Sorry for the wait guys! My betas had a busy week, and I load 'em down with two chapters. But hey, I'd rather have wonderfully edited chapters published than crappy ones. Thank you so much, Juilette & Jester!

Expect 38 tomorrow morning/Wed...

Thanks for the support, hope you enjoy this! Please review!

Though the weather is frigid, we begin to go on walks again. They aren't nearly as quiet as before. We talk of everything—the town, Regina, Emma, books, music, the world outside. I'd never left Storybrooke for anything more than a daytrip. All of my family is here, and my family was never really the vacationing type. The most we ever did was camping by the river. However, Mr. Gold has seen something of the world. He has been all around, the result of poverty in his youth. When those stories had passed, he would quietly describe his life before Storybrooke and between the travels, his life with Bailey and Mora. Mora, his wife.

I never worked up the nerve to make direct inquires. He spoke in a monologue, giving acute (yet vague) descriptions. The questions I might've voiced are quick to die on my tongue. He is already vulnerable, my prying would likely not help matters

Their life sounds beautiful. While Mora comes to be a secondary character, mentioned only in passing, it is Bailey who receives the lion's share of attention. He was a witty boy, quick on his feet, tender-hearted. He liked horses, could out run most of the village, and disliked fish. They lived in a very secluded little cottage, nestled on the outskirts of a Scottish village. Mora cooked very well with their meager cupboard. It is a far cry from my partner's current lifestyle.

I try very hard not to compare myself to this faceless beauty who knew Mr. Gold before the limp, before he turned bitter and hard toward the world, before he was worth millions, before even I was born. It is a difficult occupation. But not when Mr. Gold describes her nature.

"She lacked empathy," he recalls. "Do not mistake me, she was kind, just…not relatable."

This lessens my insecurities by a fraction. Between Mora and Calla, my head grows quite dizzy. I've never been with anyone who has had long-lived past relationships. Most people my age might've had one serious partner once, but two was unheard of. I get quite a feeling of cold when thinking of these women.

Bay, on the other hand, warms me. A father-son relationship is an entirely different creature. Any jealousy there would be useless and ill-spirited.

-XXX-

"Are you happy?" the imp asks me one evening. We're not in the clearing, but in a castle sort of thing. There is a spinning wheel in one corner, a long table down the center of the room, and many glass trinkets spread about. Tall drapes go from floor to ceiling on one wall. Though grandly appointed, the room has a sense of dreariness about it—much like the upper rooms of Mr. Gold's manor.

I drift around the room, running a hand along the table. "I suppose so. Why?"

"You don't act happy." He tilts his head, giving me a light cackle. "In fact, one would think you were living out a prison sentence."

Tracing out the pattern of a leaf out of the carpet with my toe, I shake my head. "No. I'm happy enough. Just sick of….this."

The imp watches me. He's sitting in a high-backed armchair at the head of the table, eye half-lidded. An air of annoyance emulates from him tonight. I walk to the other side of the table to examine the drapes.

"Have you ever heard of a story," I ask, "About a trickster and a young maiden?"

He snorts. "There are many stories of tricksters. Have you any key plot points to tell me?"

"Well," I hesitate. "The maiden meets with the trickster twice every month, at the full and dark moon, and tells him this never-ending story. They sort of fall in love, but then the trickster is captured and…well, it ends there, really."

My imp considers this. His frozen jaw line briefly reminds me of Mr. Gold's, and I find myself ducking my head. A lot of things about this imp are beginning to remind me of Mr. Gold.

"Yes. I have." He props his feet, encased in knee-high books, up on the edge of the long table.

"Do you know its ending?"

He eyes me. "Of course not. It isn't over yet."

-XXX-

There was one thing, however, about Bay, that worried me. I voice this worry after a great deal of thought.

"Do you want children?"

The fatal question. The question that can ultimately make or break a potential life-long commitment. As I am still unsure, it doesn't hold quite as much weight with me.

We're on a walk when I pop the question. It had started with companionable silence. Now the quiet is significantly heavier. Yet our pace does not slow. He's considerably limber, even on the roughest parts of the path. At some part, I'm the one clinging to him as he gracefully moves over steep inclines, rocks, and the like. Gold finds this most amusing, his lips twitching into a quirk whilst I stumble and fall as effortlessly as he glides. Needless to say, it's irritating.

"Why do you ask?" He peers at me curiously.

Staring ahead, I answer, "It's just something important to know."

Gold considers this. I lurch forward on the path, falling against the trunk of an oak. The culprit, a round-ish terracotta-coloured stone, sits innocently in the middle of the path. I glare.

"Would you be willing to give them to me?"

Whoa. And I'd thought my question was weighty.

"Uh, kids?" I squeak. My hands brush rough bark, encountering a patch of moss. I rake my fingers through it.

"Yes."

Truth be told, I'd never sat down and thought out that particular aspect of my life. To have kids, one needs a proper life partner. And, up until two months ago, I'd not had many prospects of acquiring one. Bookish and meek, suitors had never flocked to my door. Besides, I'd never really liked kids. I figured it was something that would alter with age. I was right—I no longer abhorred them, but they were still not my preferred choice of company.

"I guess it would depend on…." I hesitate, "….circumstances. I mean, kids are a big commitment. That's why I asked you. I assume you'd want some."

He smirks. "It would depend on circumstances."

"But really," I persist. "If you could?"

"Yes," he says without a moment's consideration. "I would love to have one or so."

One? I frown. Though we'd had our spats, I loved my brothers and sisters. Sure, there were hand-me-downs, fights, neglect, broken toys, and sharing issues. But there were also epic games of make-believe, someone to always read me a bedtime story, a comfortable constant level of noise about the house. Chris was still my best friend. Tom had been the best big brother. Jen and Drew were bossy pests, but I was always dressed neatly, and my lunches were always packed. Ricky and Gerry could be total brats, but I always had someone would could fix my bike. We were relatively happy. One kid, all on their own…?

Mr. Gold continued. "If you wish, we could adopt."

This isn't disagreeable. Still, I'd always thought, if I were to have kids, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to carry a baby to term. It's supposed to be a bonding thing, or something.

I pull away from the oak, hands migrating to the nearest pine branch. The soft bristles tickle my palm.

"Would you want children, Ophelia?"

"I don't even know your name," I admit softly.

He quirks his thin lips. "I suppose that's fair enough. Couldn't you just dream me one up, then?"

The subject of dreams—particularly mine—hasn't been breached since my hospital visit nearly a month ago. They faded, temporarily, with our distance. But now that we're back to sharing a bed, I've found them to haunt me again. They are a constant, playing about the edges of my mind. The clearing in the woods. The stone prison. The circular castle. The golden imp. Gold. Gold.

I wonder if I am projecting upon my imp Mr. Gold's characteristics. It's not unheard of. Vague memories of my high school psychology class' dream unit arises. Later, I remind myself, I'll go to the library and browse a few books on dream psychology. If it is Mr. Gold who is haunting me nightly, then why?

"I'd rather not."

"And of children?"

The question stumps me again. We've been together for a total of almost three months. Three turbulent months. I've settled nicely enough; I like the house, our routine, our banter, etcetera. Sometimes, it's as if we've been together much longer. But we haven't. And that's not okay; it's not ideal circumstances for raising children.

I still feel as though we're on an unlevel playing field. I've stepped up over the last month alone, but he still holds the advantage over me. Nothing more than power. I need a solid, level, equal relationship. This power struggle cannot go on, not if we want a future. Especially not if we want a future that involves children.

"Someday," I finally manage. "But not now."

Judging from his small smile, that was the right answer exactly.