Note to Guest: I'm glad you liked it. Sorry to say, but don't think there's another Pan in this world, although it might be interesting to see what happened if he showed up.

X

Rumplestiltskin allowed himself to stretch a little when the doctor wasn't there, forcing himself up on his good leg and moving around a little. His bad leg screamed in pain in ways it hadn't since the Ogre Wars, but he'd seen what happened when the wounded developed bedsores from lying in one place, day after day.

The doctor didn't think of such things, not here, though Dr. Beaton's notebooks had had extensive writing on the steps he'd taken to reduce bedsores and similar ailments. Rumplestiltskin had seen firsthand the hospital still followed those procedures. Did Hastings not worry about such things? Or did he hope for the chance to cut rotting flesh out of Rumplestiltskin? He talked about how badly he needed Rumplestiltskin alive, the only catalyst he'd found since Cashel had managed to kill himself. But, then he got that mad glow in his eyes as he worked.

It was the same madness that had consumed Cashel, Rumplestiltskin thought. The would-be wizard had been caught because he took greater and greater risks to get magic. He'd barely used it, from the sound of it, he just wanted the thrill he felt when it was coursing through him. Like an opium addict who needed more and more of the drug to get the effect he wanted, Cashel had needed more and more power—and the pain and death that went with it.

I want it, Rumplestiltskin thought. I want that power as badly as Cashel ever did.

He wanted it so he could escape, so he could rescue Bae. He told himself he didn't want it the same way Hastings did. He told himself he didn't need the thrill of power or the sadistic joy of his victims suffering.

Though he'd felt it, all the same, hadn't he? When Hastings used the knife.

And, to get it—to just have the chance of getting it, he'd already helped Hastings, breaking the limits he'd set for himself. Oh, what he'd told him was a small thing, and he'd tried to hold back as many details as he could—even included a bit of misinformation, trying to make Hastings believe the spell would hardly work over great distances.

But, he'd helped him. He'd given him real knowledge, not just acted as a sounding board while Hastings discussed his ideas. It wasn't just that someone might die from this (though it would be on Rumplestiltskin's head if he'd helped Hastings to another victim). Hastings' sanity might be wearing away, but he was still an intelligent man. For all his ignorance, it was frightening what he'd cobbled together about magic. A correct principle here or there could lead him to others—or just to applications Rumplestiltskin hadn't thought of.

And it was so hard to think. His leg burned. The pain had been keeping him from sleep, the one escape he still had (though, when he did sleep, he never found Rhosyn in his dreams. She had shut him out). Being chained like this, trapped in the dark, he wondered some days if he was going mad—or if he had gone mad.

It was a beautiful thought, that none of this might be real, that the dangers all around him—the death and the blood—were just a madman's delusions. He was chained in a cage because of the danger he represented and because he deserved to be here. So easy, he thought, to tell himself that was true and stop fighting.

But, if he believed that, he would tell Hastings everything he wanted to know. . . .

Someone was at the door. Painfully, Rumplestiltskin lowered himself back down. He tried to keep his weight on his good leg, but his bad leg suddenly crumpled under him and he went the rest of the way down. The sudden movement made it burn and red lights danced in front of his eyes. The stitches remained in place, however, and there was no blood.

Maybe he had none left to give, he thought wryly. The doctor had taken enough from him.

It wasn't one of his days to be bled, so Rumplestiltskin wasn't surprised to see Lucas and Stephens rolling in a trolley bed. With a body covered by a sheet. A good sign, actually. If the doctor didn't want people to see the face of the prisoner, it was probably someone who would recognized. That usually meant a person who would be missed. Not one he'd kill, then.

But, when they removed the sheet, Rumplestiltskin saw a well-dressed woman. This was someone respectable, as they said, a well-off woman likely to have family and friends—or servants, at the very least—who would notice if she vanished. That was good for her. Surely, that meant Hastings would let her go. Soon.

Only, he'd never brought someone like this here before. Rumplestiltskin watched as Lucas and Stephens lifted her off of the trolley and onto the small cot. They removed her shoes—good, solid walking shoes that had seen little wear—and put the shackle around her ankle. The shoes they put on floor at the foot of the cot. He tried to tell himself that was a good sign, too, but the doctor had chests where he sometimes put away clothes of people he'd killed, neatly folded and wrapped in paper, marked with dates and names. Rumplestiltskin had seen him use one or two articles in spells but nothing significant. The doctor, he supposed, was trying to come up with some rationalization for keeping them, some proof that it was a cold, logical act. But, Rumplestiltskin had seen him taking out some of them from time to time, fingering the clothes of a particularly gruesome kill. Logic had nothing to do with it.

And, now, he'd taken a woman from a class he'd never touched before. Maybe she had something he needed, information, some family heirloom with legends about its magic powers, something like that, something harmless.

Except, the doctor had taken one woman from the upper classes before, hadn't he? Rhosyn was gentleman's daughter. She'd been easy prey, a governess from far off Waels, a woman with no family and no close friends in the city. With her employer dead and Hastings having very different ideas about what kind of education Wendy should have, no one would wonder at her being sent away.

Still, she was a lady, and taking her was a bigger risk than taking a child from the workhouse. Hastings had done it because Rhosyn's gift made her worth the trouble. This woman didn't have the bright, red hair Rumplestiltskin associated with seers; but that didn't mean anything. This world, at least, had stories about the sighted that never mentioned such things. Besides, there were other gifts. If Hastings thought she had one, there'd be a lot of risks he'd be willing to take to get ahold of her.

He let his good leg lie straight, but his bad one was bent towards him. It seemed to help with the pain. There was nothing to do but wait for the woman to wake up. Hopefully, when he spoke with her, he would find out she'd be one of the lucky ones who left this place alive and more or less unhurt.

It wasn't long. Hastings was good at judging his drugs. Well, he had the experience, didn't he? The woman began to stir. She put a hand to her head and, much to Rumplestiltskin's surprise, cursed. It was something women on the East Side did often enough (Milah, when she was drunk, had been known to make hardened sailors blush), but upper class women didn't (Wendy had come to him with lists of words she picked up, mainly by reading, just to know which ones were appropriate to say in public and which weren't. "I used to be able to ask Father or Miss Thomas," she told him. "But, Miss Grosvenor nearly fainted the first time I asked."). The woman also did it with an Americhan accent.

"I'm going to kill Jefferson," she rasped as she sat up.

X

Emma's first thoughts were of Jefferson. The Mad Hatter had got her again. She ought to shovel his tea down his throat till he thought Snow White's sleeping curse was a minor nap. Then, she took in her surroundings and realized this wasn't Jefferson's place, not unless he'd seriously redecorated (and he'd had plenty of time to redo his house in early Dracula during the twenty-eight years he'd had nothing to do but spy on the town and make hats if that was what he wanted).

She looked at the marble table, the one with lots and lots of straps. Jefferson was into making magic hats and getting his daughter back. If bondage was the way to do it, fine by him. But, that operating table just wasn't his style.

Besides (her memories were beginning to line up), there wasn't any Jefferson here. She was in . . . actually, maybe this world was early Dracula. Or early Frankenstein. She'd have to ask Whale next time she saw him.

Maybe going over to talk to Dr. Hastings hadn't been her most brilliant plan ever.

Mary Margaret, talking to her about the differences between fairy tales the way they were written down and the way they really happened, had once said, "Most people, if they find out someone is really the wicked witch in disguise, don't go running off to tell her they've figured it out, not without backup."

That wasn't exactly what Emma had done. All right, maybe she should have grabbed a maid servant or two to walk with her—good advertisement that, yes, there really were people who knew where she was going and who would ask questions when she didn't come back—but the rich-but-eccentric-American (oops, Americhan)-thinking-of-donating-LOTS-of-money had seemed like a safe alternative.

And, it hadn't seemed like such a bad idea to offer condolences on his secretary's death. Hastings (or maybe it was Wendy, Emma wasn't sure) was their landlord, more or less. It was a little touch of the personal. It didn't seem like a risky thing to say.

Only, Hastings had been curious himself and asked a few questions, more questions than Emma felt safe answering right then. She'd brushed them off, moving quickly to the running of the hospital. What she'd seen of the place had been reassuring. It wasn't a prehistoric horror show with amputated limbs left in lying around in hallways that hadn't been cleaned in the past decade she realized she'd somehow been expecting. The place was clean and well lit, lots of windows letting in lots of sunlight (or what there was of it in Londyn). It had an over sterilized smell, but it was a hospital. What else should it smell like?

Hastings let her change the subject and didn't seem overly concerned. If he weren't a murder suspect, Emma would have thought he was acting naturally enough. If he'd thought of Gold (no, Weaver) as more of a friend than (how had Neal put it?) a toaster, then his follow up questions to someone else who expressed an interest in the dead man made sense.

But, she began catching him in small, little lies. Of course, he was pleased that she had come to visit (lie). He'd always had the greatest respect for women who took up charitable causes (another lie). She seemed an intelligent, perceptive woman (screaming, naked falsehood).

He wasn't the first man she'd met who lied about that stuff. Skip the Victorian Era, there were plenty of guys back home who were lying through their teeth when they talked about respecting women, especially their dates.

But, because he was getting on her nerves (and because she wondered where the bodies were buried), Emma asked a few questions about their "long term" patients, people with drawn out illnesses they were never going to recover from, the insane, people like that. "I hate to think of people being brought here and forgotten," she said, trying to work her way up to finding out what they did with the bodies no one claimed (she'd been pressing her luck and she knew it. You didn't ask those sort of questions unless you knew no one would stop you from walking out of the room again. But, she was a rich, eccentric lady that lots of people had seen walk in. How could she know the idiot running this place would risk no one seeing her walk out?).

Hastings eyes had sharpened. "It is tragic when a patient has no one," he'd said, and Emma felt the lie. "We try to make them comfortable, of course." Not a lie. "That's easy enough with ordinary illnesses, providing clean beds and wholesome surroundings. I admit, it becomes difficult with some of the mentally insane."

"The insane?" Emma pressed.

"Oh, yes, the hospital has an asylum attached to it, as I mentioned earlier. Many of the patients are quite tractable, of course." Truth. "But, others can be quite difficult. Keeping them secure is often outweighs other factors." Truth.

"Other factors?" Emma said. "I don't follow."

"They must be kept restrained lest they hurt themselves or others. That creates other difficulties. I don't mean to shock your sensibilities—" Lie. He probably didn't think Emma had any. "—but, the men, the difficult cases, are kept naked for ease of care. Easier to bathe them, to clean up after them, and to keep them from getting hold of anything they might hurt themselves with. Of course, in the case of women, decency requires certain compromises, especially for the violent ones. Male guards often have to handle them, and it would be highly improper not to consider that." He believed what he was saying. Emma knew it was just her prejudice against creepy guys who didn't mind chaining up people naked because that made them "easier" to work with, but Hastings was going right to the top of her suspect list.

Besides, despite a pretty good poker face, Emma could see he was smirking as he told her. Probably expected her to turn swooning maiden and run out the door for her smelling salts. Not happening.

Which was why she'd stuck around, asking other questions, and had drunk the tea he'd given her.

She really had to learn when to beat a hasty retreat. Emma reached through her pocket to the flap that let her get at the gun strapped to her thigh. Not there.

Emma checked for her other guns and a couple of knives. All gone. She let out a small string of curses. Someone here actually knew how to do a proper body search. Guess the asylum had taught them what to watch out for.

Whatever was going on, she needed to get out of here. She didn't know why a 19th century doctor with at least one suspicious death in his background would chain up a woman who asked too many questions in a creepy, underground lair, but none of the likely answers sounded good.

A raspy, hoarse voice asked, "How are you? Are you feeling better? I know the doctor's drugs can be . . . disorienting."

Okay, that was disturbing. She wasn't alone.

Emma stared into the darkness, willing herself to see what was there. She'd noticed the darkness at the end of the room, of course, but she hadn't thought of something living being locked up with her. Mistake. Neal was never going to let her hear the end of this when she got out (and she would, Emma told herself. That part was a given).

As her eyes adjusted, she began to make out bars. Someone had built a cage in here. Emma looked at the chain around her ankle. Whoever was in there, they were more worried about keeping that person locked up tight than they were about her.

Well, wasn't that was comforting?

She could make the dim outline of a human shape inside. At first, the form's slenderness and the cascade of long, lank hair made her thing it was a woman, despite the voice. Then, the speaker shifted slightly and she was able to see his bare chest. A man, then.

The men, the difficult cases, are kept naked for ease of care.

That's what Hastings had said. But, Emma didn't think you locked up women you'd kidnapped with a violent madman before you even questioned them. Or whatever you meant to do with them (Emma had tracked down a few sickos in her time and seen a lot of horror movies. She could think of a lot of "whatever"). Not unless there was something really, really wrong with you—or if you just didn't care if the woman survived, bars or no bars. She thought of Little Shop of Horrors and the guy feeding people to his plant (Emma knew a girl who couldn't look a salad in the face without being creeped out for a month after she'd seen that movie).

The man didn't look dangerous—or man-eating—and he hadn't sounded crazy. Or as not-crazy as you could sound when you were saying hello to the new person in the dungeon. All the same, he was chained, his hands above his head. Someone didn't trust him too far.

Since that someone was Dr. Hastings, Emma didn't think she'd hold it against him, or not till she knew how her cellmate felt about salads.

He looked weary, his head bent downwards. One leg was stretched out straight. The other was bent at the knee and drawn towards his chest, hiding his privates. The leg was badly scarred and twisted. Most of it looked like an old injury, but some of it looked raw and only half-healed. She could see the black stitches holding it together.

"Your—your leg," Emma stuttered.

"It's naught," he said, he had a Scottish burr. It was becoming thicker or she could just make it out better. The hoarseness in his voice seemed to be fading. "An old wound, nae more."

"Those are fresh cuts over your old wound."

"You've sharp eyes," he said, lifting his head and shaking his hair out of the way to get a better look at her.

That was when Emma gaped. It wasn't possible. It wasn't possible.

"Gold?" she whispered. "Gold?"

The man looked at her warily. "I beg your pardon?"

That was what convinced her. It wasn't said with the dry irony Emma might have expected from the pawnbroker she knew, the tone that suggested he was only pretending not to know every last thing she was thinking. Instead, he looked like he was wondering how dangerously insane she was. But, Gold was the only person she knew who could be chained up naked in what looked like a madman's workroom and politely beg the pardon of another prisoner who mistook him for a familiar face.

But, of course, he wasn't Gold in this world. "Weaver?" she asked. She swallowed, getting up her nerve. She had to ask this. "Rumplestiltskin?"

It couldn't be happening, Emma thought. People didn't catch Gold and put him in cages. The one time she'd locked him up back in Storybrooke, she hadn't been able to shake the feeling she was like someone who'd tied a sleeping tiger with a paper chain and was just waiting to see what happened when he woke up and decided to do something about it. People didn't humiliate and starve Rumplestiltskin. The man wore dignity like a second skin. Ruby had once said she didn't think he had his suits ironed, because any wrinkle that valued its life ran for the hills as soon as it saw Gold coming. Even without magic, he'd been like a one-man mafia in Storybrooke.

She'd thought, when she came here, she was investigating a murder. Murder she could believe. Almost. Easier than she could believe this. After all, people had almost murdered Rumplestiltskin before, not that it had worked out too well for any of them. Most of them—well, all of them, really—wound up dead. But, it was something you could believe someone doing. In theory. It wasn't like lots of people didn't want him dead.

Besides, Emma had been pretty sure the only way you would keep Gold away from his son was if he was a corpse. Looked like she was wrong. Although (Emma studied the room, especially the operating table, one more time), maybe she wasn't that far from being right.

But corpses didn't have eyes like that. Rumplestiltskin's bored into hers, desperate and starved. "Who are you?" he breathed. "How do you know that name? Are you—" his expression changed, like a drowning man who had given up all hope suddenly seeing a chance of rescue. "—are you from there?"

"The Enchanted Forest?" Emma said. "Yeah."

His face lit up with a hope so raw it hurt. "Can you—are you—" He began. Then, just as suddenly, the light in his eyes went out, replaced by horror. He looked at the chain around her ankle. "Does he know?"

"He?"

"Hastings. Does he know what you are?" His voice fell to a whisper, as though he were afraid of being heard, even here. "Are you a witch, a seer—no, you haven't their eyes—sighted, then. Anything like that?"

His eyes were full of fear—fear for her, Emma realized.

Rumplestiltskin didn't do fear for other people.

OK, he did it for Belle. And she'd seen him do it for Henry. And Neal. But, he didn't do it for strangers, which was all she was to this guy. And he didn't let it show, as naked and exposed as the wound in his leg.

"Uh, something. Kind of. I haven't learned how to use it," Emma said.

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes. She felt like she'd gutted him. "You have to get out of here," he said. "You have to escape. You—you don't know what he'll do to you."

She swallowed. "What's he done to you?"

There was an amused glint in his eyes. That was Gold, that small glow of black humor as he glanced at his bars, but he didn't call her out on the stupid question. "It doesn't matter," he said. He gave a wry, grim smile. "I'm . . . tenacious of life. There's naught much else he can do to me. But, depending on your gift. . . ." He swallowed. She recognized that look. Sometimes, witnesses or the criminals themselves had seen things they didn't know if they wanted to share. There was a look they got right before deciding to spill. Gold had it. ". . . . he may feed you poisons that will drive you mad." He glanced at his knee and grimaced. "He may cut you apart by inches."

Emma looked at his knee. "Why? What did you ever do to him?"

"I'm . . . a catalyst. So, he says. In our world, I . . . had a gift for magic. There's very little magic here. Hastings has . . . found ways to . . . to gather it. Or gather the raw energy that can become magic. To make the final change, he needs me. Or someone like me. He uses my blood." He grimaced at his knee. "Or other things. If he thinks you're the same . . . you don't want him to think that."