The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

—Robert Frost, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."

Miles to Go Before We Sleep
Chapter One

"Rumplestiltskin."

Belle loved lore well enough to know legends were hardly a source of verifiable information. Word of mouth was a suspect mode of transportation. The written page, that stayed the same no matter how many hands held a book. When it came to histories and spell books, the conscientious reader knew to hold an author to certain standards of accountability. A story told and retold without any reference made to source materials or research beyond the memory of whoever happened to be speaking, that story will change. In small ways, probably. No one possessed a perfect memory. But many small changes quickly collide and become big changes. The truth—had there ever been any—vanishes.

"Rumplestiltskin."

Legend said the Dark One could be summoned by calling his name three times. Belle had never thought much of that one. Oh, it was rather poetic, she would allow it that. The Dark One did his deals with the desperate. What could be more desperate than a wretched whisper, calling his name to the wind and hoping for an answer? When Belle was desperate, she wrote a letter. Like her desperation, it had been a real, tangible thing that weighed in her hands and on her shoulders. She wrote what her people needed. (Salvation.) She wrote what her father was willing to offer in return. (Gold.) Even after Belle knew him and the incredible scope of his power, the idea that the Dark One would simply drop whatever he was doing and appear before anyone and everyone simply because they called his name the requisite number of times struck her as ridiculous.

"Rumplestiltskin."

Legend said the Dark One was interested in the pleas of the desperate exclusively.

He did not appear.

But then, Belle was not desperate.

She might label herself triumphant. Or hopeful.

She had had a good couple of days, really. She freed a village from the scourge of the Yaoguai and in the process rescued a prince from a curse. She had made new friends. Encouraged dream-seekers to take risks. She knew she was putting good into the world not only through her own actions, but in the light those actions created, which would spread and create more. Because she accomplished something wonderful, Phillip had the opportunity to do so as well. With her quest behind her, Mulan could go on to do more great things. Dreamy was poised to break down barriers and do what every dwarf was told he could not.

Belle had always wanted to be a hero.

She told Rumplestiltskin that, once. He asked her why she sacrificed herself for her people when she had a life and he held the survival of her people ransom. She wanted to be a hero. She had been born a noblewoman, the course of her life neatly plotted out for her. Be a lady, fill her head with things like planning meals and embroidery until a nobleman with land or an attractive purse wished for her as his ornament.

It was not that she disliked that life and longed for freedom. What a bad deal that would have been, like exchanging pretty, filigree manacles for rusted iron ones! But her dreams were of heroism, of bravery and compassion and bringing good into the world.

Rumplestiltskin had specifically asked her 'What made you choose' as if there had been any choice. What was one life to the salvation of her people? She would gladly be a servant if it meant those she had been born to lead were safe.

He had used her confession as proof of treachery later, of course. 'Is this you being the hero and killing the beast?'

As if she would ever equate heroism with death. Not ogres or a Yaoguai or even a Dark One had cause to fear at her hands.

She had saved Phillip, and that triumph was sweet. That swell of pride that she saved when others would have killed would remain with her in the murky uncertain future where maybe victories become few and feel impossible. But the truth is her heart is not an unselfish one. There is another man she would like to pull free of a monster, though at this precise moment, she would settle for simply talking to him.

It has been nearly a week since she left her—his—home. When she was kind to herself, Belle looked back at that time and thought of the books she had read, the friends she had made and told herself she was happy. When she was honest with herself, she could admit she spent most of that week getting drunk with dwarves. Belle went on precisely one quest but she was so filled by every moment she lived that she felt she had a year's worth of stories to tell and just one man she cared to tell them to.

But Rumplestiltskin was not summoned to her side by some legendary power linked to the sound of his name. And Belle was not surprised. She kept walking. It was after nightfall when she left Phillip at Mulan's camp. She felt for tree roots with her toes and did not let a little inconsequential thing like darkness hold her back.

Rumplestiltskin, she supposed, had never made anything easier for another person in his life. He was hardly going to start now. Belle was prepared to fight him for his humanity, but she wished it didn't have to be a fight. She wished he was the sort of man who would grab at happiness with both hands and refuse to let it go. But he was not. To be left all alone in an empty, filthy castle with no company but his possessions was easier—more familiar and less risky—so that was what he chose.

Belle was not surprised.

She was not even disappointed, not really.

Of the two of them, she was the brave one. Had he been brave, he would be a different person. One who did not feel the need to hide behind power or showmanship. One who would not choose loneliness because that was safer than letting someone in.

It was for the best, really.

This man she imagined—the one with too much confidence to care a whit about power or masks or safety—he would be lovely, Belle was sure, but he would not be the man she loved.

So, she said his name again.

Long and unique and musical. "Rumplestiltskin."

She said it again.

It felt good on her tongue. "Rumplestiltskin."

She said it again. Why not? Lore had a noticeable fixation on the number three. Were she to leave off after five times, it would feel incomplete. Six was better. Two sets of three. Later, when she was drunk and lonely, at least she would be able to remember that she had tried. Twice. "Rumplestiltskin."

He said nothing.

Belle startled, and lost her footing.

He stood as still as he had that day in the dungeon, his hands clasped in front of him. It was almost too dark to see him. The only reason Belle even noticed he was there was the way the moonlight pooled in his large eyes. He was staring. His silk shirtsleeves almost gleamed in the moonlight, but didn't.

Her lips and her tongue moved to say his name again, but strangely, nothing came out. She wished she had tempered her desire to talk to him, that she had stayed at camp with Phillip and Mulan until morning. Had she waited until daylight to summon him, Belle would be able to see him clearly. She would have noticed when he arrived.

He spoke first.

Rumplestiltskin was not a brave man, but he was not a quiet one, either. To stand still as a statue, wordlessly watching her...it cost him too much. He tilted his head, somewhat like a curious bird, and Belle knew he had done it only from the way the light moved, reflecting off his eyes. It was an achingly familiar gesture.

"What are you doing?"

"I"—What was she doing?

When they met, he treated her like an object to be haggled over. He locked her in a dungeon. She offered him freedom from his curse and he had screamed and shaken her. He threw her in the dungeon again, and then he threw her away, still an object, but now a worthless one.

And she—she summoned him. She summoned a demon because she wished to tell him about her day? To talk to him at night before she slept as though nothing between them was broken or difficult or sounded dangerous once she attached the proper words to it.

"I want to make a deal."

She didn't. Now that she had his attention, Belle had no idea what to ask of him. The desperate played his game because they hoped magic would solve their problems. But Rumplestiltskin's magic was not like the fairy magic that she used to transform Phillip. The Dark One's magic was twisted and evil, burrowed into his soul so deeply he could not root it out. Belle wanted nothing his magic could offer.

She only wanted him.

Rumplestiltskin hummed. Belle knew how his deals went. He was supposed to feign delight, laugh and clap and issue warnings about the price of magic, which tradition dictated she ought to ignore. But he did not. He only hummed, like he did at home.

When she left their home, he was in love with her. And while she did not exactly expect that anyone should pine uselessly for her forever, it had been less than a week. The wound of their separation was recent and raw. He ought to be in love with her still. Or nursing a broken heart. Perhaps both.

Had she hurt his feelings by suggesting a deal? Did he think she saw him as others did, as merely a means to an end?

"And what, pray tell"—he found his voice well enough to roll the r in pray and raise his pitch on tell—"have you in mind?"

Belle was accustomed to Rumplestiltskin having a gesture for every occasion. His fingers were just as eloquent as his mouth. Yet, all he managed to add to this question was the unclasping of his hands.

She had absolutely nothing in mind.

"You…" Belle licked her lips. "You take me home with you," she said, her heart louder in her ears than the words, "and I will tell you a story."

He closed his eyes.

She could tell only because the pools of reflected moonlight disappeared. His shirt still almost shone, though, so Belle knew he had not run away.

And he said, "Deal."

The soft rap of knuckles against her open door was met with a perfunctory smile and "Can I help you?"

Jean twirled a pen in her fingers and hoped the answer was no. Or, perhaps directions to the office down the hall.

"I certainly hope you can, Miss O'Hara."

Her smile threatened quite forcefully to flee, but Jean managed to keep it affixed to her aching face. Being the only accountant in a small fishing town on the coast of Maine had sounded so cheerful. The tight-knit community, the bracing climate, the small and manageable clientele. Jean loathed the work, went into accounting only because her father pushed her to do it. She had thought, when she arrived in Storybrooke, that quaint small town life in New England would make up for eight hours a day doing something she hated. Her only busy season would be tax time, anyway, right? Instead, she was all but chained to her desk, community life passing her by, her only comfort scattered daydreams of fleeing to Boston to study something she actually wanted to do. Though her father was on the other side of the planet, she couldn't find the courage to defy him no matter how much she tried.

By the end of the night, those daydreams would have solidified into a firm plan. When she woke up in the morning, she would sigh and remember it was impossible and return to the office. Nothing made her long for freedom more than Mr. Gold. He was a wealthy man, Mr. Gold. He owned most of the land and buildings in town, including both Jean's office and her apartment. He ran a pawnshop where, near as Jean could tell, no one ever actually pawned anything. It seemed more an outlet for him to indulge himself in a passion for collecting and restoring antiques. It was all large acquisitions and irregular sales. Worst of all, he was an attorney with a near-infallible ability to find the loophole in law or legal precedence to get what he wanted. He tended to assume she could work the same magic on the tax code. Had she liked her work, she would have loved him. The challenge he presented would have been greedily enjoyed mental stimulation.

But Jean hated her work.

And frankly, she had more than one fantasy about driving a pick-ax through Mr. Gold's skull.

Mr. Gold lowered himself into the chair opposite her desk, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. His eyes wandered around the office, as though he had never been there before, as if he were not her largest and most frequent client. No one in town matched him in wealth or the complexity of their needs. Only the mayor even came close. His eyes seemed particularly attracted to the nameplate on her desk.

"Jean M. O'Hara. May I ask what the M. stands for?"

Careful professionalism kept her from raising her eyebrows. Only about three people in town knew his first name and he went around casually asking after middle initials? "Marie."

"Have I ever told you what an interesting name you have, Miss O'Hara?"

"I can't say that you have."

It was bad enough he was here. Why did he have to waste her time on small talk?

"I am sure there is a story behind an Australian woman called O'Hara."

"There is. It features immigration. What can I do for you, Mr. Gold?"

He rolled his shoulders.

Jean typically avoided Mr. Gold outside of appointments over his account, but she felt she had a decent enough understanding of his character. He was selfish and ruthless. Intimidating, despite his size and his limp. Even if she were the sort of person who crossed others—and she wasn't—she wouldn't want to cross him. He always knew what he wanted and if he waited to pursue it, it was because waiting suited his purposes better than haste and for no other reason.

His hesitancy to speak now? That was alarming. He must feel he had something gain by making his accountant wait. Jean did not want to discover what that was.

Mr. Gold's fingers drummed on his cane. "Have you read any good books lately?"

Mr. Gold was not a man with an extensive social calendar. The most regular interaction he had with anyone was collecting their rent. Jean had never bothered to think much about his lack of friends, but if she had, she would have simply attributed it to him preferring things that way. He was unpleasant, but he was rich. He could buy friends if he wanted them.

He did not seem eager for anything but a chat. Perhaps he got some kind of perverse pleasure from bothering people, knowing they were too afraid of him to ask that he leave. "I am afraid I don't have much time for leisure," Jean said.

He had the audacity to tsk at her. "What a shame. I read one, quite some time ago, that I remembered suddenly. It made me think of you. You would like it."

Jean frowned. "Books—Oh! No. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings."

He smiled. She was accustomed to thinking of his smiles as sardonic threats, but this one was real. "No, not with the same feelings," he admitted, "but we do read the same."

Well. Jean had quoted Elizabeth Bennet at him and he did not appear to have noticed, so she was hardly willing to credit that claim.

"It was called Her Handsome Hero, have you heard of it?"

Jean tried mightily to contain her snort and failed. "Mr. Gold, I had no idea you were a fan of trashy romances."

Thankfully, he did not appear offended. He just said, "It is not a romance at all, though I admit the title does lend one to thinking so. It is a book about compassion and forgiveness."

Had they been friends, Jean would have assumed he had done something wrong and was seeking absolution before admitting his mistake. But they were not friends, and she hardly cared what he did as long as it was not increasing her rent when she came to him to renew her leases. "Mr. Gold, do you have a reason for this visit, or did you just decide to come chat with your accountant about books? I have never heard of Her Handsome Hero."

Quite suddenly, it no longer mattered that she was sitting behind her desk in the same plush office chair she sat in every day. The world was spinning and her mind was churning and weight was crashing down on her while her heart soared and the man on the other side of the desk was watching her intently with brown eyes that she knew and didn't know and knew again.

She wanted to cry.

"Rumple!"

Gold smiled. "Hey, sweetheart."

Jean leapt from her chair, flew around the desk with such haste that later, she would not ever remember having done so, and threw her arms around him. Gold grabbed at her, his fingers digging into her shoulder and waist. It was familiar and achingly different at the same time. His claws were gone. He pressed his face against her neck, same as always, but he had no scales.

They did it.

The Land Without Magic.

They did it!

Jean's palms were as fascinated as her mind at this new human-looking form of his. She ran her hands over his back, up his shoulders and down his arms. She pried his head from his snug nook against her shoulder, cupped his face in her hands and examined him. His face. His real face. He was man again, just like he promised he would be.

Jean drew his face closer to hers.

"Ah." Gold's hands covered her shoulders and he pressed back. "None of that now."

She released a disbelieving little laugh. "We're in the Land Without Magic. You're free!"

"We are free," Gold corrected, "but we're the only ones."

"What do you mean?" She tried to withdraw, but Gold's grip tightened.

"The rest of the town is still cursed. The Savior has arrived, but nothing else."

Jean furrowed her brow. "What—what does that have to do with us?"

"Regina."

She shook her head. "It always comes back to her with you, doesn't it?"

"She did cast the curse."

"Which we now need to break."

"And that is the job of the Savior, not you or me."

"We were going to be a family here," Jean protested. "Why does that hinge on the Savior? Isn't it...you know...personal?"

"Because while I doubt Regina has realized that Miss Swan is here to break the curse, she will notice her control is slipping away. As soon as she suspects it is possible for someone to remember their true self, she is going to realize the most likely candidates are us."

Jean shook her head. Unbelievable. "So Mr. Gold and Jean O'Hara's relationship can't change."

"Not until the curse is broken."

"Why did you even bother waking me up if it wasn't going to change anything?"

"Sweetheart." His tone was so mournful that it stung. Probably exactly what he wanted. "I needed you."

"For what?"

His brow crinkled. "Not for anything. To be you, to be Belle. This curse traps people in lives that make them miserable. I couldn't just leave you as Jean O'Hara."

Who was Jean O'Hara?

A woman stuck in a situation she hated, who let herself be pushed around by her father—"Moe French is my father," Jean said suddenly. Would it always be like this? The truth hitting like a truck?

"Yes," Gold said, unperturbed by the change of subject, "but he doesn't know that."

"All this time...I've had these memories of a pushy father who doesn't exist. Why...why would the curse even do that? I have a real and true pushy father right here in town!"

"It's a curse. It's meant to hurt. It separates you from the people you love. When it is broken, everyone's family will be set to rights."

Wryly, Jean added, "Especially yours."

Gold did not so much as flinch. "That is why we did this."

Jean licked her lips. "How long will it take?"

"There's no telling. I can't see the future here."

"How long has it been?"

"Twenty-eight years."

Beta-ing services provided by your friendly neighborhood Darthmelyanna.

I wanted Belle's cursed name to be on the nose, but to make things easy, she was named after the writer of one of the most famous versions of "Beauty and the Beast," Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont; the director of the 1946 French film, Jean Cocteau; and the voice of Belle in the 1991 Disney film, Paige O'Hara.