Jefferson stuffed his fists deep in his pockets as he shuffled out of Regina's office. His eyes were trained on the marble underneath his feet, but the whiteness of it blurred by until he barely registered it. His thoughts were frazzled, tangled, still stuck somewhere in Regina's office with her deadly smirk seared into his brain.

He had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach—a rotten, bleak one that warned him of inevitably being set up by the Queen again. Some things didn't change, including Regina's compulsive yearning to make others suffer in excruciating torment for the sole purpose of a twisted mockery of happiness. Why should he even help her when he knew in his heart of hearts that there was only one way this story might end? He definitely didn't favor hurting Emma—he had put her through enough undeserved agony as it was.

He should reject Regina's demands and let Emma break the curse. It couldn't be far off now.

He absently passed through the front door and started down the path without turning back. But his feet slowed to a stop before he reached the end of the walkway.

He couldn't afford to reject Regina's demands this time. This was for Grace. If Regina was telling the truth—a big if but not impossible—then it meant his story here would be rewritten to intertwine with Grace's. They could be together, even if it was under the implication of false memories. She wouldn't have to wake up with two sets of memories furiously battling for dominance inside her head. He could live with that.

But could he live with the price of trapping Emma, their savior, under a sleeping curse indefinitely? Of course, it would mean he was effectively taking her away from Henry with no certainty of a true love to wake her while he got his daughter back. And then there was her devoted husband, who already wanted his head on a platter…

It was funny that he was thinking about Rumpelstiltskin's legendary rage as he turned the corner of Regina's street, with the cemetery on his right. Regina had instructed that he meet her at the Mills' family vault in a half hour.

The only problem was that he suddenly felt his back slam against the wrought iron gate. Something solid pressed against his jugular, the pressure cutting off his air supply. A cane. Which meant…

"Ah, look who finally decided to show his face. What are you doing with Regina?" Rumpelstiltskin's menacing face loomed before him, his eyes glinting with fury.

Jefferson knew that wasn't the exact reason for Rumpel choking him with a cane, but the imp was always prone to curiosity and demanded answers on the heels of that curiosity. The cane made it impossible to speak; the only audible sounds flying out of Jefferson's open mouth were guttural, gargling noises. Rumpel loosened the cane a tiny bit, but not enough to warrant hope of escaping.

"You'll probably know soon enough. Regina never could resist gloating," he replied. Rumpel sneered at Jefferson's insolence, his teeth bared more wolfishly than Red's on a full moon. Had he ever been bitten? That might be a problem.

"Any last requests before this cane beheads you?" The cane dug into Jefferson's neck again, just for a second to remind him who held the aces here. Yeah, right.

"Yes. Let me go," he croaked.

It was worth a shot. Why did executioners insist on letting prisoners make last requests if there was only one of genuine importance? Besides owing a tearful goodbye to family members and loved ones, messages that he bet never truly went through. Oh, yes, since I'm two seconds away from becoming your floor rug, might I have a spot of tea? With a lemon? Or how about a slice of Maine's finest fudge cake?

Rumpel ground his teeth in annoyance.

"Any last requests…besides that one?" Point proven: when executioners ask for last requests, there are limitations. Executioners should be more specific.

"Let me live," Jefferson tried a different tactic. Maybe—with all ten fingers and toes crossed—Rumpel would only land him in the ICU. But that hope fled with all the others as Rumpel issued a deep-throated growl. The beast was terribly close to the surface tonight.

"Your privilege of last requests has been revoked," he snarled. Replacing his cane with his arm, he drew the cane back above his head, prepared to swing and ultimately crush Jefferson's skull beyond repair—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Jefferson rasped weakly, his Adam's apple bobbing uncomfortably under the crook of Rumpel's elbow. The cane was still, hanging in the air without the cue to plunge. No blinding red pain in his skull yet. Jefferson started counting his blessings.

"Why is that? Give me one reason why I should spare your miserable life when you never extended the same courtesy to my child. I dare you," he spat viciously. Was that rhetorical as well? Jefferson could barely think straight, what with the thin stream of oxygen traveling in and out through his nose.

"Because…"

No, he couldn't do it. It would be sacrificing the last hidden ace in his sleeve and he would probably be bludgeoned to death faster if he used it. Rumpel would assume he was pulling a fast one. It would also mean destroying Emma's happiness yet again. He deserved to die. He would be the first to admit it.

And yet…the words had a stubborn desperation of their own, commanding his tongue before his mind could prevent their release.

"Because Belle is alive," he gasped.

It was a long shot to think Rumpel might listen. For a minute that spanned centuries, those penetrating orbs of frozen earth scoured every inch of his face, searching for any indication of deception. The cane trembled in the air, uncertain of its target. And then, miraculously, Rumpel lowered the cane and dropped his arm from Jefferson's throat.

Jefferson could breathe! He could almost sing! He was alive, unscathed, and Rumpel actually believed him—

"Whoo! Ah! Mother of Alice!" Every ounce of air in his lungs whooshed out, his body bent sharply at the waist before he helplessly fell to his knees on the pavement. Stars danced across his vision, fiery tendrils of pain shooting through his abdomen from the force of Rumpel's cane. Right where it hurt! "Hee-hee-hoo! Hee-hee-hoo!"

That was it—that was what he was supposed to do, right? Breathe through the pain? Or was that…for…his wife's birthing exercises? She had done a lot of deep-breathing techniques when Grace was born.

Oh, gods, the world was upside-down! No, he was simply on his back, gazing unseeingly at the cloudy sky. Rumpel's shoe had connected with his stomach. Ugh, it felt like he needed his appendix removed. Or was that on the other side of his stomach? Could Rumpel even rupture his appendix? Jefferson couldn't hold onto a single strand of thought, though the pain down there was ebbing away.

The ringing in his ears—brought on by his own cries—subsided in time to catch Rumpel shouting.

"How dare you use Belle against me! For that, your death will be all the more painful and slow," he threatened, his accent thick and voice strained raw from the sudden rise in volume. Just to prove it, he launched his foot back again. Jefferson had a fleeting thought of grabbing ahold of Rumpel's leg, but figured the imp would pry him loose with the cane.

"No, I'm telling you the truth! Belle is alive! The Queen has her locked up in Storybrooke and I know where she is!" He rolled over onto his side and coughed roughly, spittle flying over the cement. Rumpel's lip curled back from his teeth. He wasn't buying it, but maybe he was afraid to put his heart on the line.

"You're lying! Belle is dead! The Queen informed me—"

"And Regina has a perfect record of honesty, does she?" It was the exact card he needed to play. He stumbled uneasily to his feet and Rumpel let him. For once, his eyes were hazy but not from false memories. He studied Jefferson critically, calculating the odds that Regina had lied. About a 96 percent chance, right there.

"You're not exactly George Washington yourself," he snapped, though the danger had dulled. Jefferson detected the invading doubt just beneath the surface. No doubt Rumpel was replaying that moment of Regina's spun story, removing the trivial emotions from the equation, and finding more than one inconsistency.

"George who?"

Was that one of the cursed millions? Oh, he meant one of the presidents of this world that had his face presented on a coin. He was thankful their world didn't contain currency stamped with the kings and queens of their respective kingdoms. Who wanted Regina jingling in their pockets?

"Just think of everything Regina could do if she had your true love locked away for future reference. She has a sword hanging above your head and you don't even realize it. But someday that sword will fall and impale you worse than the day she convinced you Belle was dead."

The grimace on Rumpel's face deepened. His knuckles turned white around his cane. But all Jefferson was concerned about was the spark of intelligence smoldering in Rumpel's eyes. He knew Regina better than anyone; he knew what she was capable of.

Out of the corner of Jefferson's eye, a black shadow shifted. Oh, no.

"Duck!"

Jefferson latched onto Rumpel's tie and tugged him into a nearby bush. He pushed his hand atop the imp's head—how did he get his hair so feathery soft?—and shoved him down before burrowing into the greenery himself. Ooh, oh, thorns! From around the corner came a pair of sleek black stilettos that could only belong to one resident of this town.

Jefferson held his breath as Regina passed by their bush, squirming against Rumpel's body in a way he never wanted to repeat again. There was an ear-piercing creak of the iron gate, followed by a clang as it slammed shut again. Great; now he was late.

He kept his eyes closed and counted to one hundred in his head before poking his head from the bushes. Peering through the rails of the cemetery fence, he spotted Regina slipping into her vault. That woman would make painting her nails look suspicious, what with all the head-whirling.

"She's gone," Jefferson sighed and stepped from the bush. He plucked a few thorns from choice places where thorns should never be.

Rumpel tumbled out, his suit no longer perfect with the mess of leaves and twigs sticking out of the fabric. His hair was unkempt, his shoes splotched with dirt, and he sported a miserly glare as he brushed himself off. Jefferson wondered what Emma would make of her husband right now. Somehow, he didn't think 'playing in the bushes with Jefferson' would be a viable explanation.

"If you ever lay a finger on me that way again, I promise you'll regret it," Rumpel hissed as he corrected his tie. Jefferson cracked a smile, a funny thought coming into his head. It was that time of the day.

"That's what she said," he murmured. Rumpel's eyelids narrowed angrily. That cane turned a fraction of an inch in Jefferson's direction. Oops.

"You have the gall to make a quip? If you insist on such idiocy, I'm sure there are plenty of ways I can put that meddlesome tongue of yours to good use," he retorted. Jefferson bit down on the tip of his tongue to stifle another outburst. That's what she said, he cried out mentally. "Are you finished?" That's what she said. "I'll take your silence as a yes. Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted? Ah, yes. Admiring the cane."

That's…what…she…sa—ow!

Just as before, Jefferson's back hit the wall and that cane blocked his throat once more. The imp was more graceful on his feet that he let on! He had to be faking. Oh, not this nonsense again, Jefferson scowled silently. Or would have, if he could properly breathe. He gagged, which bought him a bit of space.

"Belle…is….alive," he repeated in slow spurts as he caught his breath. "Listen to me; I can reach her! I swear it." Jefferson would readily give his word, but he knew Rumpel didn't hold his word at much value. Still, there was that lingering doubt and the hesitation to make him kiss that cane.

"I'll humor you," he relented, though the cane maintained its position at the base of Jefferson's neck. "Where is she, then?" Jefferson rolled his eyes. The imp must really take him for a desperate fool.

"If I tell you where Belle is, you'll kill me and rescue her yourself. Consider this my bargaining chip. If you let me go here and now, I'll prove to you that Belle is alive. I can't return the unborn child I took from you, but I can return your true love. And if I'm lying—unlikely—then you'll still have Emma to please you and you'll kill me anyway. This town is a snow globe. I can't run anywhere."

Rumpel gazed into Jefferson's eyes, weighing the pros and cons. Then the cane dropped away and Jefferson's body slumped against the wall. He rubbed the soreness from his neck while Rumpel surveyed him as a hawk would observe its prey.

"Do not mistake that as a pardon, dearie. Your execution will be postponed by…shall we say…twenty-four hours? If you're telling the truth—unlikely—then I may reconsider mounting your head above my fireplace. But if you're lying, then I shall cross paths with you again. You don't know when, you don't know where, but I will. And with my fondness for you recently, your head may roll."

Jefferson's arrogance got the better of him now that he was more or less on borrowed time.

"Ha! Joke's on you. It already has." He hooked a finger into his cravat and tugged it down to reveal his grisly scar. Rumpel barely blinked.

"Yes, but have you ever been nearly headless?" Jefferson gulped, imagining his head hanging by a thread. Rumpel turned and began to walk away, power cloaking his shoulders like a second skin. "Didn't think so."

Of all the conversations Emma did not want to have in her lifetime, this ranked at number three. Right underneath the conversation of how Gold was once mistaken for a woman from behind. She didn't even want to know which select few in Storybrooke were guilty of that one. Though, she always insisted his hair was getting too long nowadays. He didn't listen.

But this…this was bordering on uncomfortable. Any day now, she half-expected to hear Regina hissing 'my precious' while rubbing Henry's head. The thought alone was disturbing. They were playing a rough game of tug-of-war with Henry in the middle and she was afraid his arms were tearing off at the seams. She had to fix it.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her fist and knocked on Regina's door. A second later, Regina opened it and stuck her raven head out into the sunshine. Her shining, ebony eyes inspected every inch of Emma, searching for a flaw, any flaw.

"Sheriff. Why are you wearing a skirt?"

Emma glanced down at the denim skirt hugging her hips and regretted wearing it for the fifteenth time. She'd gotten more catcalls on the streets than Ruby did in one hour of her shift. It was the only reasonable thing she had left to wear when her husband insisted on handling the laundry this morning. He still wouldn't let her near the washing machine ever since transforming his closet into Barbie's Fashion Extravaganza.

"Why are you wearing…?" Emma scanned Regina's body, but couldn't find one detail worth nitpicking. As always, the woman was dressed to perfection. She huffed in annoyance. "Regardless of what the magazines tell you, Regina, fashion police don't have any real law enforcement privileges," she retorted, dimming Regina's white-toothed grin. "I'm here to talk with you about Henry."

Regina stiffened visibly and it already gave Emma an answer about Regina's level of tolerance. This was going to go over swimmingly. "Can I come in? Or do you want this to be headline news in tomorrow's paper? Me visiting your house is as suspicious as the Joker going to confession."

It was with pursed lips that Regina consented enough to step aside and beckon Emma with sharp heels and a black glare into her cold abode. Emma mentally fist-pumped over her victory of convincing Regina to let her inside the sprawling manor. The mayor devoured it whole whenever someone's affairs were spread out over the headlines, but she never appreciated her own personal life being the talk of the town.

"Make this quick, Sheriff. I have something cooking in my oven and I am not in a pleasant mood," Regina declared coldly. She made the mistake of rubbing her palms down over her belly. Emma glanced at the mayor's abdomen with supremely wide eyes. "Not that oven! I meant literally!"

"That's a first," Emma snapped back, bristling. "Here I figured pregnancy might explain your constant mood swings and I-want-to-kill-you-all attitude. But, no, that's just you." Regina clenched her teeth in anger. Electricity fired between them, a deadly duel of stares. Emma refused to blink and give Regina the satisfaction of winning.

"You mentioned my son?" Emma shifted her weight uncomfortably, biting back a harsh response. She had to be the bigger person here. The anger gradually dissipated, her muscles uncoiling under her leather jacket. Every word she practiced in front of the mirror and Gold vanished with it.

"You and I haven't exactly been on good terms. All we do is fight and Henry is dragged into the middle of it. Regina, our fighting needs to stop. The price will be Henry—he's only going to get hurt. We both want what's best for him, right?" The only answer was a firm crossing of the arms. Regina probably assumed she was the best for Henry. "What's best for him isn't me leaving, despite what you think. It would be better for him emotionally if we were both in his life. To be honest, the world where I live without him no longer exists."

"My oven," Regina reminded her briskly. Emma tried to avoid looking down at Regina's belly again. The mayor made a swirling gesture with her finger: get to your point.

"I'm proposing…shared custody," Emma finally blurted out. Regina's frown deepened. Not a good sign. "We share Henry. We're both part of his life, no competition on who wins him as a prize. You can have him every other day, every other weekend. During days I don't have him, I promise…" She swallowed the suffocating lump in her throat. This was harder than she thought it would be. Why did she feel like she was swearing fealty? "I promise not to have any contact with him. He's all yours."

Regina was silent for a long, tense moment. The air was heavy, humid, nearly choking off Emma's air supply as she waited for Regina's response. Her foot itched to tap on the marble floor. She willed the mayor to see reason—this was the most logical solution for Henry. A troublesome tic started in Regina's jaw and Emma felt the ship of hope sinking.

She was going to need a bigger boat.

"You mean, you and your husband will have him every other day, every other weekend," she pointed out. Emma released her breath in a loud groan. Why did Regina have to be so difficult?

"Do you agree with it or not?" Regina reared her head back, having been struck speechless by Emma's verbal scorn. Her hands balled into fists, paling in their tension. God, she hoped she hadn't just screwed up any chance of making this work.

"Shared custody?" Regina spat it out, as if it tasted vulgar in her mouth. "I don't remember divorcing you, Sheriff. Or marrying you, for that matter." Emma cringed inwardly at the store of unsettling images in her mind. She wasn't so thrilled about joint custody with Regina, either. At least she wasn't paying child support to her.

Then something changed in Regina's aura. Her face lost its stony edge. Her fists blossomed, releasing the curled rigidity. Her chest heaved with angry breaths, but they were slowing in rhythm.

"But perhaps you're right. Perhaps this is best for Henry," she admitted.

A shrill beep pierced the air, coming from the kitchen. Regina spun on her heel and waved her fingers to gesture for Emma to follow behind. From the oven, Regina pulled out an apple turnover. She set it carefully on the island in the center of the kitchen before smiling widely at Emma.

And she always thought Regina's glares were enough to make children scurry under their covers. When she smiled…it was the stuff of nightmares.

"I changed my mind. I'm not as hungry as I originally thought. Feel free to have this, Sheriff," she offered, motioning to the steaming apple turnover. The aroma of freshly baked apples teased Emma's nose. "Consider it a token of my appreciation. I suppose you and I should start acting friendlier to one another for Henry's sake."

Regina retrieved a plastic container from one of her cupboards and plopped the apple turnover inside. She capped it with a plastic lid and held it out to Emma, who felt like she took a winding detour through Wonderland. Who was this woman and what did she do with the real Regina Mills?

"I do hope you like apple," Regina said.

Emma looked from the tempting turnover to Regina and back again. She wondered if this was some crude trick. But the realization kept resurfacing in her mind: she said yes. She had agreed to joint custody of Henry. This was going to work—Henry would be happy and she didn't have to run off with him. She could stay in Storybrooke, set down her roots, stay with Gold, be with her son.

Be happy.

It was an overwhelming battle waging inside her head. All she wanted was Henry's happiness. To do that, she had to allow Regina the chance to accept it. If she refused, it might shatter every inch of progress that may have been. It swelled in her heart to the point where she found her hands accepting the apple turnover.

"Thank you," Emma said. She meant it for more than the apple turnover and she placed enough emphasis on it so that Regina would understand. Thank you for seeing reason. Thank you for letting me be with my son.

"My pleasure," Regina returned, flashing a pair of Colgate-commercial teeth.

Emma turned and swept from Regina's house, already preparing what to tell her son about the new arrangement. She wanted so much to make this true and finally bury the axe. Maybe she would leave some of this apple turnover for Gold. He always did claim that Regina's apple treats were to die for.

….

Gold was planning a trip.

His pen scribbled madly across the creased page of an old leather-bound journal that had gathered too much dust on the shelf. The ink flooded from the shaft and spilled fluidly with carefully constructed curves and dips, a decorative penmanship that belonged to another world. A swift river of thoughts poured from his active mind—the pen could hardly keep up.

First, he was going to find Bae. He didn't yet know how, but he would reunite with his son and do right by him. He had no idea whether he was going to be able to make up for the mistake he made in letting his son fall through that portal, but he was willing to try.

Then there was Belle. She had haunted his mind all afternoon.

Could it be true that she was alive somewhere in Storybrooke? For an instant, he closed his eyes, envisioned her sweet face as it was in that other land, and hoped. He shook his head, the image rippling away. No, he could not set himself up for that heartache again. He would give Jefferson his twenty-four hours and, when the hatter came up empty-handed, he would enjoy picking apart the fool piece by piece, thread by thread, limb by limb.

That chipped cup had been lost and forgotten. He had Emma and that was more than enough to lighten his heart. No, he had to keep the focus on his family.

Once stage one proved successful—finding Bae—then stage two would soon follow. A family vacation, of sorts. Just him, Emma, Bae, and Henry. It would be a good start to their future as a family. Oh, they would travel everywhere. Disney World, the Hershey factory, perhaps even overseas to Paris and Scotland. He would have his wife by his side, his two sons fidgeting in the back seat and bombarding him with the relentless question of are we there yet? He would fly in an airplane for the first time since awakening from his cursed self, the engine rumbling beneath his shoes, the air pressure making his ears pop, the plane lifting off into the sky…

The chime of a bell interrupted his vision of flying over an endless ocean. The pen froze halfway through striking a line in a strict t, his body stiffening as it hunched over the book. He didn't even need to glance up to recognize the notoriously grating click-clack of heels on the floorboards.

He resumed writing. The scratching of his pen was the only greeting she would get.

"No wonder the people of this town don't darken your doorway…among other things. I would say you're in danger of losing business, but you can't lose what you don't already have," her voice poisoned his ears with a slippery hiss, a rattlesnake poised to strike. He kept his eyes forcibly trained on what he was writing, his words slanting a tiny bit more than usual, but she kept on coming. Now her shadow was blocking his light. "I hope you bought travel insurance because no one's going anywhere."

Her lacquered cherry nail tapped the page of his journal, demanding his attention. His jaw locked painfully tight in irritation. Once he may have hoped that ignoring Regina would cause her to flee, but he learned a long time ago that she had no qualms about bugging him until he bit her hook. Regardless, he recorded a couple more notes involving the Tower of Terror.

"Oh, really? And why is that?"

Her smirk stank of deception and victory, the bitterest vinegar this world could offer. It hung above his head, penetrating his forehead in the hopes that he would be foolish enough to stare the dragon in the eye. He refused to meet her demands. This was his territory; she wasn't about to walk out with any satisfaction.

"I found a solution to my Emma problem."

Ah, so this was the gloating period Jefferson was gagging about when his cravat was replaced with a curious cane-shaped object. He wondered if this was just another of the countless plans in her series of Plans A-F of Operation: Vanquish Emma. It was as probable as Wile E. Coyote catching that damned roadrunner.

But it was always amusing to humor and mock her while she thought herself on the winning team.

"And what solution would that be?" A ban on hot chocolate and cinnamon at Granny's? Using a crane to park her Bug on a roof? Raiding her closet and stealing her leather jackets? Doubtless that Regina could accomplish anything truly detrimental. It was why he would not grant her any consideration as he penned his list of vacation spots.

"An old, reliable solution." How very specific of her. Gold shook his head derisively, stifling a chuckle at her expense.

She had to be referring to something that once belonged to their world, if she was using Jefferson the Amazing Portal Jumping Extraordinaire. If she had tried reaching their land, it wouldn't work. There was no substantial quantity of magic here, if any at all. Besides, there had never been a reliable solution for Regina—she tried countless times to kill Snow White. The only time she ever came close to succeeding in being rid of her nemesis was—

No.

No, it wasn't possible. Not in a land without magic. This must be a conniving ruse.

She wouldn't dare.

"A sleeping curse," Gold muttered, finally lifting his head to gaze upon the Evil Queen. The triumphant gleam rippling deep inside those two black holes confirmed it. The journal and vacation plans were long forgotten; only the pen quivered in his ruthless grip as he fought to control his rising fury. "May I inquire as to how you obtained one in Storybrooke?"

She couldn't have. This must be a bluff or a delusion on her part. One too many screws knocked loose in her pretty head. Regina's spidery hand drifted to the hollow of her throat, where a chain ordinarily hung with that rusty scrap piece of metal her beloved stable boy had given her as a ring. Except the chain was missing.

"By sacrificing the last bit of magic I had left." It clicked inside his mind, the puzzle pieces fitting together to form a picture he did not want to visualize. This was Regina unabashedly choosing revenge over love yet again. The last token of her love for Daniel—gone.

"You made magic from magic," he mused. What a contradiction she had set up for herself. A dangerous move on her part, akin to fighting fire with fire. Regina would be burned beyond recognition. "Need I remind you that all magic comes with a price?" Oh, it was so close to the time of the curse being broken. He couldn't help but to complete his warning with his familiar arm flourish.

"Then you can pay it," she snapped impatiently. He grimaced. Oh, she would love that, wouldn't she?

But Gold knew that a world without magic would therefore not be very welcoming to the unnatural presence of magic. Magic would be different here, equipped with an unpredictable set of rules. Whereas Regina would have paid the price in their land by going bald or sprouting oozing warts or having her feet and hands rearranged on her body, in this world someone else would pay the price.

Either Emma would be expected to pay it…or Henry. His wife or his stepson.

"Let me get this straight, dearie," he barked, to which Regina winced. The word dearie was anything but a term of endearment. Her eyes warily darted to the fountain pen still trapped in his unforgiving grasp. "You decided in that twisted little mind of yours that it was a brilliant idea to strut down here in your prim stilettos and gloat over putting my wife in a sleeping curse?"

Regina's glee faltered. Ah, so she did have a tiny bit of common sense, after all.

The mistake dawned on her, the fact that she had willingly and stupidly stumbled into the den of a fearsome beast. She took a hesitant step backward, as if he were about to lunge over the counter and tackle her to the floor. And yet, she was a defiant woman in thirst of power who never knew exactly when to quit.

"Are you afraid you'll fail to wake your precious wife with true love's kiss? You should be," she spat haughtily.

Faster than she could blink, he circled the counter and began to corner her. She retreated, but there was only so much space available to her. And the tip of that fountain pen was now aligned with her chest, thrusting forward like a sword.

"You threaten my wife, you threaten me," he warned icily, his feet matching her for every step. Fortunately for him, he had unnerved her so much that her way to the front door was now blocked. If she wanted to escape that way, she would have to get around him first. So she backed up until she collided with the desk. And still he kept coming, the distance between them shrinking. "All magic comes with a price. I'll let you in on a little secret. Your price in this world will be Henry. That means you're threatening my stepson. If you threaten my stepson, you threaten my wife. Which means, once again, you threaten me."

Regina gulped nervously, her skin tone fading to alabaster white. She arched her back against the desk, trying to put as much distance as she could between their bodies. An inch was afforded her, maybe two. But a cornered Regina was like cornering a werewolf—it would inevitably snap its jaws.

"Please, Rumpel," she retorted, rolling her eyes dramatically. "You and I threaten each other over tea time, rotten lemons and all. Hell, you and I threaten each other in our sleep. It's what we do. It would be suspicious of me not to threaten you or your sacred family. A family, might I add, you don't even deserve."

With that, she hastily slipped off one stiletto and chucked it at his head. He reflexively ducked and realized too late that the heel was a guaranteed distraction from her real target. Her knee connected with his wrist, the fountain pen clattering and rolling somewhere beyond reach. Her bare foot shot out and kicked his cane out from under him, his body toppling to the floor. He landed on his bad leg and his teeth clamped down on his tongue until it bled to swallow the groan of pain. Regina leaped over his sprawled body like a professional hurdler, retrieving her lost stiletto. She didn't even bother stopping to slip it on, so she half-ran, half-hopped toward the door.

He'd be damned if he was going to let her get away.

Ignoring the brutal agony jolting through his thigh, he used the head of his cane to snag her foot and trip her. With the gold-filigree head still caught on her ankle, he dragged her back across the floorboards. An inch, maybe two, but it was enough to allow him access to her head as he crawled over to her fallen body.

Regina writhed and coiled beneath his weight, shifting around so that they were face-to-face. She yowled and bristled as he forcibly straddled her hips and his hands circled her throat, the muscles strung tight as piano wire from her cursing. Her nails attempted to gouge out his eyes, but his teeth threateningly snapped at the digits, forcing her to whip them away. She struggled to escape her fate, the pressure making her gasp, but Gold was nothing short of confident as he deliberately squeezed.

This was for his wife and stepson. Oh, who was he kidding? He should have done this a long time ago.

Her legs flailed wildly underneath him without being able to do any real damage; still, he tightened his thighs around her waist to stop her from squirming. Her arms rolled on the floor, her energy fading fast. Glossy red nails scratched his hands while the other one weakly batted the high heel at his side. He didn't care. He was winning.

That is, until the Queen had the smarts to launch the stiletto into the display case beside them.

Glass shattered as the shoe impacted it, sprinkling around their bodies. The hand that desperately clawed his fingers ceased fighting and shot out to reach something else inside the display case. It was the stuffed Mickey Mouse doll. Even something as childish as that was a weapon in Regina's hands.

Before he could react, she slapped him in the face with Mickey. Over and over again.

He coughed and turned his head but all he could see was a pair of googly eyes and an obnoxious smile as Mickey was shoved in his face. To remove his hands from her throat was to ultimately release her, but his grip was loosening now that she was thrashing his head with the doll.

"Will you stop that nonsense, woman?"

He couldn't help it. He tore his hands away from her throat to wrench the doll from her grasp. However, she stubbornly refused to be parted with her new weapon and tugged it down to her chest. He recoiled—there was not enough money in the world to make him touch those.

A suspicious tearing noise overrode their heavy breathing and grumbling. A second later, Mickey's big-eared head came off in Gold's palm, the mousey body still clenched in Regina's cruel fist. Gold's body tumbled off of Regina, but he barely noticed landing on his funny bone. All he could do was gawk at Mickey's ravaged head and wave his hand underneath the exposed cotton stuffing. This was more frightening than Goldie's handiwork.

"You killed Mickey." You bitch, he thought cynically. Another of the countless millions Regina had destroyed. And this one didn't even deserve it!

Regina was never one to show remorse. Instead, she tossed Mickey's headless body over her shoulder as if he were nothing but a crumpled-up ball of paper. From the display case, she grabbed her shoe, dusted it free of glass, and slipped it on. He hurried to his feet, but Regina had other plans in mind. She seized the delicate tea set and began throwing tea cups at his head. It was an improvised game of dodge-ball. He scrambled, ducked, and dived. Not his tea set!

"Stop breaking my cups!" He roared on the top of his lungs.

"Stop trying to kill me!" She thundered back, pitching the whole tea kettle in his direction. He lurched to the left and the kettle was transformed into thousands of tiny shards and fragments. He glared darkly at her. Even though he didn't throw anything her way, she crouched. Then he noticed the object of her desire: his cane.

"Oh, no, you don't!"

Without his cane, he couldn't limp more than fifty feet before his leg gave out on him. He hobbled after her, but she dashed for the door, cane in hand. He swore audibly as the bell jangled, his leg cramping fiercely from the overexertion. Regina was gone. She'd probably be courteous enough to give up his cane—by selling it in a public auction.

He would kill her for this. But first, he needed a new cane. There was always an extra one in the ancient cabinet in the back room. Who knew whether his cane would splinter or break or go missing or otherwise face unexpected circumstances that would compromise its original use?

That ridiculous, infuriating, stiletto-wearing troll! His leg would likely hurt something fierce tomorrow. He teetered unsteadily on his feet and accidentally crashed into the display case, knocking a few more shards of glass loose. He planned to forward the bill for replacing the glass to her office.

Oh, there was a lot of damage Regina would pay for.

Before he did anything out of spite, however, he needed to get ahold of Emma and warn her about Regina's latest destructive plan, even if it meant revealing the truth about his nature. Would he be so forthcoming to her? Yes, he would, if it meant protecting her and Henry tonight. He wasn't prepared to lose them to the Queen.

Over his dead body. The Queen didn't have much chance of that.

He knew he should have killed the hatter when he had the opportunity.

Gold frantically dialed the station, but all he got was that message Ruby had installed on the answering system. He hung up and tried her cell phone, but it must have been dead. He called the house phone, but got the answering machine. He even tried Granny's in case she had stopped for food, but he received a verbal whiplashing from Granny herself about whether he thought she was a blind old bat when he asked 'are you sure?' And, no, he didn't need her to demonstrate her aiming skills.

He had nothing, no way of reaching Emma. Was she in the shower? Did he somehow miss her by a second and the answering machine picked up? Time was not on his side. He couldn't sit here and waste time playing phone tag. There was only one thing to do: he would have to run home and pray he got there before Regina reached Emma first.

"Ow, ooh, ugh," he moaned as he limped to the door, his new cane supporting his weight. It wasn't as sturdy as the other one. He cursed Regina's name the entire way.

Emma had taken extra measures to prepare for her upcoming serious talk with Henry. She had indulged in a long, hot shower until every inch of bare skin was redder than a lobster, if only to soothe her nerves. In front of the steamy mirror afterwards, she practiced what she would say to make him understand. She even tried using Goldie as a stand-in for Regina, a living breathing thing she could talk to, but the dog turned tail the minute she'd been cast for the role.

Now, she was just waiting for the kid to arrive. Time and again, she checked the clock on the wall. She called him twenty minutes ago and still no sign of him lurking anywhere. It usually took only five minutes to get here.

Finally, her shoulders slumped in relief as the doorbell rang.

"Took you long enough, kid. Was there traffic on the sidewalk? You know Archie never puts his blinkers on when he's walking Pongo," she teased as she flung open the front door to let her son inside. He greeted her with a relaxed smile and swerved around her body, his backpack hitting the ground as he rushed past.

"Sorry. The Queen came home earlier than she usually does. I think she got in a bar fight. One of the heels of her shoes was broken, her hair is worse than the Bride of Frankenstein, and there are red marks around her throat," he said. Even though he shrugged it off, she detected a hint of concern. It was still his adoptive mother, after all.

Emma couldn't say she was surprised over Regina's predicament. What do you know? I figured one day she was going to get her ass royally handed to her in an alley. That's what she gets for stealing married men and throwing erasers at the people who sleep through her town meetings. Gold has plenty.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" Henry looked up at her expectantly, innocent and pure. "Are we planning Mr. Gold's birthday party? I drew up sketches of the backyard and everything we could do with it. Do you think he would approve of a shark tank?"

Only if he could dangle Regina on a rope above it with a remote in his hand that would lower and raise it accordingly. Emma immediately shook the amusing scenario away. Thus was not the reason she had asked Henry to come over at all. This was supposed to be the time where she agreed to tolerate Regina, not mince her into shark kibble.

"Henry, there's something serious that you and I need to discuss," Emma said, wringing her hands together until the knuckles cracked. She still had no idea how Henry would take this news. Knowing Regina, she didn't mention a word of it yet; no, she would just wait for Emma to handle the dirty work. Oh, so now I'm his mother, right? This is starting to feel more and more like a divorce to me. "You might want to sit down."

The color drained from Henry's face. He dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, his hands gripping the edges like a kid at the highest point of a roller coaster and bracing himself for the plunge.

"Did something happen? Is someone dying? Is my stepdad dying? He once told me that I could help write his will!" Henry's face twisted up in despair. Emma perched on one knee and caught him by the shoulders. She wondered if she was included in that will or if he planned to give everything—house, car, shop, suits, riches—to Henry. With Gold's sense of humor, he'd leave her their marriage bed and his cane.

"Henry, no one is dying, least of all Gold. Trust me; he's bound to outlive the entire town population, except for Granny. I guarantee those two will be the last to go." The only two people left in Storybrooke—how would Gold feel then? Alone in a town with Granny? Granny would devour him whole. Come here, Scotsman. Your cane vs. my gun.

"Are you moving? There aren't many places for sale in Storybrooke. You and Mr. Gold could live in the clock tower, but I don't think he'll like the clock waking him up every morning. And if he trips on the stairs, that's a long way down," Henry said.

"No, Henry, we're not moving. In case you haven't noticed, Gold is a teensy bit protective of his property. He even barks at the mailman more than Goldie."

Henry's face contorted with confusion as he scrambled to come up with other possibilities for a serious talk. The silence grated on Emma's nerves. The best way to go about this was to come out and say it.

"Henry, I visited Regina this afternoon and I think she and I have reached an agreement on how you should be cared for. Regina and I have agreed to have shared custody of you," she announced. She rocked back on her haunches while she waited for his response. The confusion flowered into thoughtfulness, his hands relaxing on the edges of his chair.

"So, you're not planning on divorcing my stepdad and leaving Storybrooke? You're…kind of…divorcing my adoptive mom?"

Emma hung her head. It was not a divorce! Two people with emotional problems could share custody of a child they both called their own without signing divorce papers! She could only imagine how Sidney would paint this picture in his newspaper.

"It's the best solution for you. I'll have you every other day and keep you every other weekend. During the days and weekends Regina has you, I just won't be able to see you. You're hers. This is serious, Henry—this means you don't skip school, you don't try to clone yourself, and you don't climb out your bedroom window to spend time with me when you're supposed to be with her."

But Henry was already shaking his head negatively.

"You're giving in to her! You can't trust her! She is the Evil Queen. She would never agree to share me with you. Emma, she wants you dead, remember?" Emma shot to her feet and groaned to the high heavens. This was going to be harder than she first assumed.

"Do you want me to make Gold write up an official contract for this? I'm pretty sure he would abuse his power and put in some loophole about how we get you every weekend and every documented holiday including Smile Day. Then he would claim it was a slip of the pen or a trick of the ink and Regina's hair would frizz worse than Princess Merida's in her rage."

Henry was adamant. He jumped to his feet and threw his arms around her middle, nearly knocking her over.

"You can't listen to her! Please, Emma!" She rubbed a hand across his back to calm him down. Her kid was really hung up on her impending doom. All of a sudden, he straightened up and ceased his embrace. That was fast. "Where did you get that?"

He was staring fixedly at something past her body. She turned and instantly spotted the apple turnover, still sealed in the plastic container. Emma had momentarily forgotten about it. Why was Henry eyeing it so intensely? It wasn't in the manner of licking his lips, exactly; it was something far more serious and alarming.

"From your mom. I was saving it for Gold and I to share, but you can have a bite. Just don't ask me to deal with Gold's temper tantrum when he hears someone else had the first bite," she said.

Henry was beyond listening, stuck in some unexplainable, captivating trance. He slipped around her and approached the container with caution. Flipping off the lid, his nose hovered an inch or two above the turnover and he inhaled deeply. Emma watched a few paces away, wondering what was going on in her son's head to make him act so odd. Another generous inhale…and then he spun around, eyes wide as tennis balls in what could only be panic.

"Apple!" Emma was glad to see Henry wasn't susceptible to allergy season. His nose was working properly, anyway.

"I forgot you have a vendetta against apples," she murmured. Another staple to Operation: Cobra. In fact, that was rule number one of the operation and something he had stressed to her ever since the day after she agreed to stay in town: avoid apples at all costs.

Ignoring everything she said, he observed the apple turnover as he would a deadly snake in a box.

"You can't eat that! It's poison!" And here we go, she thought miserably. This was about Snow White again. Here she thought the Evil Queen only poisoned others with an apple, not an apple turnover. This must be the new and improved rendition of the Evil Queen. "I was right. Don't you see? The only reason Regina agreed to your idea was so she could get you to eat that! It's one of her tricks, I know it."

Henry whirled and snatched up a ladle, preparing to bring it down over the dessert. Emma reached his side in a split second and grabbed the wooden spoon from his clenched fist. He pouted in disapproval.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You are not murdering a perfectly good apple turnover." Besides, Gold would sense it and he'd be as broken as that turnover. The man had a sixth sense for more than just deals in this town. Henry scoffed at her, his mouth falling open and gaping.

"Good? Emma, this is her way of getting rid of the savior. In case you've forgotten, that's you!" Like she needed the reminder. She shoved the ladle in a drawer and closed it more forcefully than she intended. This nonsense about evil witches and curses had to stop. She had known for a while that it had reached a dangerous level and it caused Henry undue distress.

"Henry, come on! Why would she poison me when I just assured her that I wasn't stealing you away? I told her that she could still be part of your life. How is that threatening?" Henry's eyelids narrowed in sharp irritation. He seemed to be at the end of his rope, same as her.

"Because as long as you're alive, you're a threat to the curse. Shared custody is not going to change that."

Emma kneaded her forehead with her knuckles. The kid refused to back down, ultimately bringing them to an impasse. There was nothing else to do except show him the truth, show him the faultiness of his fantastical logic. He wasn't like her so much that he required cold-hard evidence to believe in something—hence the curse—but if she showed him that there was no harm to the apple turnover, then he would have no choice but to drop the matter. Or use his allowance to hire Danvers to trail her and make sure she didn't drop dead on the job.

"I'll prove it to you," she stated, striding to the apple turnover. She took it into her hands, but Henry became frightened enough to take it from her. She was not in the mood to play Hide the Dessert. Henry kept his distance, the turnover precariously close to his mouth. Even better—if he ate it, he would realize first-hand that there was nothing wrong with it.

And yet, the way he looked at her tugged painfully on her heart. Disappointed, sad, determined. In that instant, he was far beyond his ten years of life, having been unfairly shaped and molded from the loneliness he had spent in this town.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this. You may not believe in the curse, or in me. But I believe in you."

There was no turning back now. He opened his mouth and ferociously bit down on the apple turnover. Chew, chew, chew…swallow. Emma remained still as stone, watching him as he blinked. She knew he was sensing around for any distinct change. No damage from what she could tell. No ruptured organs, no strange discolored lumps, no instant zombie…..

Nothing.

"See? Now, do you want to dip into Gold's stash of ice cream? I promise not to tell him it was—"

The effect was instantaneous. One minute Henry was looking back at her with lucid, if not frustrated, eyes. In the next breath, his legs crumpled beneath his body, his knees buckled, his small form collapsed against the floor. The apple turnover tumbled from his limp hands.

"Henry!"

It was the only external response she could give. Her legs refused to answer to her brain's commands, no matter how hard she willed them to move. Her nerves grew numb as if coated with impenetrable black ice. All she could do was stare in horror at her son's unmoving form. From here, he was hopelessly tiny and fragile. No, no, no.

The front door burst open, followed by Goldie's sharp nails on the stairs as the dog bounded across the floor to sniff at Henry's nose. Not even a twitch of an eyelash. Was he even breathing?

The cacophony of noises—the door bouncing back against the wall before slamming closed, the rush of footsteps in the hall, Goldie's insistent yapping—awoke Emma to reality.

In the span of a second, she was kneeling next to Henry and gathering him up in her arms, the safest place he could ever be in Storybrooke. Water dripped down onto his cheeks, but it wasn't raining inside; how ridiculous was that? Then she realized she was crying and the skin under her eyes was sore from the salty moisture. She swept his hair off his forehead, silently willing him to open his eyes. God, he was so pale! He might have been a porcelain doll instead of her son. And it was all because…because…

Because of that apple turnover. The one Regina had so kindly offered her.

"Talk about three centuries later! Who needs to listen to Taylor Swift when there's an emergency? I need an ambulance sent to my house immediately…for my stepson. What do you mean: who is this? Who the hell prank calls the hospital? You owe rent to me once a month and you don't recognize my accent yet? Idiots."

She didn't know how much time passed. She wasn't aware of anything but Henry. Firm hands clasped her shoulders, which she realized were trembling. A sob caught in her throat, thick and hot. She didn't notice her husband kneel beside her. It was something he never did because it always hurt his leg too much. Gently yet insistently, he guided her into his arms with Henry cradled between them.

Their son. She had already lost one child; she instinctively knew that her heart was not built to withstand that torment a second time. This was Henry. Gold placed a hand on Henry's head and closed his eyes, silently mourning. This couldn't be the end. No, no, no…please.

Emma couldn't think about moving, even though her knees were starting to ache from pressing against the kitchen floor for so long. She couldn't think about anything except the apple turnover. She should have let Henry smash it to pieces. Do you believe now, Emma? Her green eyes locked with Gold's never-ending dark ones, a newborn fury burning. It matched the ache in her chest.

"She did this, didn't she?" Emma never had to acknowledge the slight dip of Gold's head to find the answer. Damn you, Regina.

…..

I want to thank DaesGatling, Huntress4455, discotimelord, FortunesFavour, Revenessa, megumisakura, BundyShoes, Newland Archer, DragonRose4, ParanormalMoonlight, sbcarri, The Auburn Girl, SwanQueen4055, Mira SeverusSirius Black-Snape, yuiop, Nightshade's sydneylover150 and reginamillz for their great reviews last chapter.

What have I got cooked up for the S1 finale? Oh, you'll enjoy it, I promise. (-;