasingly rusty skills in the area of private investigation suddenly bubbled to the surface as the puzzle pieces fell together in her mind.

"You must have loved her a lot huh?" He did not move but she saw his grip tighten. "Be careful," she warned, "you'll break it and I don't want to see who'll you will beat the shit out of for that." Mr. Gold grinned, a reaction that surprised Emma.

"Mr. French and I are old fools Sheriff Swan. It would be a wise decision to let sleeping dogs lie," his words, innocent as they seemed, were laced with a threat and it plunged her back into familiar territory where he was concerned.

She shrugged, her hands in her pockets, "Just trying to help," and walked away. One day, Mr. Gold thought silently, one day he would need her help.

Not today.

…

Rumpelstiltskin returned to his estate and found it eerily quiet. A mere two weeks previous, this would have been nothing extraordinary. Things were…different now though, and he tried not to wonder at how quickly he had grown accustomed to the little princess's presence. This time of day, though, she had been making a habit of cooking supper with very little grace and above average clatter. The kitchen was silent, not even the sound of her small steps emanating from its depths.

He found her in the upstairs library, the book she had been reading abandoned on the windowsill. Belle herself was in the middle of the foyer singing as loudly as her lungs would allow and waltzing with a broomstick. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. It didn't take long; a moment later the girl was stumbling over herself in an effort to hault her movements.

The imp clapped slowly, mischievously, "Bravo mademoiselle!"

To his utter astonishment, she smiled through her blush and gave a curtsy, "Forgive me. I was—"

"Distracted?" he cut her off. "I could see that. Whatever was that song you were singing dearie?" He was teasing her; that much was obvious. The truly surprising thing though was that she seemed to be enjoying it.

"Dans la Forête Lointaine," she told him, raising her chin proudly, the broom handle held in her palm like a royal scepter.

"Ah and what does it mean?"

"It's just a children's song," she waved a hand as though to say it was nothing of importance and let her chin fall back to its usual setting. "It's about a cuckoo bird in a faraway forest trying to talk to an owl." She was still blushing, a fact that Rumplestiltskin found more than a little bit amusing. "Would you like me to teach it to you?"

"Oh I am afraid I have no talent for other languages. And us beasts must avoid looking foolish in front of our captives!" Belle laughed a little and shook her head as she returned to her sweeping. Not too long after, she was singing to herself again. Her master quickly realized that he would probably learn the song whether he liked it or not.

More than twenty-eight years later, it was still stuck in his head.