A/N: Hello everyone. Y'all should be very happy. I pretty much abandoned all my other stories for you guys, because for the last eleven days, this has been pretty much the only fanfic I've made any progress with. Because I got it done so fast, I also apologies if the chapter seems rushed or if there are alot of grammar errors.

Also, I have not seen one single episode of OUAT Season 3. If anyone knows a website I could go to to watch it for free, I would be grateful if you sent me a PM about it. That's probably the only way I'm going to get to see it.

Enjoy.

Chapter 4:

It takes thirty years before I find my way back to that little farming town where Zoso died. Alot has happened in that time; through acouple of deals and bribes and well-placed comments, I'd gotten ahold of a pair of magic beans from the giants who farm them, and that in turn took me to the realm where Tor had gone.

In related news, Tor's dead.

It took me acouple months of wondering around that horrid little kingdom-Camelot, I think it was-to find that out. Upon arrival, I had immediately set about tracking him down. It hadn't taken me long to piece together what he was doing from the information I was getting. He was trying to track down our birth parents. I myself thought the whole endeavor stupid from the moment I realized what his quest was. Our parents obviously hadn't wanted us-why else would they send us realms away?

No, as far as I'm concerned, the closest thing I had to a father was Will and Killian's dad. He adopted us at a young age and raised us alongside the boys. He, at least, took care of us.

I hadn't stayed long in Camelot after Tor died. I hadn't seen any point. I didn't see any point in much of anything after that, to be honest.

So, to recap: Zoso died, then alittle less than a year later, Tor died. Then, when I got back, Killian told me that Will had died in some realm called Neverland-and that was something to the effect of five to seven years before I ever left for Camelot. (Apparently, Ian had to many pirate responsibilities, and couldn't get around to telling me).

So those first few years after Zoso died were hard on me. And by hard on me, I mean my own personal hell. But I'll spare you the details.

I sailed under Killian for acouple years, and being with him and his girlfriend-Milah, her name was-had been almost therapeutic. They had even talked, for a while, of going to find Milah's son, but they just never seemed to have the conviction to actually do it. And so, we remained an odd little family of three.

The first time we docked at that little town where my Dark One died, things went south.

I should've stayed with Killian, or at least stayed in that town. I think of that every night; the pain in Ian's eyes, how I wasn't there to help him.

I bitterly named the event the Karma Conundrum after hearing all the details, and how far back the feud went.

I had gone to a neighboring city to help out an old contact. In that time, Ian had gone and found himself plenty of trouble. Apparently, Milah's ex-husband was still hanging around that little town and Ian, being his usually self, offended the man. Come to find out, the man was more of an imp. The same little spinner I had spared, repaid the favor by killing Milah and nearly killing Ian.

Actually, I take that back; he did kill Ian, or he might as well have. Because after that day, he wasn't the same person. He was bitter, he was short-tempered, and he was cruel. He was me in a nutshell, and I never wanted that for him.

I left. It was cowardly, and weak, but I just couldn't look into that mirror anymore.

That's another of my regrets; that I left. Because not long after, I heard that the Jolly Roger had set sail for Neverland. For a while, I went about my business; bought a house, had a nice armory/enchantment store, made some deals here and there, and in the back of my mind, I kept a lookout for Killian's return.

But years passed. No sign of the Roger anywhere. I got worried, and like when Tor disappeared, I started searching. Everywhere I went, I hit nothing but dead ends. Few people knew of Neverland; the ones who did gave disheartening or inaccurate information.

I knew Killian wasn't-and still isn't-dead; upon my return from Camelot, I had taken the time to enchant his signet ring. Anywhere he was, any realm with magic (as there were rumors of a few without), if he died, the enchantment would kick in. That would cause the family ring my birth father had gifted me would stop glowing; and though the light dimmed several times over the years, it never went out, and always bounced back. So I continued my search, for the better part of 25 or 26 years.

That search-a search that involved nothing but dead ends, deals, several pissed-off nobles and rich families, (one incident of which wound up with me being thrown in a dungeon and tortured), eventually led me back to the cursed town that broke Killian and witnessed Zoso's death. I had been actively avoiding the place, and it's resident magician, but I had expended all my other options. I was desperate.

And that brings us to the local bar, and the first conversation I've had with a Dark One in nearly thirty years.

What an event that would turn in to.

Third Person POV

The bar, lit by a single large fireplace and acouple scattered candles, was warm-at least in comparison to the autumn air outside. It was the end of the week, pay day for anyone who wasn't self-employed, and at only eleven, the place was packed. Enough so that, between the bard and acouple musicians, and the antics of the customers, one had to shout to be heard.

That was true for the entire place, save for along the back wall. Everyone avoided the three booths along there like you would expect one to avoid the plague.

One man sat by himself in the middle booth along said wall, a rich dark-red cloak around his body and his hood up to conceal his face. His drink was in his hand, his elbow resting on the edge of the table, and though every now and then the drink might stray closer to his lips, he hadn't actually taken a drink in well over ten minutes. Instead, his eyes stared straight ahead, into and through the empty bench seat opposite him. He was deep in thought, and the others, knowing this, and knowing that only one man in these parts had the money for a cloak like that, left him be-and he them.

Almost anyone who had gone through some trauma or another knew the look in his eyes. It was a man who was, just for the night, letting himself feel; and when it comes to trauma, our other resident sorcerer would be the first to tell you that feeling it is dangerous.

He looked up for the first time in fifteen or so minutes as the bar door swung open, letting in a bone-chilling gust of wind. A group of the town guards and local soldiers sauntered in, laughing and talking obnoxiously loud; there was no doubt in anyones' mind that the ruffians were already plastered. The man ignored them, resuming his former pose of staring ahead and not moving.

Had he kept looking at them, however, he might have seen the figure that slipped in behind them, catching the door before it closed in front of her and opening it just enough to squeeze through, as to not let anymore attention-drawing wind in.

She was dressed in a dark skin-tight cotton shirt and pants, a stout sword with a rounded y-shaped handle resting on her left hip, and a small hunting knife on the right. Over all this was a black, rough-spun traveling cloak that came only half-way down her shins; the hood of the thing had long since been ripped off, and it appeared that the one-and-a-half inches of it that remained had gotten wet and frozen stiff, and so had been flipped up in the semblance of a trench coat's collar. Not having the protection the hood would have provided, she wore instead a brown wide-brimmed hat that cast long shadows over her face.

It took only a split-second of surveillance for her to zero in on the bar counter, and that was where she immediately went. The crowd parted for her; no one who looked at her would have found anything out the ordinary, but their bodies all seemed to subconsciously sense some kind of threat, and even if it was only by a few steps, each person moved out of the way-even though their conscious minds barely registered her presence.

She reached the bar and slid on a stool, and immediately ordered two shots of whiskey and a glass of rum. The bartender produced them-quicker than he did for most people, though he seemed to be unaware of this.

The woman removed her hat and sat it on the bar next to the three glasses, revealing brown hair highlighted with blonde and just a tinge of grey, and dark brown eyes that looked soullessly black when compared to her dark clothing. Her face was average in appearance; not nearly as attractive as the wealthy women of court, or even some of the women in that town, but still pretty enough-in a deep, haunted way that some might mistake as mysterious-that it drew the attention of acouple of the newly-arrived soldiers. Well, the ones with more realistic standards, anyway.

The woman ran a hand through her hair, then poured both shots of whiskey into the glass of rum and downed the concoction in one gulp. Setting the glass back down on the counter, perhaps slightly harder than necessary, she rotated first one shoulder then the other. Then she stood, traced a feather-light touch over the hat, and was already two steps away from the bar before it vanished into thin air.

First Person POV:

Either Rumplestiltskin doesn't sense my small show of magic, or perhaps he simply doesn't care, but either way he doesn't look up, or move at all for that matter.

I don't get two steps before a soldier, from the looks of it, blocks my path.

"Care for a drink?" he asks, offering his arm. I look him up and down. Young, handsome, and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes that I admit I find appealing.

"Maybe later." I say flatly. Would I like to join him? Definitely. But I'm here on business.

I sidestep, intending to go around him. He steps with me, a dangerous edge gathering in his features.

"Don't be like that, hun." he says lightly, though there's an underlying warning tone.

"I'm not your hun." I growl, brushing past him and continueing on my path.

I sense him turn, pick up the beginnings of the phrase "now, just hold on," and know that he reaches for my arm. It never makes contact.

As I take another step, there's the sound of a person dropping to their knees, and another step later the sound of a body hitting the ground.

I don't break stride.

It's another ten steps from there to Rumple's seat. As I walk, I cast a spell, and golden strings of light swirl around me, starting from the ground and going up, leaving light embroideries on my boot seams, continuing up around each leg separately to transform my pants into a finer, brand-new pair. The streams join back together around my torso to do the same to my shirt, adding more silver accents. It promptly fades out as it reaches my head and neck, only to re-appear in dark purple around my torso, going in a quick tornado-swirl that leaves behind Zoso's old dark-blue cloak, in as good a shape as the day it was first spun.

And two steps after the purple lights have faded, I arrive next to Rumple's booth. I cross my arms and shift my weight to one leg in the classic waiting stance.

It only takes acouple seconds for him to realize my presence, and he doesn't look up. "Sorry dearie, I'm not making any deals at the moment. If you're looking to sell your soul, try a politician. They're just as untrustworthy as I."

I bark a soft laugh, both at the joke and the 'deal' part. His head snaps around-just like, I muse, an owl's would. I twirl my hand in the air in front of me, then flip my wrist so my palm is facing the ceiling. A glass of scotch immediately appears in the appendage.

"My dear spinner, trust me when I say that I wouldn't need a deal to get what I want." I take a sip of my drink and look at him over the edge of the glass. I motion to the empty booth seat across from the magician. "May I?"

He squints, eyeing me warily, and without waiting for an answer, I plop down across from him and through back the rest of my drink. I toss the empty glass up in the air and give another tornado-twirl of the hand, and the glass is gone before it even starts it's decent. Acouple seconds pass in tense silence.

"Well out with it!" he says agitatedly. Lucky me, I caught him in a bad mood. He sets his drink down on the table in between us. "You're not here for the fun of it."

The mistrust and annoyance that he so readily expresses remains evident in his voice. That makes me assume that he remembers me; after all, I'm sure that no one from his past ever comes back for anything other than to mooch off him.

I ponder his words, and take a minute to look him up and down; his hair has turned a bit more wiry and curly, and sitting across from him I can easily see the light scaling over his body-greenish gray highlighted with speckles of gold. But he's not exactly unattractive- in fact, his brown puppy-dog eyes are absolutely beautiful- and I bet that those scales would have quite the interesting texture.

"Don't sell yourself short." I finally decide. "But no, unfortunately I've gotten about as far as I can with my own contacts. I was hoping for some expertise."

He leans forward, using one hand to point from himself to me as he talks. "You want me, to help you, for nothing in return." he gives a annoyed flourish of the hand and a smirk, and picks up his drink. "Sorry dearie, but that's not how it works."

My eye twitches. His use of the word dearie is starting to bring up the memory of the day Zoso and I met; that was the only time he ever used the nickname.

"I would offer something in return, but that would be considered a deal, now wouldn't it?" I growl with a humorless lupine smile. His smirk vanishes, and he leans in close.

"No one's helping anyone." he says in a low, dangerous tone. With a predatory grin, his next sentence ends in a unnerving half-singing voice, and the sudden exchange would normally be extremely unsettling. "Best get going, else the monster gets you."

I lean in to meet him, leaving only half an inch between our faces. In his eyes I can see my face reflected; see how my eyes have turned vibrant, unnatural amber and how my face elongates just slightly. How a wolf's canines flash in the firelight when I bare my teeth in a feral grin.

"You think you're the monster here?" I snarl; and the idea is down-right funny. He's been the Dark One for what, thirty years? I doubt he's had the time to do anything more heinous than I have. But I can see it in Rumple's face, that he think he has a claim to this title, and it sends anger shooting through me-(though that could also be contributed to the aggression in my wolf-blood that is oh-so-close to the surface).

Without thinking, my hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, the sleeve of his tunic falling back to show the scaling on his hand. His first reaction is to jerk away, but my grip is iron-tight, and stays firmly around the appendage. He goes still as I gently flip his hand palm-up, where his scales are least noticeable, and put my own hand on the table next to his. My claws flick out, gleaming ominously white in the candlelight, and looking at our hands, compared side by side, it's obvious who is the least human.

And it isn't the Dark One.

"The monster is right in front of you." The sound comes out in a quipped, gravely and grated voice, from the vocal cords of something that can't quite decide whether or not it's human, even though it never quite was in the first place. "So trust me when I say that I have nothing to fear."

Actually, I have exactly two fears, but he doesn't need to know that. "So show me some respect."

He looks down at my hands on his, and his smile morphs from dangerous to amused. And it's that look that makes me realize what exactly I just did-and that I shifted without meaning to.

Horrified, surprised at myself, and more than a little unnerved, I jerk my hands away and lean back in my seat, looking away and squeezing my eyes shut. I force myself to breathe in, to calm down and be a professional; to not think about the last two times I was in this damned little town. The changes slowly reverse, and I exhale shakily.

I plaster a pleasant smile on my face and look back up. I swear Rumple's eyes are softer than normal, for just a second, but it disappears the moment he sees me watching him again.

"Apologies. That hasn't happened in-" "I could see your eyes change, even from where I was standing." Zoso says. The sentence dies on my tongue. "It's this damn town. Too many memories."

If my reason for changing this time was bad memories, then what is my reason for that first time?

I plaster a pleasant smile on my face and look back up. I swear Rumple's eyes are softer than normal, for just a second, but it disappears the moment he sees me watching him again.

"Apologies. That hasn't happened in-" "I could see your eyes change, even from where I was standing." Zoso says. The sentence dies on my tongue. "It's this damn town. Too many memories."

If my reason for changing this time was bad memories, then what is my reason for that first time?

I study the man in front of me, and know that I don't particularly want to find out.

He picks up his drink, takes a sip, and leans back in his chair.

"What does the little wolf need help with, hmm dearie?" he asks.

The little wolf. Well, it's better than just plain 'dearie'.

"Realm hopping." I answer. He freezes, something going through his eyes, but he covers it up quickly. "More specifically, I need to get into a realm no one has ever come out of, find my brother, and get back out. I've actually got the details hammered out, I just need alittle magic to use as a jump-starter."

"And your own won't suffice?" he sneers sarcastically. I bare my teeth in warning.

"My magical skills are excellent, thank you. But I had a friend who was a Dark One once, and I know for a fact that what I'm asking won't be all that challenging to you."

In all actuality, I'm lying through my teeth; if it wasn't challenging to a Dark One, then I would be able to find some way to get it done. In fact, my plan is going to be rather hard-and probably painful-for both of us, and more or less relies on Rumple and I becoming fast friends.

No pressure.

But meanwhile, my mention of Zoso has set Rumple on edge-even though he does very well at hiding it. Neither of us bothers to comment further on this, though.

"Sorry, little wolf, but I have better things to do."

"Oh really?" I say, cocking an eyebrow. "You mean things like, say, finding your way into a Land Without Magic?"

He goes stock still. We stare at each other, neither of us moving. It's a risk, revealing what I know about him, and it's not going to win me any trust, but my skills of persuasion don't work very well on fellow magicians, (my 'skills of persuasion' are usually limited to alliance-making and threatening, neither of which are an option here), and as I'm getting nowhere as it is, I'm forced to switch tactics.

"You are mistaken." Rumple says.

But I had spent every waking hour (and I don't sleep well, so my waking hours are almost 24 hours a day) of the past year doing my research. Planning Killian's rescue. Preparing for this one conversation, because the entirety of my plan rests on obtaining the Dark One's help.

"Do not lie to me, Rumpelstiltskin."

"Me? Lie? I'm hurt, really."

"I said, do not to lie to me." I say icily. "I'm a wolf; I know when people are lying."

He leans in. "I said I am not lie-"

I hold my hand up, cutting him off. "Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, and a subtle change in the hormones your body is producing. You are lying, Rumplestiltskin."

His face goes hard. Shuts down on all emotions. I know the look; it is the look of a man about to do what he must to protect what is his. I also know that if I don't cool him back down quickly, this meeting will not go the way I need it to.

True, there isn't much he can do to me-as part of my curse, I can skate near the edge of death, and have but will never die. Others I have angered have known or realized this, and trust me when I say there are things so much worse, so much more creative you can do to a person than killing them. And, if we're using my own as a baseline, I have no doubt that Rumpelstiltskin has a very creative imagination.

But I've not survived this long without taking risks.

"How did you find out?" He asks.

I snort. "Through a long and complicated process. And I wouldn't recommend you going back to interrogate my sources; the ones that aren't already dead have had their memory wiped."

There's a moment of tense silence before I continue.

"Now, if we are done with false pretenses, I would like to offer my assistance in your endeavor, in exchange for your assistance in mine."

"I'm not making any deals." he growls.

"I'm not proposing a deal." His lips curl back in a sneer before I'm even done with the sentence. "I'm proposing an alliance."

Though the choose of the word 'alliance' seems to draw his attention, he looks wholefully uninterested in the offer.
"Listen closely, little wolf: I do not need nor want you help, and you are not getting mine." (Again, he props one elbow up on the table and uses his hand to point between us as he talks).

I glare at him, and he glares at me. Not the glares you would see on the common man, which is all anger and venom and hate focused into a stare. This is a glare that you would see between kings or nobles, the kind where one powerful person and another exchange icy looks of cold, controlled anger, each waiting for the other to break the silence, or waiting for a twitch or a tell to reveal some weakness.

And I can see no weakness in Rumplestiltskin's eyes.

I do not look away as I summon another, taller glass of alcohol-scotch, this time. I do not look away as I bring the glass to my lips. In fact, our eye contact only breaks when I throw my head back to gulp down nearly half of the drink. When I look back and find those brown eyes again, they're more relaxed, but still unyielding.

That little flame of hope that has kept me going for twenty-five years starts to flicker out.

My eyes itch, my body's warning that they've turned amber-gold. I lock onto Rumple's eyes, and this time my gaze is pleading. But my voice is flat.

"And there's nothing I can offer that will change your mind."

It is not a question.

Not for the first time, I can see my reflection in his eyes. Desperate, pleading, and, for just a split-second before I reign myself back in, broken. But that look is quickly gone, only flashing across my face for such a short amount of time that I'm left thinking we both probably assume we imagined it. Then my features harden as I shove my pain and dying hope down, holding my emotions back until I can find a more creative way to let them out.

"'Night, then. I wish you the best of luck."

I stand, take a half -step, then turn back. My sudden lack of motion makes Rumple tense up; expecting a fight, in all likelihood. I glance down at him, and can't help but remember that day all those years ago, when I didn't intervene on the road. I produce a single bean from my pocket; it pulses ever-so-faintly with blue-green magic.

Rumple looks to it, then to me, and his face is guarded and suspicious.

Every logical part of my brain starts screaming at me.

No, you idiot! Hold on to it! You can find another magician to help, but you only have one bean! For gods' sakes, that could be Ian's ticket out of Neverland!

But a memory pierces through these thoughts; an image, more specifically. Of Rumple's little boy. What was his name? Bae, I think. He didn't have a mother; no, she was galavanting around the seas with my brother. It was him and his father, and that was all the family he had.

I can feel, deep down in my bones, that that boy needs his father as much as his father obviously needs him. Killian will always be my baby brother, but he's a grown-ass man. It might be hell for me, and it might be highly unpleasant for him, but I trust that he will be able to last on his own much longer than Baelfire will.

I set the bean on the table in front of the spinner.

"I only have one. It'd be a one-way ticket."

He picks it up warily, gently, and glances to me. "Why?"

That's all I get; one syllable to convey suspicion and confusion.

I shrug. "You were my ticket in. That was my ticket out. But like I said, it's a one-way thing. If I use that bean, there'd be no easily coming back. And it's not going to help Ian if the cavalry gets trapped right along with him."

I repeat those words in my head, holding on to them for later when I need a logical reason for being so stupid. "Use it to be with your son, pawn it off as payment in some plot; I don't really care. But you'll get more use out of it than I will."

He holds it thoughtfully between his thumb and index finger, not even attempting to filter his facial expression. The ones that shine through the brightest make him look haunted, untrusting, and even angry. He doesn't look up from it as he speaks.

"And what, exactly, do you expect in return for this?"

Your help with Killian, Some part of me wants to scream.

"Nothing."

Rumplestiltskin's head snaps up.

"Don't play games, little wolf. Everyone wants something; thats the reason they come to me." He almost says 'thats the only reason', I can tell, and sympathy bubbles up in me, because that's how it was for me once people heard of the things I could do. "Let me guess; you're going to say that I can have the bean, if I help you. And when I refuse that deal, you're going to demand a favor for chasing off a drunk over three decades ago."

I shake my head. "When I say nothing, I mean nothing. And I'm not going to ask for some favor either. I didn't expect anything in return then and I'm not expecting compensation for it now."

"Am I suppose to believe that that, and this-" his tone is mocking, sarcastic, and disdainfully unbelieving, as it rightly should be, and he holds up the bean- "Is just from the goodness of your heart?"

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." I shoot back coldly.

He stares at me in utter perplexment. Well, stares is a nice term. The look he gives me is more like that untrusting, hate-filled glare that you give a coiled snake-one who, though it hasn't stuck yet, you know is going to.

"Why do you feign kindness?" he finally demands; and he sounds genuinely angry and insulted. "If this is suppose to somehow guilt me into helping you, then you have greatly overestimated my morals. I am perfectly fine with taking this and never thinking of you again."

"Great. I'll leave you to it."

The comment does not seem to help. In fact, all it really succeeds in doing is making the Dark One more suspicious and agitated than he already is. I roll my eyes and give an exasperated sigh.

"If it really bothers you that much, then I ask that, in return for giving you this bean, you promise to use it to get back to your son, whether directly or indirectly. No child should have to be alone."

Well, on the bright side, he doesn't seem as suspicious anymore; from the way he looks at me like I've grown a second head, I would wager to guess that he now thinks I'm insane.

Also on the bright side, he hasn't said 'dearie' in nearly ten minutes.

Finally, he mumbles under his breath, "People don't help monsters." And some of that paranoia returns in his gaze as he looks at the bean.

"No, people don't help monsters." I concede, and the Dark One turns his gaze to me once again. "That's why you get something for free while I leave here empty-handed."

Without another word, I cast a spell and am gone.