A/N: Hello, everyone! I hope you are all enjoying this three-week hiatus of Once. Hopefully, this chapter will tide you over a bit.

August ached in every bone—and splinter—in his body the next morning. It hurt to walk, it hurt to eat, it even hurt to lay there on his back in bed. It wasn't exactly easy falling asleep at night when your legs were virtual trees. His broken wrist was the worst. He had gotten it checked out after his brutal confrontation with Gold last night, but, oh, it made his teeth throb in agony.

He wondered if turning to wood would remedy the situation any.

It was a herculean effort to rise out of bed—or rather, fall out of bed and land face-first on the floor. All he wanted to do was sleep it off, but he knew the pain would only continue to worsen. Hiding away in the shadows of his room would only give Gold undue satisfaction. The image of his potential smirk instilled a new wave of inspiration in August.

He would do this last task before becoming a life-size dummy. He would make Emma believe.

So, he miserably clutched a handful of the blanket with his good hand and tried to use it as leverage to get to his feet. Only the blanket slipped off the bed and he collapsed back onto his butt again. Flinging his body toward the desk, he half-crawled like a dying man in the desert and clung to the leg of the table until he could regain his footing.

If anyone ever witnessed this, he'd never live it down.

Even less enthusiastically, he trudged down the stairs, nodded a stiff hello to Granny on his way out, walked into the blinding sunshine…

"Oh, no," he groaned under his breath and hobbled backwards toward the porch.

There was someone leaning against his bike. Emma. Arms crossed over her leather-clad chest, lips twisted in a crude frown, boot tapping on the sidewalk. She looked angry. Beyond angry, even. Darts soared out of her narrowed eyes and her hair crackled with fiery fury, becoming curlier by the second.

He tried running back to the safety of the Inn—Granny, save me—but running with wooden legs reduced him to a painstaking limp and Emma's boots pounded on the sidewalk behind him. She caught him easily and shoved his shoulders, throwing him swiftly to the ground. He landed on his broken wrist and searing white-hot agony shot up his still human arm.

She was on him in a second and not in the good way. Clenching handfuls of his shirt, she brought him within inches of her glaring face. He instinctively raised his good hand to cover his face from any incoming blows.

"Wait, I can explain everything! It's not what you think!" Emma's eyelids lowered to slits. "Furthermore, I should warn you the nuns are going door to door selling roses for fundraising and I don't think they would approve of you beating up a defenseless cripple!"

Emma glanced around, as though expecting to have Mother Superior pop up out of nowhere just by the mention of the nuns. She did that quite a lot.

"Really? I'd love to hear your explanation. Because you weren't the one dealing with an emotional grief-stricken Gold last night! I should get a Nobel prize for hiding all the cartons of ice cream so he wouldn't drown his sorrows!"

She tossed him to the ground and he scrambled to get to his feet. Her fists were still curled by her sides, her expression suggesting just how greatly she wanted to hit him.

And he always thought Rumpelstiltskin was a force to be reckoned with. His rage paled significantly in comparison to his wife. It made August wonder how Emma reacted whenever Rumpel got in trouble. He had a feeling the typical excuses of 'you're always right, dear' and 'my evil twin did it' never let him off the hook.

"I'm sorry—" He tried to apologize, only to realize too late that it was a mistake. It only fueled Emma's frustration even more. She didn't want to hear a word of it.

"You're sorry? You tricked Gold by making him think you were his long-lost son! He wanted to believe it and it nearly killed him to find out it was a lie! What explanation could you have for doing something so cruel?" Well, Emma, here's the thing. I'm not a man—I'm a puppet. And I'm turning back into wood so I needed to find a magical dagger that belongs to your husband, who happens to be Rumpelstiltskin. No, that would surely get him a punch in the nose.

August held up a hand to calm her. She zoomed in on his broken one, but there was no sympathy. Maybe he didn't deserve it.

"You wouldn't understand. Not yet," he argued. Emma scoffed. She obviously thought he was attempting to buy a little time before she skewered him on a stick.

"Try me," she challenged boldly, but he shook his head. If he explained it to Emma now, she would never believe it. It would push her further into denial. She needed to see the proof; she needed the entire story and be allowed to make her own assumptions.

"I can't tell you now, but I can show you. If you just come with me today…"

Yes, that was how he would make her believe once and for all. He would take her back to the place where it all started, back to the place where she came through via the tree. He would show it to her, he would show her his wooden leg, and she would see it all. Figuratively, he crossed his fingers and hoped it would be enough to make her open her eyes…

But his hopes dampened when she raked her hands through her blonde hair in utmost annoyance and released a mighty, tiresome groan.

"You are incorrigible. You crossed my husband, hurt him in the worst way possible, and you expect me to hop on your bike for old times' sake? You're more delusional than I thought. Do you even feel a little bit guilty for what you did?"

August tilted his head back and gazed up at the light blue sky. The sunshine warmed his face and it made his heart squeeze to understand that it wouldn't be that way forever. Soon he wouldn't even be able to feel the wind on his jaw or the difference between temperatures. He rubbed his good hand across his stubble-covered jaw, savoring the sensation of the sun.

Rumpelstiltskin didn't even know how lucky he was in life. He was so focused on his tragedies that he was wasting good opportunities.

"He'll get over it," he muttered flatly.

Rumpelstiltskin had done considerably worse things throughout the past three centuries, even if Emma was not privy to that knowledge. In Storybrooke alone, he had proved himself fearsome and dangerous on multiple accounts. Why should his one foul deed matter?

But when he lowered his eyes to Emma again, the sunshine seemed to slip away behind the clouds. He realized with a feeling of dread that he had pushed too far. That was the wrong thing to say, the ink to his death certificate.

The punch came out of nowhere. One moment her fist was restrained at her side, trembling with rage. The next moment, it had connected with his jaw. It was like being hit by an eighteen-wheeler—who knew Emma could muster such strength in such little time?

His head snapped sharply to the right, his body flying after it and collapsing in a heap on the lawn. Red stars danced behind his eyelids, the world spinning ten times faster than usual. He tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue as it dabbed at his cheek and gums. Or was his tongue doing the bleeding? He pinched it between two fingers to check, his tongue wagging out of his mouth. Nope, it was his gums.

God, that woman had one hell of a right hook.

"You want to take a road-trip so badly? Go to hell, August," she roared bitterly.

Her boots faded on the sidewalk and he wheezed in relief as he weakly lifted his head to assure that he was alone. That didn't go so well. Ugh, better get up before I become Granny's latest garden decoration. Those lawn gnomes didn't look too happy over there.

A pattern of footsteps approached his side. Oh, no, she was coming back. What if she had a dangerous weapon on hand? But he found Mother Superior looming over him with a concerned frown on her kind lips. In her arms were dozens of bright red roses with long graceful stems.

"I take it you're not interested in buying roses for someone special?"

….

"I am taking back my son," Emma vowed, undeterred by the cold fury swirling with the brutal intensity of white water rapids under Regina's faux smile. There were no clever words passing through those crudely painted burgundy lips now. There were no snappy remarks, no mocking gleam of unjustified victory brewing in those incessant ebony orbs.

Emma was the one who ultimately turned her back on Regina as she strode back to her office, every thud of her boots on the linoleum tiles echoing with the deadly promise she had just made. She could feel invisible darts stabbing deep into her back, piercing a line that started from the spot between her shoulder blades, to the nape of her neck, finally to the center of her golden head.

Regina glared, but she said nothing. Emma was the one holding the ace now, not the other way around. It was something Regina would do well to learn: Emma never made promises she could not keep.

Enough was enough.

She had endured enough pain in her life, what with her less-than-miserable upbringing, the loss of her baby, and watching her husband sink into the lowest depths of despair over his son. She had watched Henry suffer enough times under the iron fist of his "Evil Queen" adoptive mother. She'd seen the way his face lit up marvelously whenever she spent time with him only to have that hopeful flame be extinguished once he returned back to the Mayor's fortress.

That place would never be home for him. She thought that by giving Henry up at birth that she would consequently be giving him his best chance, the kind she never had growing up. She was wrong.

Emma burst into her office and slammed the door behind her. It rattled inside its doorframe from the impact, a breeze blowing and lifting the sleeve of Graham's leather jacket as if his ghost were somehow lingering there in the station. Another soul the vampire had claimed.

She refused to let her son be the next one.

I will save you, Henry, she silently vowed while her fingers habitually played with the tiny golden swan dangling from the bracelet Henry had given her for Christmas. Her hand flew to the matching necklace at the base of her throat. Two of the most important people in her life were haunted by undue torment and unhappiness. She needed to protect them. If she could not fulfill Henry's vision of being a savior, at least she could do that much.

But, oh, it was going to take an impressive sword to slay this dragon. And Emma was pretty sure there was wouldn't be a How-To manual or Dragon Slaying for Dummies in stock at the library.

….

The minute he walked into the kitchen after work, he knew something was wrong with Emma.

For one thing, he was surprised the neighbors weren't lighting their torches and wielding pitchforks over the excessively loud rock music. Currently, the speakers blasted Bon Jovi's You Give Love a Bad Name. If she wished to hold a concert, the least she could have done was warn him ahead of time. He had the urge to check behind the couch and in the closets for Archie and the Crickets.

It wouldn't be the first time that band showed up on his property. Contrary to what David Nolan believed, the tree outside his window was still his property.

To add to the effect, Emma was pounding away at raw meat for hamburgers. Why didn't she simply request someone to run the meat over if she wanted it that flat? He'd seen Play-Doh hamburgers that had more to offer than those patties.

"It's dead, sweetheart," he deadpanned, coming up from behind and grabbing the mallet from her clenched fist. At first she fought him and he figured he would have to engage in a wrestling match for it, but he was stronger than he looked. He wrenched it from her hands and laid it aside. "Did your favorite show get cancelled after a cliffhanger?"

Limping over to the radio, he punched the power button. The silence rang heavily in his ears. Emma didn't know what to do with herself as she bristled in anger, so she planted her hands defiantly on her hips and fumed. I'm not happy was plastered in big block letters on her face.

Maybe if he was quick enough, he could snatch up the toaster, blender, and coffeepot and hide them from her wrath. After watching the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast on television, he had considerably more respect for inanimate objects. He nearly held a burial ceremony for his lost chipped cup afterwards. That cartoon version was seared into his brain, along with the motherly kettle.

"If that ever happened, Gold, the patties wouldn't be the only flat thing around here. This is about Henry," she said, though she did not elaborate. She didn't need to—her husband was capable of reading between the lines. There was only one source of distress whose face most likely conjured itself on those obnoxiously flat patties.

"Fess up, darling. This isn't merely about Henry, is it? Your boy is only part of the equation. This is about her. Regina."

The way he spat her name—and broke the second rule in this household after the rule about never letting the freezer be empty of ice cream—it might as well qualify as the foulest of curse words.

Emma's lack of response spoke volumes. Gold crossed the two feet separating their bodies and deftly caught her chin in his palm. At his urging, it rose to meet his calculating gaze.

"What has Mommy Dearest done this time? Attended Parent's Day and glared the little children to death?" Emma shifted her chin from his grasp.

"What hasn't she done? She has my son in therapy, she corrupts everyone she comes in contact with, she desperately needs to purchase a parenting manual or enroll herself in Parenting 101….Hell, even Little Bo Beep would transform her little lambs into a dictating army if she ever met Regina."

Need she say more? All she knew was that there was no way she could allow Regina to keep him like a shiny toy she refused to share. Gold gripped his cane tighter, his dismay rearing its terrible head.

"If there was anything I could do in my power to ease the situation, Henry would already have that balcony for his own," he asserted. He watched the seed unfold and sprout into weeds in Emma's head. Green eyes illuminating with the spark of a newfound idea, she urgently latched onto his arm.

"There is something you can do. You are the only one who ever goes against Regina and wins. You and I can take her on. You are a lawyer and you keep complaining that you need to improve your success rate," she blurted, shaking him like a Raggedy Ann doll. He pried her insistent hands from his suit, his eyeballs practically rolling in his head.

"Except that," he stated with a regrettable hiss through his teeth.

He inched the mallet farther away on the counter as Emma shot him the wifely did-you-seriously-just-argue-with-me glower. She had perfected it sometime ago.

"I'll have you know that my success rate has been steadily climbing. There are plenty of townsfolk in need of a sufficient lawyer. Regina is suing Leroy for sitting on her special stool at the diner. David is suing my bodyguard for writing that message in the sky and making him think he's pregnant. Dr. Whale tried suing himself to emphasize his reputation because 'bad boys always get the good girls'."

Emma gave him a crucial stare, as though he just proclaimed that he was boarding up his shop and fulfilling his dream of ventriloquism using a replica puppet of David Nolan. Actually, she really didn't want to put that idea into his head. But this…this was straight out of the blue.

"What about Henry? Do it for him. Think about how much happier he would be with us instead of living in that…that prison!" But Gold shook his head slowly, declining. Her hands balled into angry fists by her side. Why was he so determined to refuse?

"I'm afraid I can't do that. In your mind, this might be exactly what Henry needs. Your intentions are admirable, dearie. But let's be honest, shall we? Dangerous and detrimental to Henry's wellbeing as she may be, there's no means of proving her recent endeavors. As you've already discovered, she can literally get away with murder if need be. But a custody battle against her would be long, drawn out, and futile. In the end, Henry would suffer. You can't do that to your boy. Don't ask me to do it."

The grooves in Emma's forehead deepened with every word he spoke—she did not approve of his refusal in the least. She approached him with careful steps, closing in on him like a mother vulture whose babies were being denied the worm. Gold barely blinked, though he felt the magnetism dancing between their bodies.

"Are you suggesting I leave Henry in that house with her? That I not fight for him?" He winced under the coldness delivered with her words. He started to reach toward her cheek, but let his hand drop away to his side.

"I'm suggesting…that this is not the proper course of action, no matter how much you ignore your instincts. I'm sorry, Emma. My mind is made up," he declared shortly.

Emma took one step closer, enough to bring her face inches from his own. He could feel her breath coming quick and heavy on his lips; he could sense her muscles tightening like piano wire under her jacket. He'd like nothing more than to ease those muscles, ease her mind.

But he would not be able to do it tonight.

"Change it," she pleaded, her green eyes boring into his brown ones. Unblinking, unrelenting, offering him one last chance to alter his answer. He wondered what kind of hell his darling wife would raise for him if he stuck to his story. He licked his lips, contemplating.

"It seems I'm not the man to help you beat Madame Mayor."

Emma whipped her head back, stunned. The way her lips parted and heat rushed to her face, he might as well have backhanded her. She searched his face for some kind of logical reason, but he averted his gaze. She could not understand why he was adamant about this. I'm sorry, Emma, he apologized in his head, where she could never hear it. It must be done.

Would it be better for August to succeed in making her believe? In helping her learn the truth about her husband? Or would it lead to the crumbling of their marriage? Only time would tell. But he had selected his path and there was no choice but to follow it now.

Gritting her teeth, she stumbled away from him, beyond his reach. Never had her eyes scorched his skin so much in a non-lustful way.

"No. Guess you're not," she retorted.

For a brief instant, he noticed the sheer disappointment spiraling across her face. She had hoped he would be her saving grace, as Emma herself was meant to be for the town. But then a grim understanding eclipsed it: he could not help her. So be it.

With a sudden whip of her golden hair, she strode from the kitchen and the front door slammed shortly afterward. All that was left in her wake was his miserable silence, Goldie, and extremely flat hamburgers.

Someone was knocking at his door. Come to think of it, it sounded more like they were kicking it. With the rate this day was going, he was almost afraid to answer it. August paused near the door, trying to listen for external sounds that would give away the visitor's identity. Another series of knocks and kicks slammed against the door, these ones more urgent in rhythm.

"August, open up! It's me," Emma's frantic voice announced from behind the door.

That got his nerves jumping, worse than if it was Granny providing room service. If she was here, it must mean Gold had given her that gentle nudge. Or was she here to hit him again? What if this was part of Gold's insatiable thirst for revenge? Sic Emma on him?

"August, I'm not here to arrest you! Or throw another punch! We need to talk!"

Very reassuring.

"Those happen to be the worst four words in the English language!" He shouted through the door.

At least in this world they were. Nothing good ever came from having a woman tell a man that they needed to talk. Back home, the worst four words were we'll find a way. Things always seemed to go from bad to worse whenever someone uttered those words.

"Hah! You are in there! I knew it," Emma shot back.

More pounding on the door. August pressed his good arm against it, as if Emma possessed the ability to huff and puff and blow it down. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, he thought with regret as he felt her weight against the other side of the door.

"Sorry, August isn't here right now. Please leave a message after the beep."

There was no beep. The knocking suddenly grew quiet. Had she finally gotten the hint? Or should he take his chances and find out what she wanted? For all he knew, this could be a trick to make him open the door.

"Fine. You want to shut yourself in there and sulk? Be my guest. Guess I won't be taking you up on that offer of hopping on your bike." Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Oh, no—she was leaving. And she truly wanted him to take her and show her the truth!

Quickly, he pulled open the door and came face to face with Emma. She was leaning casually against the doorframe with her boots in her hands. He glanced down and noted that she was wearing red socks to match her leather jacket. A cunning smirk touched her lips.

"Took you long enough."

Bending down, she fixed her boots on her feet again. It amazed him that the laces took minutes to tie. Those boots were almost as demanding as the pair Rumpelstiltskin always wore in their world. It was true: those two were perfect for each other.

"You here for that ride?" August could hardly believe it really worked. By this time tomorrow, Emma would be a believer. Emma straightened up and tossed him a flat stare that dubbed him soft in the head.

"No, I volunteered to sell Girl Scout cookies out of the goodness of my heart. Hope you weren't expecting Thin Mints." Her gaze pointedly dropped to his broken wrist. "I'm driving."

"You are our only hope," August argued desperately as he gripped his "wooden" leg in agony.

Emma's mind was in brambles, with so many individual strings of thought coiling in and out that it was impossible to grasp a single strand. All she could do was feel the forest spin wildly around her in an array of blacks and greens, to watch August struggle to convince her of something truly ridiculous, and to try to make even a speck of sense of the thoughts running rapid across her mind.

August was delusional. There wasn't anything wrong with his leg. She wasn't the savior he made her out to be. She was tired and hungry and cold and irritable and in need of a hot drink to soothe her nerves. The start of a headache pounded right between her eyes. Above all, she'd had enough.

"Then you're all screwed," she snapped crossly. Such was the cusp of her anger—a thick, broiling, black thunderhead. Let him slump there against that tree trunk and keep playing up his pain and woes. She was done with all of it. "I'll be waiting by the bike."

And she turned and stalked off, back down the path from whence they came. For what reason? So that August could present some fabricated story of how he happened to be the seven year old who found her not on the side of the road but in the middle of the woods. Inside a tree. How did that even make sense?

What a waste of time.

He had better wrap up this 'woe-is-me' façade. She'd give him five minutes and then she would drive off without him. Or maybe she would do that right now and let him hitchhike back to Storybrooke. See how many people buy the classic my-lady-friend-abandoned-me-because-I-have-a-woode n-leg excuse.

She couldn't even believe she had given him the benefit of the doubt. What was she hoping for? A miracle? No wonder Gold had broken the guy's wrist! He was nothing short of infuriating. August was obviously barking up the wrong tree. Who did he think he was, telling her she had no choice but to fulfill a predetermined destiny of saving everyone? What kind of crap was that?

Emma emerged from the fringe of trees and located August's bike. She straddled the seat, revved the engine, gripped the handlebars…and there she sat fuming. She wished she could forget this entire day.

What else could she do to save Henry? That was the only soul—besides her husband and Mary Margaret—that she cared deeply for. She couldn't save everyone…but she was fighting like hell to save him. August had that much right, at least.

No one was left to help her. August obviously couldn't help her. Even Gold could not find the will to help, despite the knowledge that Henry was his stepson. That one hurt the most, thudding against her heart in a dull monotone.

Maybe this quest was something she had to complete herself.

A twig snapped underfoot, but she didn't glance up from the inky pavement of the road. She heard August approach the bike, trying to limp and cradle his broken wrist at the same time. Occasionally, he hissed in discomfort and struggled to work his muscles properly. If he was trying to earn her sympathy, he'd have more luck with one of his fantastical woodland creatures.

August rested his shaky hand on the back of the bike. He lifted a leg up to climb on when the bike abruptly zoomed past him. A foot, if that, but enough to give him the hint.

"Cute, Emma. Very mature," he remarked dryly.

He limped over to the bike again, lifted his leg up…and Emma jerked the bike another foot. August nearly fell into a gutter, suddenly unbalanced. He swore under his breath. Emma, on the other hand, was feeling quite good about this. How many times could he fall for that trick?

"I get it. You're pissed off. You're punishing me. But since it's almost nine at night and we're beyond walking distance to Storybrooke…do you mind if I get on my bike?"

There was no answer. He didn't deserve one. He was lucky she didn't take off right then and there.

August joined Emma's side. He placed his hand on the back of the bike, all the while never taking his eyes off the back of her head. She felt his gaze wander to her fists on the handlebars, the veins thick ridges against her skin as she clenched them in her hands. He quickly straddled the bike, angling his body against the firmness of her back to accommodate his injured wrist. His other hand circled her waist.

"You know, it'd be so much easier on both of us if just believed—"

Emma never knew August's bike could reach such a high speed within seconds until she raced down the street with August yelping behind her all the way.

Emma sat in her yellow Bug outside the Mayor's elaborate, white house. The car was shielded from view by the large, rectangular hedges that lined the sidewalk directly in front of the Mayor's home; the only way Regina would catch a reasonable glimpse of the car was if she traipsed onto the balcony and glanced down.

The clock read 9:35, but Emma knew it was an hour slow. It was far past the kid's bedtime. She wondered if he was asleep under his blankets, dreaming of a fairy tale world that was sweeter than this harsh world he'd been born into. She was almost tempted to forget it, to drive back to Gold and the safety of his arms.

But her rampaging thoughts demanded it.

She regretted what she was going to have to do, but her options were vastly limited and she was desperate. Not for herself, but for that precocious kid who was wasting away in a prison and ruled by an Evil Queen.

I am taking my son back. I warned her I would…and I never break my promises. Oh, but the consequences were weighing heavily on her shoulders.

It would mean leaving Storybrooke. It would mean leaving Gold behind, when she had just sworn to him that she would not do such a thing. I don't want to hurt him again. Not after the way he came home broken the other night.

But this was for Henry. She knew in her heart that she had to get that kid away from Regina, whatever the cost. It had to be done. Gold wasn't able to help her, anyway. I've already lost one kid. I swear, if it kills me, I'm going to do what's right by Henry. I have to do what's best for my son. That was it—once Emma made up her mind, nothing could change its course.

With trembling hands and a heavy heart, Emma retrieved her cell phone from her pocket. Her decision was made, but if Gold deserved anything from her, it was an explanation. She owed him that much.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear and she closed her eyes tiredly, sweeping the blonde hair off her neck. Her throat grew dry and her teeth clenched anxiously as the buzzing dragged on. Bzzz….Bzzz…Bzzz…

Part of her longed to hear Gold's velvety, Scottish accent in her ear, to hear her name slip lovingly from his tongue once more before she carried out her actions. Part of her also understood that, if that happened, it would make it all the harder to leave. And so she breathed a ragged, regretful sigh of relief as the flat, mechanical voice told her to leave a message.

Beep.

For a long minute, Emma held the phone to her ear and couldn't find the words. They were jammed on the roof her mouth like the world's thickest peanut butter. A chill crawled along her skin, her body frozen in the driver's seat. Her lip quivered and her mind felt like mashed potatoes. Say something, you idiot!

Oh, her mouth was so dry. Dry as cotton. She wondered if Regina would think it odd to have the Sheriff standing on her doorstep asking for a glass of water. Of course, Emma wouldn't catch falling snowflakes on her tongue on the Mayor's lawn without suspecting they might be poisoned.

Silence. And then—

"Gold," she choked out weakly. Her green eyes were glued to Henry's dark bedroom window. I'm doing this for my child, she reminded herself once more. She cleared her throat and tried again.

"Gold…I won't be able to make it home tonight. And I think you have a right to know why…I'm leaving." Emma's forehead lowered until it rested against the cold surface of the glass window. She was surprised to find burning tears pooling in her eyes. This is what it came to, after they were ready to try for another child, even.

So much nonsense had happened tonight—so much she'd rather forget—and it was taking a mighty toll on her. She sniffled and wiped her raw nose on her sleeve.

"But…before you jump to conclusions, my reason for leaving has nothing to do with us. It's about my kid. My son," she explained, her voice nearly a whisper. It was getting so hard to release the words, but she knew she had to say them all the same. Otherwise, they would sit inside her, festering like weeds.

"I…I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what to believe anymore. It's such a mess. But all I know…is that Henry is not happy with Regina. Something tells me he may not be very safe, either. Not with her. And I can't…I can't just walk away without knowing he'll be okay," she sighed, the lump in her throat aching.

Was Gold standing there, listening to this? Was he becoming upset, angry that she was leaving with the uncertainty of returning? Was he aching, replaying their tender moments in his mind? Smashing things with his cane?

Emma swallowed the rough sensation in her throat, raking her fingers through her hair.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this. But I have to do what's best for Henry. And what's best for him…it's not here in Storybrooke. I'm sorry," she repeated meaningfully and slowly dropped the phone onto the seat beside her.

She frustratingly wiped the warm water from her eyes and picked up the black walkie-talkie, turning it on to the proper channel.

And then she called out to her son.

Gold turned the tap and the scalding spray of water immediately ceased to a dull drip. His skin was slightly pink in hue from the intense heat of the shower and his hair hung in sopping wet tangles on his neck. Raking the curtain aside, he reached for a white fuzzy towel that had the initials of his name etched in golden thread along the edge. He rubbed it all across his chest, savoring its warmth.

The hallway was unnervingly silent. The sudden emergence from the steamy bathroom caused the air in the rest of the house to feel icy against his damp skin. His eyes darted to the clock on the bedside table as he entered the bedroom. It was 10:30.

How odd—August had called nearly an hour ago to inform him that Emma had dropped him off with his bike and had headed toward the station to retrieve her Bug. Unless he was lying—somehow, Gold would not be surprised by it this week—then Emma should be home by now. He had resorted to showering while waiting up for her in hopes of fate working its wonders and having her join him.

How disappointing. He was pouting on the inside.

Even now, he still hadn't received a word from her. Had she perhaps called while he was in the shower? He tilted his head to the side and listened to the noises of the house. Silence. She certainly wasn't here.

Goldie lay curled up in a ball on the bed, right on top of his pillow. That pillowcase was in dire need of vacuuming from all the hairballs clumped on it. It was a good thing he wasn't susceptible to allergies or else he'd be in a worse state than Sneezy.

"Did you eat her?" Goldie whined in alarm and lifted her head from the pillow. The way she angled it, the dog was obviously questioning his sanity. He rolled his eyes grimly. "Of course not. By consequence, you'd be stuck with me."

Though, Goldie didn't appear to see the problem with that when she was hoarding scraps of food at dinnertime and claiming everything that had his name or scent on it. He figured he should keep a close eye on that one. Goldie might look like any other innocent pup, but he knew looks could be deceiving.

Where, oh where, has my darling wife gone? Where, oh where, can she be?

Wrapping the towel more firmly around his hips, he put off changing clothes in order to grab the phone. Quickly, he dialed the station just in case she was still there by happenstance. Maybe his nerves were just running wild, but some stroke of intuition warned him to try anyway.

What was the harm in being concerned for his wife?

Besides, he was rapidly becoming bored in this empty house. What was he supposed to do—throw a tennis ball for hours and watch Goldie mindlessly chase after it? What was the allure in such a silly game? It made him wonder what the poor pup would do if he decided to toss a bucketful of tennis balls only to have her spin in circles after every single one of them.

A series of buzzing noises drummed in his ear as he waited for the call to go through to the station. Then, there was a sharp click on the other end. Before he could open his mouth, an automated message drifted through the phone. It was one that Ruby had instilled during her short time as Emma's Deputy. Apparently, Emma hadn't thought to remove it yet.

"Storybrooke Sheriff Station. If you would like to report a crime, please press 1. If you feel guilty and wish to turn yourself in, please press 2. If this is Leroy, hang up now or I'm calling Granny! Have a nice day!"

Well, Emma wasn't at the station. He dropped the phone into the cradle and instantly picked it up again, ready to try a number for a place where he was sure Emma might be lurking. If not, he was ready to round up Team Seven and conduct a search.

"Hello?" Mary Margaret's sickly sweet voice rang in his ear.

He perched on the edge of the bed, nearly sitting on Goldie in the process, and nestled the phone in the junction between his neck and shoulder. At the same time, he scanned the room for other clues—papers, notes, anything to tell him where Emma was.

Had the rendezvous with Stubble gone as terribly wrong as he feared? He should have known that moronic, lying cur would fail epically at making Emma believe. She was much too stubborn—August W. Booth was no match for her walls and skepticism. But where would she run instead of into his arms?

"Miss Blanchard. Forgive me for bothering you at this late hour," he apologized, though he really didn't give a damn about interrupting her evening. Especially if she was currently in the company of one foolish David Nolan. Lovebirds. Can't keep them apart for a week. How does a fool like him manage to keep his woman when he practically causes World War III just by walking down the street?

There was a pause and he wondered if she had hung up. Most everyone was tempted to do it, but never the dear used-to-be Snow White. Unless she was far more in connection with her Snow White self than usual tonight. Thankfully, there was a heavenly sigh.

"Mr. Gold. You weren't interrupting me. I was just cleaning up before bed," she assured him kindly. He could picture her in the kitchen, cup of cocoa in her hands, a snuggly nightgown on her lithe body. Who honestly found reason to hum while cleaning? "What can I do for you?"

"Have you…seen Emma tonight?" As much as he tried to keep the worry from his voice, he knew a strand of it was still there. And he knew Mary Margaret, considerate as she was, heard it crystal clear.

"No, she hasn't been here at all. Is everything alright?" Is everything alright? Translation: are you two having problems again?

"Everything is quite peachy, dearie." Translation: the two of us spent a blissful night together. And now I'm sitting in my towel, practically naked, and I've seem to have misplaced my wife. What ever am I supposed to do now?

"I'm sorry. I haven't heard from her. If I do, I'll let you know immediately," she promised rather sincerely. Gold murmured a rough thank you and was about to hang up when Mary Margaret's voice sounded in his ear again. "You really do care about her…don't you?"

It caught him off-guard and he felt a lump forming in his throat as he replayed all those moments with Emma throughout the course of their marriage thus far, moments that led him to become closer to her than he had done even with Belle. He closed his eyes, simply breathing…

"Does that come as a surprise, Miss Blanchard?" His tone was harsher than he meant it. It was only a second before she replied, though.

"No," she answered confidently. "I believe everyone has someone special out there. And I'm glad you care for her. She deserves someone that will treat her right, Mr. Gold. Someone who thinks the world of her and can grant her happiness. It's rather…sweet," she admitted shyly.

This sounded like he was being warned by a doting mother. Gold couldn't muster up enough of a smile—not when Emma was out there somewhere. What if that madman's returned? He's already taken my child—what more does he want? What if he took her again? I'll drive right up to that house on the hill and shove that telescope down his scarred throat.

Mary Margaret repeated her promise to him and he hung up, cutting her off. He breathed slowly through his nose, fighting to keep calm and level-headed about the matter. No need to panic. Emma can take care of herself; she's resourceful as hell. Just because she fails to come home doesn't mean anything. Maybe she's PMSing. Maybe she decided to take her Sunshine out for a late-night car wash.

No, absolutely not. The notion of a late-night car wash was ridiculous. Storybrooke didn't have a car wash.

Gold rose from the bed and decided to let the matter be. He headed downstairs, his stomach demanding a nighttime snack. If Emma were to come through that door, at least she'd get a welcoming surprise—she'd never seen him cooking in something as little as a towel. His lips curled in a smile as he imagined her startled or possibly aroused reaction. Perhaps we won't even make it to the bedroom. The towel will 'slip' off and then…

He slowly made his way to the kitchen, but paused near the phone, something catching his eye. The red light on the old answering machine was blinking. Brow furrowed, his finger traced the play button. No one ever left him messages. If it's Archie requesting a dinner or wanting to schedule another session, he'll be in for a surprise as well.

Hesitantly, Gold pressed the play button and sighed with relief as Emma's voice came through. The relief only lasted a brief instant as he leaned forward to listen. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

Emma's breathing was broken and hitched. The background was silent—she could be anywhere in Storybrooke.

"Gold," she repeated his name, her voice breaking slightly and tinged with distress. Something's happened. And as Gold listened, his clammy hands gripping the table where the phone rested, his heart caved.

Emma was leaving.

Her voice struggled to explain, the pauses feeling like an eternity in his ears. She was taking Henry and leaving, for she was determined to do what was necessary to protect her son. Gold could not believe what he was hearing. That is nowhere near the best course of action…but she's willing to try it for the sake of her child.

Could he really blame Emma for taking her child and running when he himself had done the same thing once upon a time? No, Emma. Running…running is not the answer. It doesn't solve anything. Trust me.

With every strained syllable, Gold's breathing quickened in his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest as Emma held back soft tears. Oh, how he wanted to be the one to catch them as they fell from her emerald eyes, to take her into his arms and tell her it was okay.

"I'm sorry," Emma whispered through the machine and suddenly she was gone.

The emptiness of the house mocked him. She was leaving. It might be forever, he knew that. She was supposed to break the curse, but if she chose to leave…what was really stopping her besides a prophecy? Prophecies were merely another piece of the puzzle, capable of shifting at any time. What was to prevent her from crossing that border if he could not follow without being tied at the waist to this pathetic town?

Gold's head sunk down, his muscles rippling as he sucked in heavy breaths. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt his heart pounding there. It was pounding, but he was sure it would shatter any moment. Was this what a true broken heart felt like? He was starting to see why Snow White drank that potion.

I can't…I can't let her leave. Not when we've only started to try again. I need her…I won't lose her. I need to protect what belongs to me. I need to protect her.

Goldie bounded down the steps, as if the dog sensed the onslaught of anxiety boiling in his veins. She could accompany him on this car chase. If he had not been the collective, incentive type of man, if he had been impulsive like Regina…he would have dashed out the door in his towel in hot pursuit of Emma.

Gold could easily pride himself with being skillful at many things in this land. Being an overly safe driver when his wife was on the verge of taking her kid and hitting Boston wasn't one of them. There were few times he drove his decrepit car instead of walking—it didn't make sense to waste the gas when his shop was a mere fifteen minutes in walking distance from his house.

But the times he did get behind the wheel, he was certain he never pushed the car to handle this much speed; 85 last time he checked. He roared down Storybrooke's main street, his hair still sleek and soaked from the shower. It stuck to the back of his neck and he had the urge to brush it away. If he wasn't driving like a madman in a hurry, he would.

Gods, how did people ever manage to do something as idiotic as texting and driving at the same time?

90.

All he could think about—or even allowed himself to think about—was reaching Emma before she crossed the border. Of course, there was no problem with him following her to Boston so long as the intention to return to Storybrooke slumbered in the back of his mind.

But that was the problem in itself.

What if she did not want to return to Storybrooke with Henry? That woman was stubborn enough to make a nun swear. If that were the case, he admitted with a heavy heart that it was impossible for him to stay with her beyond the town's limits. And Emma would never be able to understand why.

Something terrible and tragic always happened to people who crossed the line without any intention of coming back. That was the golden rule that trapped every single one of them inside the town with the reinforcement of a snow globe. There was no getting out. Gods, he could end up in a coma like David Nolan. He could lose the other leg in some freak accident. He could have his hair catch on fire, leaving him bald.

The possibilities were endless.

100.

Emma was making a mistake. He knew that better than anyone. He needed to find her, now. Fortunately, he knew a shortcut to the border. It was a narrow bumpy trail that led around Storybrooke and ended a foot or so from the town line. If Emma hadn't reached it yet, there was still a chance of cutting her off.

He gunned down on the pedal. In the rearview mirror, he caught sight of Goldie sliding back and forth in the backseat. Left, right, left…

"Hold on, Goldilocks," he muttered as the needle over the speedometer ticked higher and higher.

120.

"Emma, we can't leave," Henry pleaded in her ear. "Think about what you're doing! Your parents are back there! Mr. Gold is back there!"

Emma's knuckles whitened as she clenched the steering wheel harder. It made her heart ache and her lungs burn from the inside out to have Henry remind her of everything she was leaving behind in Storybrooke. Sacrifice—that's what it came down to in the end. Necessary sacrifice.

Warmth welled up behind her eyelids and she angrily wiped the unwanted moisture away with the back of her hand. It made her vision blurry and she blinked frantically to rid herself of the vulnerability. God, she hated the way Henry was staring at her now; incredulously, like she was out of her mind. Like she was a complete stranger instead of the birth mother he longed for.

And then there was Gold. Her husband.

After everything they'd been through, he didn't deserve this. Even a phone call in Boston would not heal the wound she was likely tearing into his chest with every second she drove farther away.

She would miss his seductive, devilish smiles and the way she would hopelessly try to decode them. She would miss sharing an ice cream with him and having him kiss away the extra traces of vanilla from her lips. She would miss lying in his arms at night after coming together with him so perfectly and passionately, the way she never would again with any other man.

Her vision blurred again.

No, she refused to feel guilty about this. Feeling guilty would mean admitting she had truly done the unthinkable, that she was scraping at the bottom of the well entitled desperation. This was the right thing to do. It had to be. All she wanted was to protect her son, the way she could not protect her unborn one.

"Please," Henry cried, growing antsy in the passenger's seat. Emma did not look at him. Looking into those wide innocent eyes would lead to her breaking. Her silent, distant manner told him this was not up for debate.

Her Bug rounded the corner, a dense thicket of trees whirring by in a flash of deep greens and blacks. The border of the town loomed into view, the slightly crooked sign reading You are now leaving Storybrooke. Yes, we are, Emma thought darkly. Except this time, I can't make any promises that we'll be coming back.

The border crept closer, barely thirty feet away. Twenty. Henry's eyes boggled in his head when he realized, once and for all, that she was serious about her talk of taking him away from Storybrooke. Away from Regina. She intended to do this, what she probably should have done a long time ago.

"Emma!" She hardly heard his shrill voice as she prepared to cross the line, both literally and figuratively. After that, there would be no turning back. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief instant, a last token of farewell forming in her mind.

Goodbye, Gold.

Without warning, Henry flung his body over the length of the seat and latched onto the steering wheel, jerking it violently to the side. The car immediately took a sharp left turn, jarring her from her moment of solemn silence. Emma's eyes bolted wide and she tried to control the steering wheel, but the Bug was already beyond her control.

"Henry!"

Then she noticed what he had already taken note of, the reason for his unexpected action. The town line was blocked by a car. If Henry hadn't acted, they would have collided right into it. Wait….a probing thought unfolded through the binding rush of adrenaline. She knew that black hunk of metal deathtrap.

Gold.

Instead of crossing the border and ramming into her husband's car, her Bug screeched across the pavement and sped over the patch of grass lining the side of the inky black road. Her foot slammed on the brake and they came within inches of hitting a tree.

At the last minute, Emma forgot about the steering wheel and folded Henry into her arms, shielding him from the impact. The car halted and both of them lurched forward. Emma's shoulder collided with the steering wheel, but she could live with it.

The car ticked as it cooled. Her heart hammered in her chest so painfully that she thought it was going to pop out like one of those cheap Valentine's Day cards. Henry squirmed from her arms and pressed his face to the glass of the window, cupping his hands around his forehead as he peered out into the night. He was probably searching for Gold.

Gold.

"Henry, stay in the car," she ordered, her voice raw and raspy. Henry jumped back from the window, the glass foggy with his breath, his face pinched with concern.

"But—"

"Stay in the car," she repeated forcefully before bursting through her door and making a beeline for the border.

It was a challenge to walk straight, what with the way her legs were shaking from the shock of nearly becoming one of those Halloween decorations that featured a witch flattened against a tree. Gold had already left his car and rapidly limped in her direction. There was nothing but hurt and worry reflected in his chocolate brown eyes.

"What the hell? I'd love to know where you learned to drive that qualifies you to speed into the middle of the road and oncoming traffic," she huffed indignantly. If this were any other ordinary instance, her next question would be: sir, have you been drinking tonight? She should write him a ticket for this. Or ten.

But all he did was shake his head pitifully.

"Where do you think you're going, Emma?"

They stopped within a foot of each other, but it may as well have been miles apart. His eyes scanned over her body, searching for signs of injury. If there were, her body was too numb from the adrenaline to feel them yet. She was too focused on Gold's insane stunt and the fact that he was willing to do anything to stop her from leaving.

This had to be the right choice; it had to be.

She didn't realize she was trembling until Gold took her hand in his, a timid white spider in his palm. All at once, everything she had been feeling since that getaway fiasco with August built up with the pressure of a volcano ready to explode, tunneling up through her throat and out. It was too demanding to stuff down. What was it about Gold that made her fall apart so easily?

"I had to get Henry away from her. What am I supposed to do? You want me to apologize? Well, then I'm sorry for leaving you behind this way. I'm sorry for doing everything in my power to protect my son—"

That was the last word to fall from her lips before Gold's grip tightened on her hand and he pulled her flush against his body. Their lips melded together in a passionate kiss that consumed every ounce of her breath. For a minute, she was stunned. Then her arms entwined around his neck and she returned the kiss just as intensely. His hands nestled on her hips, always urging her forward into his arms. The scent of his cologne wafted around her neck, teasing her nose. His lips were warm as they moved over hers sensually and he tasted of deliciously rich wine.

If he was aiming to remind her what she would be missing, it was working.

The kiss softly broke, though their reddened mouths hovered together. His breath tickled her skin, causing her to scrunch her nose in the way he always adored. Her hands slid their way to his chest, clutching handfuls of his dress shirt. His hand cupped her cheek, guiding it so that she gazed directly into his eyes.

What she saw there frightened her. Acceptance. Pain. Need. Urgency. Love.

Taking a single step back, he thrust a finger in the direction of the border. Surprisingly, the desperation to cross it had dimmed a little in light of their kiss.

"Go, if you must. But hear this: you will sacrifice happiness, Emma. That is inevitably the price you will pay for such an escapade. Trust me; running is never the answer. It is not what is best for your son, no matter how much you wish to believe otherwise," he reasoned. She could hear the pleading note in his voice. It rooted her to the cold, damp pavement. Her hands eased away from his shirt.

"And being with her is what's best for him?" How could he even suggest such a thing?

But he grasped her by the arms, his expression torn. She had never seen Gold so broken, except for his breakdown last night over his son. This was the extent of his agony, then. Calm on the outside, inside he was screaming and tormented at the thought of losing his wife and stepson. The way he lost his first son.

"No, of course not! But for God's sake, will you stop and consider the path you're choosing? You are kidnapping your son," he growled deeply, holding her firmly to his chest. He only held up a hand to silence her heated objection. "If you run, Regina will make it her life's work to find you. You will never be able to create a stable home for Henry. You'll always be on the move, always bouncing from motel to motel, living off seedy diners on the side of the road and enduring your own empty stomach to put food in your son's mouth. What will you do for Henry? Return to that old bounty hunting job you used to get by? You'll homeschool him yourself? Keep a suitcase of clothes in the back seat of your car? What sort of life is that for your child?"

Emma opened her mouth to defend herself, but nothing came out. Every word that Gold said was right. Every word amounting to the fears she had attempted to stifle while racing toward the border. Instantly, she pictured it in her mind in startling clarity and she loathed it. Henry could never be happy with the life she had formed at merely seventeen years of age. She hadn't considered what future lay behind the border.

She hadn't considered that what lay out there might be worse for Henry than the life he already had in here.

Gold must have sensed her turmoil and resolve breaking, for he rocked her gently and laid his forehead against hers. The glimmering brown depths of his eyes swallowed her whole. She buried her head in the comfort of his neck and inhaled his familiar scent.

"We'll find a way," he whispered into the shell of her ear.

She found herself nodding and wanting so much to believe it. Behind her came the click of a door and she turned to see Henry approaching them. The way Gold's eyes softened and gleamed at the sight of his stepson…it made Emma feel even guiltier.

Henry stopped a few paces shy of them and tilted his head to Emma.

"We're not still leaving…are we?"

The forlorn tone of his voice clearly revealed which side he was rooting for. Still lounging in Gold's embrace, she could feel his gaze on her skin, his body unnaturally stiff as he waited for her decision. Emma half-smiled and ruffled Henry's hair.

"No, kid. We're heading home," she declared, purposely meeting Gold's relieved eyes. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he kissed her long and hard again—faster in tempo now that he knew this kiss would not be their last. Henry muttered something about the two of them getting a room at Granny's.

They would find a way, somehow. Together.

…..

Shout-outs go to DaesGatling, Huntress4455, Super-Twi-Harry-Heroes-Fan, Newland Archer, Ouatlover150, discotimelord, BundyShoes, Deathbringer88, liliesandroses, The Auburn Girl, la-stella-immortale, ParanormalMoonlight, FortunesFavour, Mira SeverusSirius Black-Snape, Guest, sexysashaas, sbcarri, DragonRose4, The-Writer2012, reginamillz, SwanQueen4055, megumisakura, Princess Flame Haze Xerxes, and Russian8once1psych7 (love your House picture, by the way—happens to be my favorite show).

Thank you, everyone!