Weaver entered his apartment, tossing his keys to the nearby table, and kicked the door closed behind him, a bag of takeout clutched against his body. The apartment was dark and quiet. He abstained from turning on any lights, knowing the path well enough not to bump into any furniture on his journey to the kitchen. He entered and placed the takeout onto the counter, hidden by the darkness. Taking his gun out from its holster and unclipping his badge from his belt, Weaver discarded them to the counter beside his takeout and breathed heavily.

His mind swarmed with memories. A woman's face had haunted him during his stay at the hospital and had stayed with him on the journey home. Her loving smile was constant, never wavering even for a second. Who she was, he could not tell you, but she was in the forefront of all the memories he had acquired.

There had always been talk in the locker room from officers, who had been shot in the line of duty, that images from their lives had flashed before their eyes as they felt themselves dying. However, he had never heard of gaining new ones. Of remembering a life, two lives, or possibly three, from another time. As he stepped over to the cabinet containing his half-drunk bottle of whiskey, Weaver pondered whether they were memories of previous lives he had lived, seeing as one of them seemed to contain memories of riding horses, wielding a blade and outfits that looked straight out of a fantasy TV show. Forcefully he shook his head at the idea and opened the cabinet to claim his bottle of whiskey.

He yanked open the cutlery draw and selected a fork before shunting the draw close with his hip, frowning at the image of the woman. She would not leave him, imprinted into his mind's eye. Snatching up his takeout bag from the counter, Weaver scoffed at the idea of getting one of the crime lab boys to sketch her out for him, much like the image Rogers was keeping in the top draw of his desk.

In that moment of thinking of Rogers, images flashed into his head, where Rogers was with a brown haired woman, dressed as what can only be described as a pirate. The woman was awfully familiar. Her face bore a resemblance to the other face, to the young boy, who kept calling him 'Papa' in his dreams in the hospital. Maybe they were disillusions, he thought to himself as he sat down onto his couch and put his meal for the evening on the coffee table. Morphine did have a knack of messing with someone's mind. But… Why were they so vivid?

Weaver picked out the carton of Chinese food and squeezed the sides of the carton to pop the flaps open. The smell of his chow mein floated up from the carton. He dipped his nose to the carton and took a deep whiff of his noodles.

"So much better than hospital food." He said to the empty room. He placed the carton onto the table and leaned across the couch to turn on the lamp stood by the end of the couch. The light from the lamp washed over the couch and coffee table, hardly lighting anything beyond the small area. After righting himself, Weaver snatched up the remote and zapped the television. The remote clattered onto the coffee table, discarded for the rest of the evening, as he settled back into the couch with his carton of take out and twirled some noodles onto his fork, crossing his feet onto the coffee table.

The news channel appeared as it always did. A reminder there was life outside the four walls of his apartment. The two presenters chatted nicely about some charity event that would be taking place soon, commending a local business that was donating a large sum of money and resources to the cause. He rolled his eyes as he fed some of his noodles into his mouth, thinking how it was another PR stunt.

"You toy with words… Like you do people."

Weaver frowned with his fork protruding from his mouth. Turning his head gradually from side to side, his eyes swept through the shadows, checking he was alone in his apartment. He knew she was not there. He knew he was alone. He felt he was alone. But… It felt as if something was missing. Someone was missing. She was missing.

He slid the fork out of his mouth and began to munch on his mouth of noodles, wondering if maybe he should listen to his Captain for once. Maybe he should have a session with the shrink. But then… They would think he was mad and report it back to the Captain. In his head, he could hear what the shrink would say to his Captain, 'Yes, sir, Detective Weaver has suffered a mental break. He believes he has memories of lives he has lived previously'.

"Just what I need." He mumbled scooping another load of noodles onto his fork.

"You need courage… to let me."

Clamping his eyes shut the image of the woman, spinning round on her heel and waltzing out of the kitchen was so real, he swore he could feel the cool gold handle of the cane in his hand. The fine silk shirt fitted him perfectly, the tie slightly loose, with his belt a snug fit around his waist. Just the way he liked it. His finger played with the moon ring on his right hand, twisting it back in forth as he thought about her statements.

The carton quietly thudded onto the coffee in unison with his feet dropping to the floor. Droplets of sauce shot up from inside the carton and decorated the coffee table, single droplets dotted about the table. The fork fell from the carton, clattering onto the table, as Weaver blinked his eyes wide a couple of times and tried to process the daydream… The hallucination… The memory… Whatever it was, he did not like feeling that lingered. The regret of not following her squeezed his heart and twisted his gut. It was as though he was there, living through it. He could smell the bouquet of roses on the other side of the room that he had given her the night before. No… That the man had given the woman the night before, swooning in from a day at work… at the shop with the large bouquet in his arms.

Weaver snatched up the bottle of whiskey from the table and spun the lid from the bottle, and took an unhealthy swig from the bottle. It would not mix well with the drugs still circulating in his system, but he needed something to numb the pain.

"…all I wanted to do was let go."

The bottle banged on the coffee table as Weaver choked on the whiskey he had been swallowing. Her face lingered, confusion and concern shone in her eyes as she stared at him. He coughed into the back of his hand, staring aimlessly in the direction of television. Never had he ever felt indebted to anyone. Weaver did things himself, never relied on anyone. The emotion weighed heavily on his shoulders as her face remained.

Sitting still, he was tempted to reach out and touch her. Stroke the back of his fingers down her cheek. Kiss her soft pliable lips. He wanted to cup her face between his hands and hold onto her until the end of time.

"It's time to let me go."

"I can't." He muttered into the back of his hand. Hearing the words shocked him. His voice sounded strange, like the man's voice from hallucinations… the memories. A shiver ran through his body. Weaver closed his eyes and stayed still. Maybe, if he did not move or think about anything, the delusions would stop.

Three loud raps came from the direction of his apartment's door. Weaver jumped at the sound and chastised himself for being weak. He shook his head at himself getting up from the couch and headed down the corridor to his front door. As his hand came to the knob of the lock, another three raps banged on the door. Twisting the knob, Weaver released the door and opened it, shouldering up against the wall beside the doorframe. He used his food to jam the door, letting it open enough to see who it was, and was surprised to see Rogers on the other side of the door.

"Rogers?" He questioned.

Rogers's lip curled back slightly before he said. "Thought I'd pop by and see how the old crocodile was doing."

The smell of the sea air lingered in the air. It was dark. The cloak he wore was heavy, but not as restrictive as the leather hide suit he wore. Rogers came towards him with a grin on his face, he would have ripped from any other man but there was something burning inside of him. A passion… A need for… Revenge. A drive to get payback. To take his pound of flesh from the pirate.

"Weaver?" Rogers questioned gently pushing on the door, making it bang off Weaver's foot.

"What?" Weaver blurted, torn back to reality.

"I asked if you were okay." His face was full of concern. "I can see you're not."

Frowning, Weaver jolted his head back saying. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to see how my partner was doing, but I wish I hadn't." Rogers grumbled, taking a step back from the doorway.

"I'm fine. Now you can go." He said dismissively and went to shut the door.

"Hang on!" Rogers Irish accent became more prominent as the younger man shoved his foot between the door and the doorframe. "Don't be like that. I really just came by to see how you're doing."

Weaver opened the door a little and leaned his head through the gap. "As you can see, dearie, I'm just fine."

Rogers's eyebrow curved high up his forehead. "Okay, sweet pea."

"Excuse me?" Weaver's eyes were wide as he spoke.

"You called me 'dearie'." Rogers informed him, gesturing his hand towards Weaver. "I heard of partners sometimes using terms of endearment to each other. But I never thought you would be one."

"Look," Weaver sucked in a breath to steady himself. "I'm not feeling great and I've got pills and stuff to take. And I'm tired."

Rogers squinted his eyes at him. "If you need anything, just call."

"I doubt it, but thank you." He said hoping Rogers would leave. Rogers smiled backing away from the door and turned to amble down the corridor. For a short while, Weaver watched him leave, making sure he left, and shut the door when Rogers went through the door for the apartment building's stairs. The lock clicked into place. Sighing Weaver leant his head against the door and stood there, wishing everyone would leave him alone.

"I think you were lonely…"

Her voice startled him. He jumped round, forcing his back to mould to wall and looked about his apartment. There was no one apart from him and the shadows cast by the lonely lamp by the couch. Standing there, it felt like the darkness was drawing in on him. Crawling at him to come to it.

"I've lost you to darkness…"

Quickly he walked away from the doorway, and the darkness, and retook his place on the couch, settling happily into the light shining from the lamp. He stared into the darkness of his apartment. Unseen hands reached out towards him. Weaver could feel them. Feel the pull. The internal fight to stay in the light. His breathing quickened, his chest heaved in and out as a part of him wanted to embrace itself into the darkness. Bathe in the security that the darkness offered him.

"You brought light into my life and chased away all of the darkness."

"Belle…" Weaver whispered as his brow scrunched down over his eyes.

A warmth radiated at his side. Snapping his head in the direction of the warmth, Weaver's frown slowly gave way to allow his eyebrows to raise up his forehead. Beautiful was the only word that came to mind. A beauty that no one else would ever comprehend. Yes, physically they would see it, but they would never see the layers that he had seen. The depth he had seen over the years.

The warmth caressed his face, cupping his cheek. "I told you, you'll never lose me."

A bright light blinded him momentarily before it eased, revealing a wooden house he had seen only in his dreams. Weaver looked around, confused by the change of décor and the lack of darkness. The house was so bright, he thought he would go blind.

"Rumple." She called in that loving tone, making his name sound light and airy. For so many centuries, his name had been said with such heaviness, it was a burden too heavy to carry at times.

Pivoting round, he smiled at her. "Belle."

Another bright flash of light and she was within his arms, holding him tightly against her. "You need to find the path back to me."

"I will." He told her honestly, staring longingly into her eyes.

"But you need to help Henry first." She told him with a stern look in her eyes. "Get his story back on track."

"What?" Rumple questioned, angling his head.

Belle smiled knowingly at him. "He needs his grandfather."

He reached up over her arm around his neck and stroked the back of his finger down the side of her face. "I need you."

"I'm with you." She said easing him. "But your grandson and great grand-daughter need you."

"Oh, Belle!" He muttered feeling a tear cascade down his cheek.

"You can do it, Rumple!" Belle told him, clasping her hands tightly around the back of his neck.

He whimpered, his chin quivered, as he said. "I can't do it without you."

"You're my Rumple." She said smiling. "You can do anything."

Rumple took an exaggerated breath, hitching as he breathed in, and stared directly into Belle's eyes. She had such strength in her belief of him it scared him. He wanted nothing more than to find a stone and crawl underneath it, hiding himself from the world. However, Rumple wanted to please her. Wanted her to see the hero inside of him. The saviour he could have been, if his mother had not intervened and cut away his fate.

"Belle," Rumple whispered. "I love you."

"And I love you." She said reciprocating his feelings.

Time seemed to stand still as they leant towards one another. Rumple closed his eyes tight, wanting to savour every moment he had with her. He knew his world was about to end all over again, but could not help himself as their lips touched tentatively at first. Guilty he wanted to stay in the moment for all eternity. Kissing the woman he loved until time ended. But he knew, she would never want that. Belle would want him to fight, to correct the wrong doings. To be the good man, she had always seen hidden behind the mask of the beast. Be her hero.

Three loud raps awoke Rumple. He sat up and looked about his apartment. It was not anything he would have picked for himself. Over the centuries he had been alive, he had become accustomed to having some taste and decorum. The apartment he sat in needed a fresh coat of paint and some life injecting into it. It would never have lived up to Belle's expectations.

"Weaver!" A voice yelled from the other side of his apartment's door.

In front of him, sat the partly eaten chow mein and open bottle of whiskey. His eyebrow cocked at the Chinese takeout carton. The smell of it repulse him. It had taken Belle months to get him to try sweet and sour chicken and even then, it had been under protest.

"Weaver! Come on!" The voice called again.

Slowly he raised up from the couch and shuffled across the apartment to the doorway. Rumple wondered what he had gotten himself into this time, as he tugged down the camouflage jacket he wore, missing his three-piece suit.

Rumple snatched open the door, greeted by a fist raised ready to knock the door again. On the other side of the door stood Hook… No, Rogers. 'He's Rogers here', he told himself, watching as Rogers lowered his hand down, awkwardly looking between Rumple and the floor.

"I thought something had happened to you." Rogers informed him.

Rumple opened the door wider. "Not to me, dear… Rogers. What do you want?"

The younger man scrunched his forehead at Rumple. "It's after ten." Rogers pointed to his watch. "The Captain was expecting you at the precinct an hour ago."

"Indeed." He muttered glancing back into the apartment, his apartment.

"Yes, well… Are you working today or not?" His partner asked him, shifting his weight with his hips.

Rumple smiled crookedly at Rogers. "No time like the present, dearie."