Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time or the characters therein. I just fill in gaps here and there and brew my own theories like black tea or dwarven ale. I gain no profit from this except the emptying of my head.

The Way OUT

Mary Margaret Blanchard was a sweet girl, thought Mr. Gold. Pretty in her own right, but prim and proper in other ways, namely the fact that as far as he knew, she'd never had a relationship and always wore her shirts buttoned to the top. She looked like she was sixteen, but he knew she was many years older. Maybe if she wore her hair longer, people wouldn't labor so long under the misconception that she was jailbait and actually date the poor young lady. With all that in mind plus her very name, he was mildly surprised that she hadn't been born a nun. Names were precious things, very telling about a person's nature. One might say they even defined people in some sort of magic way. Other than the fact the little pixie-cut beauty was obviously in a buying mood, that little non-nun fact was probably was why he allowed her in his shop.

Mr. Gold hated nuns. He couldn't quite remember why.

For several moments after the bell above the door signaled her entrance, she nervously surveyed the room, as though debating the soundness of her mind when she'd stepped over the threshold. She approached the ancient blackened oil lamp, but the two marionettes seated facing the door seemed to give her pause.

"May I help you, my dear?" the pawnbroker startled his newest customer, snapping her attention to him instead of the myriad of mysterious treasure which surrounded them both. The merchandise was always the same, no matter how many people came to make transactions with him. In fact, Mr. Gold couldn't rightly remember the last time someone actually came into his shop. He was sure they had, and if he'd been a religious man, he would have sworn on a stack of bibles that it was so. His wealth proved his success, and that was fine by him.

Mary Margaret looked slightly nervous and graced him with a beautiful smile mirroring her discomfort. How wonderfully transparent she was. "Oh, I'm just looking for something. A gift."

He raised an eyebrow. "Anything in here could be considered a gift," he gestured vaguely at the room, "I'm afraid I'll need a little more information to find the perfect one. Now who would you possibly want to buy a present for? A lover, perhaps?"

The young woman looked startled that he would even suggest she had a love-life. "Oh no, nothing like that!" she laughed nervously. Mr. Gold always seemed to set people on edge, but he preferred it that way. It wouldn't do to let people forget who held the power around here. "It's for one of my students. Henry," her smile was genuine this time as she approached the counter where he sat.

"The mayor's son?" Mr. Gold made an intrigued sound in the back of his throat. It seemed like just yesterday he was handing the boy off to his new mother. They really did grow up so fast. "That's right, he's your student now, isn't he?" She nodded. "Dare I ask the occasion?"

Mary Margaret shrugged, "It's just . . ." she sighed, bracing herself on the wooden edge of the glass display case, looking down at the contents but observing nothing, "I see him for 6 hours a day, and he's always so alone and miserable. It's like the other kids don't even notice him. I'm the only one he opens up to or considers a friend. I just want to get him something nice, you know? To show I care about him as a person and not just a student."

Mr. Gold contemplatively stroked his chin. "Generally, the best present for an adopted child is family. To know where they came from, who made them, and why."

She looked shocked, "But I don't have anything like th-"

"Oh, not to worry," he waved her protestations away dismissively, half-smiling, "I think I have the next best thing." Mr. Gold grabbed his cane and rose from his chair. "Follow me, if you would."

He limped over to a dark corner of his shop with Mary Margaret in tow. Strictly speaking, they were all dark corners. He liked the mystery the under-lighting of his pawn shop gave to his items, and he was the only one who enjoyed them on a daily basis. Besides, if it saved him from having to re-wire the whole building, he was content with that.

"W-what's over here?" Mary Margaret asked, only now beginning to doubt Mr. Gold's intentions. There was very little space between the counter and the shelving back here . . . As if to confirm her suspicions, his face turned serious as he leaned closer to her. He extended his free hand, reaching . . .

The young woman took an involuntary step back, almost tripping over a step stool, grabbing her purse with both hands and placing it tightly in front of her as if it were a shield before tightly shutting her eyes.

Then he flicked the lamp on.

Mary Margaret opened her eyes and blinked in surprise to find Mr. Gold with that slight smile again, both hands on the top of his cane. Just like a gentleman. She relaxed, then noticed the shelf the lamp now illuminated. "Oh, books!"

"Not just any books," Mr. Gold reached for a slim paperback volume and held it in front of her. It had beautiful cover art of a knight facing a dragon. "Myths. Fairy tales, epic poems, legends, and fables." He gestured to the shelf as she took the thin book from him to study it closer. "Everything from Gilgamesh to Aesop to Malory and beyond." He took a step back to let her ponder the shelf closer. "Some of those volumes are quite rare, in fact."

"But," she began, confused, "How are fairy tales like family?"

"The stories we're told as children tell us who we are." Mr. Gold shrugged, "They make sense of the world and everything in it and teach us how to know right from wrong. All the foundations of successful civilization. Good wins, evil gets punished, and the happy ending is the reward for doing what's right. It's what we all want, isn't it?" His smile was a little tighter with some ache he couldn't place. "Now, if a family doesn't teach any of that, what good is it?"

He caught the side of her face as Mary Margaret smiled, still scanning the shelf, "You're right. That does sound perfect. But I want this book to be memorable, to have every story in it he could ever want to read. Something that'll be precious to him."

Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow. "Henry is very fortunate to have someone who cares about him so much outside his family."

It was her turn to shrug, "He needs it, don't you think?"

He inclined his head slightly, "You know him better than I do." Mr. Gold contemplated for a second before a ghost of a thought slipped through his mind. He couldn't quite catch it, but it reminded him of something, nonetheless. "Look on the top shelf. Feel free to use the step if you need."

Mary Margaret glanced at him and paused for a second, but curiosity quickly got the better of her. Even with the stepping stool she'd almost tripped over earlier, it was amusing to watch her try to reach the top shelf, what with all the noises of effort she was making. He almost took pity on her enough to get out his taller ladder from the back room, but she finally chirped in triumph, latching her fingers enough around the thick binding to drag it from its hidden recesses.

"Woah, it's heavy!" the schoolteacher exclaimed, balancing herself awkwardly on the stool while she dealt with the unexpected weight. "Ugh, do you mind?" she asked, nodding toward the counter.

"Of course not," Mr. Gold cordially cleared a space for her to set the book down under the lamp and peruse it more closely. The first thing that caught Mr. Gold's eye was the ornamented letters in the title. Just the first letters of each major word, capitalized as was the convention with any title of any book. They were red, outlined and blocked with gold filigree and in themselves seemed to spell a word.

"Once Upon a Time . . ." Mary Margaret breathed, tracing the ostentatious lettering with her fingers.

OUT.

It bothered him for some reason, like it was important. He couldn't put his finger on why. How odd.

"Of course," he said, "that's what all good stories start with." The binding and front and back covers were frayed with age. He knew he'd had this book around his shop for as long as he could remember, so why did it seem so strange to him?

The book was also thick, completely in proportion to the weight the schoolteacher had complained of a moment before. She cracked it open and thumbed through a few pages before turning to the table of contents. "Snow White, Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, even ones I've never heard of before," she made an unladylike snort and moved her head back a little in disbelief. "Jiminy Cricket? Heh, wonder who would make up a story about an insect."

She looked back up at Mr. Gold. "I think you're right about this book. The pictures are beautiful, and it certainly has everything he'd want to read about and more. What fascination little boys have with bugs, I'll never know." She made a face as she closed the book and hugged it to her chest, so much like a little girl, herself.

Mr. Gold let out a short, quiet laugh, but was quickly back to business. "Are you sure about that? It's a large, and expensive, gift to give to such a little boy."

Her face had paled a little at his emphasis on "expensive," but she swallowed. She had made her decision. "He's responsible. And he needs it. How much?"

He told her.

She paled even more. He had to admit, her awkwardness was a little endearing, not that it made the price come down at all. "I, uh . . ." she put the book down on the counter and fumbled for her purse sheepishly, "do you take credit cards?"

"Any form of payment will do," he nodded, "Cash, check, card, an arm or a leg."

She laughed again, catching the joke, "It feels like that's what you're charging," and handed him her card.

As Mary Margaret left the store with her prized gift clutched tightly in her arms, Mr. Gold couldn't help but feel a wheel had been put in motion. An investment, perhaps. But it was just a book, just an ordinary transaction of money for items.

Why should it feel so important?

Barely a month later, Mr. Gold had his answer.

Never did the callous old pawnbroker dream that a routine stop on his way to pick up rent money from the local businesses would put him face-to-face with a complete stranger. There just weren't any strangers in this town, and no one he knew had that name. That was quite a lot of people.

"Emma," he mused aloud, "What a lovely name."

The lovely blonde woman turned at the sound of her name. "Thanks," she said, eyes wide, her tone slightly surprised. She obviously hadn't heard him walk up behind her.

Granny was quick to hand him her rent money and practically shoo him out the door. Just as well. Mr. Gold had other debts to collect today. He didn't leave before wishing her well in her stay and testing her name again oddly, as though he'd never heard it before.

But he had.

He couldn't remember where. He paused on the sidewalk and looked up at the distant clock face of the tower above the library. 8:15, it said, but he didn't see the number. He was too busy recalling a flash of a prison cell with cold iron bars like stalactites and stalagmites and a young woman beyond them dressed in white. He clutched the bars and reached toward her as she turned to face him. She looked like a sweet girl, so familiar . . . but very pregnant. "Emma," she said, "Her name is Emma."

"Emma," Mr. Gold repeated the name again, as though it were some sort of magic talisman. Names were very precious things, after all.

If he'd been looking at the clock tower, he would have noticed it now read 8:16.