Miles to Go Before We Sleep
Chapter Four

Thumbelina's Compendium of Magical Flora identified seven varieties of pixie flower. Given Rumple's prejudice against fairies, Belle had intended to skip that section once the bold header Pixie caught her eye. Needling him to consider fairies the answer to his prayers would have been answered with enmity, not an open mind. He had been abandoned by one fairy. Another had stolen his son. Belle accepted his anger.

But, she also accepted that she was not the sort of person who purposefully discounted potentially useful information.

She read the entry anyway.

Belle was glad she did. Fairies were not a common sight in the Enchanted Forest, but they were not uncommon, either. People generally had a working knowledge of fairies, what they did and the source of their power. Belle had always thought pixie dust was a type of fairy dust. This was a common misconception, Thumbelina assured her readers, but entirely false. Pixie dust was produced by several different cultivars of pixie flower, each with its own growing conditions and magical properties. Although the best known variety was used by fairies, the others had no association with them whatsoever.

Pixie cultivar Malum grows only on land which has been touched by great evil. The dust harvested from these flowers is able to reunite any people who share True Love.

Belle bit her lip. The Compendium was not intended to be a comprehensive source of information on any given plant. It was a list of every known magical plant. Thumbelina was the sort of author Belle loved—she provided extensive citations. Hopefully, Rumple had at least one of the texts Thumbelina cited as a definitive work on pixie flowers. Like the rest of his collection, the library in Rumple's laboratory had been built over the course of hundreds of years. He hoarded information with the same zeal he did artifacts.

Belle's ears pricked. The click of his boots up the staircase was unmistakable. Walking was a habit she was pleased to see Rumple develop. Before, it had been merely a tool for manipulation. He could feed information to a mark as they moved towards whatever dramatic reveal he had planned. When he was in one room of the castle, but wished to be in another, Rumple had used magic. In the past weeks, startling Belle had lost its appeal. He preferred to be expected—happily anticipated—when he made his entrance.

The night Belle came home, Rumple told her he knew when he was wanted. His abilities did not include mind-reading, of that she was certain, but he did seem aware every time a quiet little wish bloomed in her heart. Anytime she was associating the thought of him with want or hope, he just knew.

Observation suggested this sense was general. Rumple considered himself summoned when he felt it, but he never displayed any knowledge of what she wanted.

These pseudo-summonings tended to very quickly become about what he wanted.

Case in point, when Belle was hoping to find one of the books Thumbelina listed in the laboratory, Rumple sauntered into the library and without as much as a hello, snapped his fingers and Belle's practical morning dress was transformed into a ball gown.

He crooked his finger. Come here. With a flattered laugh, Belle laid the Compendium aside and stood.

She would not credit the idea that he had taken the time to sew a gown, but she supposed the fact that he was a particularly talented tailor helped ensure that what clothing he magicked into existence was well constructed.

Rumple drew a circle in the air with his finger. Twirl.

There was such volume to the skirt that it seemed made for twirling. (It probably was.) Rumple had clearly been inspired by the dress she wore the day they met. Both gowns were made of golden silk with a tight bodice, bare shoulders and a wide skirt, but everything about this dress was moreso. Layers of petticoats gave the skirt a fullness her old one had not had. The bodice molded to her perfectly.

He snapped his fingers again and the gold gown was gone, replaced by a similar one in blue. Belle ran her fingers over the skirt, feeling subtle beadwork that the previous gown had not had.

"I prefer the gold," Rumple said, "but that may be a personal bias. Blue brings out your eyes."

Belle couldn't contain her smile. "Why am I trying on ball gowns?"

"So that we know which one looks best, of course!" Rumple snapped his fingers yet again. He made a face at the result—pale pink, long sleeves, covered shoulders—and put her back in the gold gown.

"Why?"

Rumple fixed his eyes on her bodice. Belle flushed. He flapped his hand and stitches marched up her skirt, and across her chest. The gown embroidered itself. "Hm."

"Rumple! What is this all about?"

"To prepare you for a ball!"

"We were invited to a ball?" Belle wished she had better concealed her shock. The wealthy wore desperation as often as the poor. Rumple had made deals with at least half of the kings and queens in the Enchanted Forest. She had not realized he was regarded with enough courtesy that he was invited to balls.

But Rumple only laughed. "Oh, no, my dear, no one invites me to a ball! Imagine the damper on festivities that would be! But you, you were a princess"—

"No, I wasn't."

—"you, they would invite, should you wish it."

Belle smoothed her gown. Rumple assumed balls were just the sort of thing a woman of her station would enjoy. She had certainly attended many balls before coming to the Dark Castle. Gently bred young women seeking an advantageous marriage were at the height of their power while dancing. Her responsibility to her people meant she had felt all the pressure to make a match. She had accepted Gaston to protect her town. She had left with Rumple for the same reason. The part of her life that included balls ended the day she accepted his deal. If she wished, Rumple was willing to reopen that chapter.

Did she want it?

"Why would you send me to a ball alone?"

He appeared puzzled. "For you to enjoy yourself."

She loved him, but she also knew him well enough to know his generosity came with a catch. "What do you get out of it?"

Rumple slapped his palm against his chest in a mockery of offense. "The satisfaction of knowing you enjoyed yourself."

Belle furrowed her brow. "It's just so sudden. Why now?"

"Nothing sudden about it. Prince Thomas's annual gala is not for another two weeks. You have plenty of time to decide." He walked in a circle around her, eyes sweeping over her gown from every angle. "Me, I love a ball. Housebound little girls desperate for a silk gown and a dance with the prince make deals they don't understand so fast your head would spin."

She frowned. Rumple's deals were about Bae. Sometimes, one deal must initiate a cascade of deals before he achieved his purpose, but they were all ultimately about adding something new to his collection or his knowledge base, another little something that would get him incrementally closer to finding Bae. Peasant women lacked that kind of power. Why should Rumple interfere with their lives? "What do these women have that you could want?"

A smile blossomed across his face. "You must be more open-minded, darling. Not everything I want is earth-shattering. Sometimes my needs are very small. Why, sometimes I make deals with people that have nothing I want at all. Should they acquire something valuable later," he shrugged, "I'll come by and collect." Rumple waggled his fingers at her, as though preparing more magic. "Now, do you wish to go or not?"

She went.

If pressed, Belle would have been able to provide lots of reasons why she eventually decided to go. The first was the location. She enjoyed travel and this particular ball happened to be in a different kingdom.

The second was homesickness. It had been over a year since she left her father's home. She had not met with anyone from her old life since. Kingdoms in the Enchanted Forest were many and small. To a degree, the courts of the kings and queens all ran together. She was confident she would be reunited with someone from King Midas's court. Belle didn't care if she danced at all if she could learn some news from home.

And finally, she felt a bit of responsibility towards Rumple's Deal Girl.

There were probably many such housebound little girls, but only one had been selected for a deal with the Dark One. He chose her well in advance and the particulars he shared with Belle were vague. Blond. Young. Usually wore rags. Did manual labor. He didn't tell Belle what he intended for the young woman to wear. She would wear whatever felt right in the moment.

By Belle's estimation, a gown was a grossly frivolous reason to make a deal with Rumplestiltskin. But how could she, with her genteel upbringing and comfortable life, judge the feelings of peasant women? When all you knew was a life of the sort of poverty Belle could not imagine, then one beautiful gown and night of dancing might be worth any price. If this girl was prepared to sacrifice anything for the chance to meet the prince, then Belle wanted to make sure she danced with that prince.

A task rendered impossible as long as she did not know who the Deal Girl was.

Rumple had not told her the young woman's name. Belle was certain he knew it. He had a thing about names. But he also had a thing about being needlessly dramatic. He had indulged in a lot of pomp and flair when she first knew him, but over time, he had stopped making the effort of keeping his masks on at home. Even still, he had not be able to resist challenging Belle to figure out who his Deal Girl was on her own.

The reverse was not true.

Belle's name was announced at the ball upon her entrance. The hall filled immediately with the buzz of hundreds of people urgently whispering. Belle moved down the steps and into the throng of bodies. She scanned the room for familiar faces. At a ball this size, she expected to have to jostle and struggle to move through the crowd, but people seemed to part for her.

And avoid eye contact.

Her ears began to pick up on specific words amid the steady buzz of dozens upon dozens of conversations happening at once. Belle heard one phrase over and over.

The Dark One.

She walked towards the balcony, moving purposefully through the crowd, trying to catch as many snippets as she could.

"...sold herself…"

"Poor thing."

"What does he do to her?"

"The king should give her asylum. She can't go back."

How had she not anticipated this? Belle never thought her promise to Rumple would be a secret. Her father's knights knew. Word must spread across the Enchanted Forest. Belle had chosen to sacrifice herself. It was her life, her freedom, her dreams and her future. The opinions of those left behind were irrelevant. Her choice was justified. With the lives and prosperity of so many at stake, to agree to Rumple's terms had been the only thing she could do.

But Rumple let her go. She had returned to the Dark Castle out of a desire to be with him. He didn't lock her away. In the eyes of society, she was still a victim. Talk of a daring rescue buzzed around her, but no one was brave enough to defy Rumplestiltskin. He would kill, maim and torture anyone that laid a hand on his pretty pet.

No one asked her to dance, either.

Somehow, she was not surprised.

Belle had been accustomed to balls, once. So many months of only Rumple for company left her disoriented in the face of so many people. The whispers and the isolation were horrifying. The music was not loud enough that couples could dance on the balcony. It wasn't until she was in the crisp air that she realized how difficult it was to breathe in the ballroom. She gripped the railing and steadied herself.

Those people were hypocrites.

Everyone had a breaking point. Everyone could withstand only so much pain before a deal with the Dark One became more attractive than soldiering on nobly. For Belle, it had been losing her mother to the ogres. For Deal Girl, it had been living everyday without hope for the future. Every last one of them was willing to accept the necessity of the Dark One in the world. Whether they had been forced to confront it or not, everyone had a price. And Rumplestiltskin was there, a malevolent force willing and able to salve their suffering, provided they pay.

She didn't hear a single whisper suggesting maybe she liked him.

Or that maybe, just maybe, there was a person beneath those scales.

No one in the ballroom knew that someone once called Rumple Papa and that all he really wanted was to hear that voice again. They didn't know he spun wool into yarn or that he got lost in the hypnotic motion of the wheel. They didn't know he had a sense of humor and it was honestly terrible. They didn't know he kept the kettle warm all day because he always wanted another cup of tea. They didn't know how painfully sentimental he was. They didn't know he felt love. They didn't know he was afraid.

Belle pillowed her arms on the balcony rail and spent the night watching people flit around the courtyard. She couldn't rouse herself to join a party where those that knew her name considered her story to be one of victimhood and terror instead of sacrifice, heroism and True Love. Now and again, she caught the eye of a man looking at her, but none approached. That was fine. Belle didn't care to waltz with anyone who could not believe in the humanity of the most vulnerable man she knew.

Somewhere in the crush was Deal Girl. Belle smiled to herself. Maybe if she searched the room for a young blond woman who did not look at her askance, she would find the person Rumple sent to the ball tonight. It couldn't be just the two of them. Surely many people had made deals.

Belle stirred at the sound of commotion in the courtyard. She stood on her toes and leaned over the railing as far as she could. A girl in a blue gown was running across the courtyard, pursued by a man. When he stopped, Belle realized that was Prince Thomas himself. He bent to pick up something Belle could not make out in the darkness.

"Glass?"

Whatever the prince had found, it was clear. Belle tried to relax her eyes, let herself watch for the way candlelight warped and reflected off the object. She squinted. A shoe?

The fleeing girl had lost a glass shoe?

Behind her, from inside the ballroom, a clock chimed.

Belle grinned. A glass shoe lost during a dramatic midnight flight? That had Rumple written all over it.

The magic that whisked Belle back to the Dark Castle came for her around 2 AM, a more fashionable hour to leave a ball. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of home. It was so quiet. No whispering, no buzzing. No hundreds of bodies gathered in one room, making it hot and overly perfumed.

Rumple had brought her straight the Great Hall. At the end of the table, the kettle was warm. She made tea. With a contented sigh, she sat on the table and let her shoes fall off her feet. They made a satisfying thud on the carpet.

"How was your evening?" Rumple appeared at her side with magical abruptness. So much for his taking up walking. She was too happy to see him to mind.

"I think the ball part of my life is over."

His face fell. "You didn't like it."

"No."

"Who do I need to kill?"

Belled nudged his shoulder. "No one. I should have known I wouldn't like going someplace you aren't welcome."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Belle set her teacup and saucer on the table and hopped down. Without her shoes, the hem of her gown dragged on the floor. "I love you." She reached for his hands and Rumple obliged by letting her pull him off the table.

"Did the prince dance with Ella?"

Belle pressed one of Rumple's hands to her waist. "Your girl with the glass shoes?"

He appeared considerably cheered. "I knew you'd notice!"

"I don't know that they danced," Belle admitted, holding Rumple's other hand aloft, "but she certainly made a strong impression."

"I thought she might."

Belle stepped backwards with one foot, urging Rumple forward by pressing his shoulder. He moved towards her. "Are you matchmaking again?"

"We all have our hobbies."

She stepped to the side. He followed. "Ella and Thomas—are they True Love?"

"Yes, I think so." Rumple began to lead.

"They just met." She was assuming they met tonight. But if they were already a couple, they wouldn't have needed Rumple's interference, would they?

"I have a certain sense about things."

Belle snorted. "Of course." She shifted closer to him without breaking the gentle rhythm of the dance. Her hand slipped from his shoulder to his back. She tucked her head against his neck. "Why were you so kind to Ella?"

"I wasn't."

"I think you were."

Rumple hugged her close. "You always were a strange one."

"She doesn't have anything you want. You gave her True Love for free."

Belle felt him chuckle. "Maybe I just like to have people owe me."

Henry was a bright boy. Special. Possessed an active imagination.

He could be wrong.

Somehow, someone other than Regina, Gold and Jean knew all about the curse and the identities of Storybrooke's citizens, but that didn't mean Henry was right about everything. He was only a child. It would be wrong to expect that just because he had a mysterious book, he was infallible. Kids reached silly conclusions. It was part of being a kid, wasn't it? They tried to analyze what they were experiencing, but because their perspective was limited, they got it wrong.

Henry could be wrong.

Jean spent the next week telling herself all the reasons why Henry was wrong.

There were not many of them.

He was right.

Rumple trusted very few people, and with good reason. The list of people who would not stab him in the back given the opportunity was short. Herself. Jefferson. Prince Charming was on one list, but not the other. He was heroic and pure of heart, and Rumple trusted him. Charming had thrown him in a dungeon, but they could overlook that.

But what Jean needed were memories of Snow White and what memories she had did not put her mind at ease. Snow had been pregnant. Mary Margaret was not. She must have given birth sometime between the last time Belle saw her and when the curse hit. The curse wanted to make its victims miserable and drive apart families, but Ella was still pregnant so it didn't affect unborn children.

There were no tiny little newborn children keeping the wrong parents awake all night for the past twenty-eight years. Snow's baby was gone. And Emma Swan was in her late twenties.

Then there was the purple potion Rumple had made from Snow and Charming's hair. True Love could break any curse. Even though it must be unnecessary, Rumple had magicked the curse scroll away from Maleficent long enough to pour a drop of potion on it. He refused to use the gold potion they made; it had to be the purple one.

There was no reason why any curse required a Savior to break it. Light was stronger than darkness. The curse that could not be torn apart by light magic did not exist. But this curse, this purposefully weakened curse, did.

The purple potion and the Savior were born of the same Love.

Henry was right.

For a week, Jean alternated between tears and grief or desperate optimism. When the evidence was viewed together, Emma's true identity certainly appeared conclusive. But Henry was ten years old and his authority came from a storybook. It could all be a coincidence. He could be wrong.

Jean so badly wanted to believe Henry was wrong that sometimes, she almost did.

On Saturday, Emma's things arrived.

Emma Swan was not sentimental. Twenty-eight years of life in the world beyond Storybrooke and her possessions totaled: clothes, a tape recorder, a camcorder, assorted dishes and kitchen gadgetry and a baby blanket.

It was the blanket that hurt the most. Emma had opened all the boxes—no more than five—when they arrived so that she could sort through all her belongs and put them away. Jean stared at the blanket with a sick feeling welling up in her belly. She knew homespun yarn when she saw it, knew the difference between something handknit and the machine knitting of this world. The name Emma was embroidered across the bottom in purple thread.

Of course it was purple. What other color would it be?

"Jean?"

"Sorry." Jean picked up the blanket, turning it over in her hands. "Just...woolgathering."

Emma cocked an eyebrow. "That was a terrible pun."

Jean had to smile. "If you can believe it, I used to date a guy who spun wool and made terrible jokes. But somehow, he missed that one."

Emma laughed and started to make some remark about how surprising it was that that relationship hadn't worked out, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door. Emma shuffled over a few feet and opened the it.

Standing in the hallway was Mr. Gold.

Jean stuffed the blanket back into the box, warring between a desire to yell at him until her voice was hoarse and weep on his shoulder. He directed all of his words to Emma, as though he didn't even care that Jean was present.

"Hi, my name's Mr. Gold. We met briefly on your arrival."

Emma shook his hand. "I remember."

He took one step into the apartment. "Good. I have a proposition for you, Miss Swan. I need your help. I'm looking for someone."

"Really?"

Satisfied her eyes were dry, Jean cautiously approached. Gold couldn't be speaking of Bae already. No one could leave town until the curse was broken. He acknowledged Jean with a slight nod and a soft, "Miss O'Hara," and resumed speaking to Emma. "I have a photo. Her name is Ashley Boyd. She's taken something quite valuable of mine."

Emma took the photo.

Deal Girl. Ella. Jean bristled.

Unimpressed, Emma asked, "So, why don't you just go to the police?"

Gold's eyes flickered towards Jean's. "Because…" He hesitated. "She's a confused young woman. She's pregnant. Alone and scared. I don't want to ruin this young girl's life. I just want my property returned."

Once upon a time, a vague answer like that would have been accepted by Belle. She would have happily written into his words whatever nuance she wished. Perpetually wary, walls up Emma Swan had no patience for evasion. "What is it?"

Jean knew he wouldn't give a straight answer. Emma probably knew it, too.

"Well, one of the advantages of you not being the police is discretion. Let's just say it's a precious object and leave it at that."

Jean bit her cheek. She could tell. She should tell. But if Emma knew what Gold was after, she probably wouldn't help. It sounded like Ella was in some kind of trouble. But then, Gold was gifted at making things sound like one thing while they were really something else. Maybe Ella was fine. Could Jean take that risk?

Emma had apparently decided Gold wasn't worth the effort of pushing. She abandoned the topic of what the item was and moved to finding Ashley. "When did you see her last?"

"Last night. That's how I got this." He pulled back the long fringe that framed his face to reveal a large gash on the side of his forehead. Despite being several hours old, it was still bright red. It looked like it might begin to bleed again at any moment.

Jean gasped before she could even think of concealing her reaction. He was injured. "I'll get the first aid kit." She hurried to the bathroom. Rumple was immortal. He didn't get hurt, not unless he wanted to. But they were in the Land Without Magic now and his body was as vulnerable as anyone else's. He probably didn't even remember how to dress an injury without magic.

The sounds of their conversation followed her as she scurried across the apartment, growing quieter and indistinct. Or maybe that was her head buzzing.

Emma.

Ella.

An injury.

Bae.

The gash on Gold's forehead was almost a relief. She knew how to think about that, what to do about it. Jean focused on that. One thing at a time.

When she returned to the living room, Henry was there, too.

Everything about Gold transformed in the presence of a child. He sincerely liked children. Jean couldn't make sense of the way someone who moved babies like pawns on a chessboard could brighten so much when Henry walked into the room.

Maybe it was because he knew Henry's name. He had a thing about names.

Gold's softer manner with Henry was not mutual. Henry watched him with suspicion. Gold tried to make conversation with him, but Henry's responses were short and came out like questions. Emma was putting on her jacket and looked ready to usher her son away from a too-interested almost-stranger, so Jean assumed they were finished with the missing person portion of the interview.

"Mr. Gold," Jean said, "this way, please."

He made one last remark to Henry and Emma a piece before following Jean to the kitchen. "Give my regards to your mother. And, good luck, Miss Swan."

Jean waited for the footsteps to fade and the door to close again before she rounded on Gold. "After everything, you still can't leave Ella alone? Please, just walk away."

"It's not that simple. Even if I were the forgiving sort"—Gold gestured to his head, "the contract is too valuable."

Jean busied herself at the sink, lathering up a warm washcloth. "All she wants is her child. You of all people should understand that."

"I do understand. As does Miss Swan." Behind her, Jean heard him pull out a chair and sit. "That is precisely what makes her so valuable."

"I can't believe you are trying to justify terrorizing a teenage girl."

"She broke into my shop, attacked me and stole the contract."

Jean hesitated before reaching out to push Gold's hair away from his face. It was inappropriate at best to think about running her hands through his hair. She dabbed at his cut with the cloth. "You'd do worse, if the situations were reversed."

"But they aren't."

She had done her best to be gentle, but the cloth still came away red. "This might need stitches."

"Now who's dramatic?"

"No." She dropped the cloth in the sink. Jean dried her hands and his forehead. "You don't get to be playful right now."

"I have no intention of taking her child. The contract was unfulfilled when the curse came and it brought it over."

"I don't know that that makes it better," Jean sighed. There were bandages in the first aid kit, but she guessed Gold would not be amenable to that. The cut was on his face. She grabbed a tube of antibacterial ointment. "I mean, I'm glad you aren't actually trying to steal a baby, but now it feels like you're just tormenting her for no reason."

Gold clenched his jaw as Jean rubbed the ointment into the cut.

"Does that hurt?"

"No."

She screwed the cap back on the ointment and debated sending him home with it. Jean didn't want the cut to get infected, but he was perfectly capable of providing his own ointment. The entire urge to do it for him had been somewhat ridiculous, she supposed. He didn't need her to be his nurse.

"Miss Swan will benefit from seeing herself as someone who rescued Miss Boyd. She has to learn to be the hero this town needs."

"She's Snow and Charming's daughter."

Gold closed his eyes. "Yes."

"You ruined her life."

"That's rather extreme."

Jean's shoulders shook. She threw the ointment into the first aid kit. "Time was frozen. We were frozen. Everyone was separated from their families, but we didn't really miss anything. No one knew there was anything to miss. When the curse is broken, everyone will be reunited with their loved ones. All the children will be the same age. Everyone gets their lives back but Emma. She grew up alone. You can't undo that. And Snow and Charming! They missed her whole life!"

"I fail to see how that is my fault."

It was the worst thing he could have said. "You engineered all of this! You made her the Savior! You put her parents' love in the curse! You didn't have to do any of that! Any curse can be broken! It didn't need a weakness!" Jean swallowed hard. Her face was wet. When had she started crying? "You didn't need to ruin someone else's family. You had True Love."

"What I needed was a child born of True Love; what I had was insufficient."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Coldly, he said, "We both know I never touched you."

That was the essence of his game, wasn't it? A carefully phrased literal truth that could carry whatever nuance the listener wanted to hear. "Don't pretend you were the gallant gentleman protecting my virtue. You were just scared."

Gold looked incredulous. "Just listen to me. I can explain."

"Yeah. I know you can. I just don't think I want to listen right now."

"Belle"—

"Don't 'Belle' me, not now."

"Jean"—

"No."

"We are too close to everything we wanted."

"Everything you wanted." Jean steadied herself against the back of one of the other chairs. "I think I need to do some thinking about what I want."

"Please, we have come too far."

Jean licked her lips. "I think you should go."

Helplessly, he shook his head.

"Watch that cut. Don't let it get infected."

Gold rose to his feet. He began to reach for her. Jean backed away and his hand hung in the air.

"Good-bye, Mr. Gold."

Beta'ing by the dreaded Sith Lord Darthmelyanna.
Some dialog from episode 1x04.