-Flashback-

Wide hallways, billowing tapestries, more balconies than she could count—all this, and still Regina felt trapped. The stone suffocated her, the pageantry stifled her, and the balconies provided an escape that grew more tempting every day (and also more impossible, as Cora's inhibitions regarding public magic wore away; one day of being strung up by malleable wood that left nasty bruises was more than enough). Regina imagined that she could be locked in a tiny cell and feel no more imprisoned than she did now.

"Are you all right?" asked her warden.

Regina bared her teeth in the approximation of a smile. "Of course."

It wasn't Snow White's fault, Regina reminded herself for the thousandth time (even her actions were a prison, an endless loop coiling in on itself). Just because Cora had won the girl over through sly promises and a maternal air she must have copied from someone far away didn't mean that the girl understood what danger her constant tale-bearing posed.

"You'd tell me if something were wrong, wouldn't you?" Snow pressed. So innocent. So young. So infuriating.

"We're sisters, aren't we?" Regina said, and breathed a sigh of relief when Snow smiled, appeased.

"Did you see the huntsman our mother summoned this morning?" Snow asked as they passed another balcony. Regina tried not to stare back at it too longingly. "He had a wolf with him. I don't think Stepmother was too happy when he left, but he seemed very nice."

"Of course he did," Regina said absently. "Being noticed by Mother is an honor. No one wants to mess that up."

It hurt that the words came to her so easily. Regina curled in over the sting of betrayal that bit deep (she was, ever and always, the betrayer; simply by existing, it seemed, she was complicit in her mother's schemes). But what else could she do? There had been screams in the tower again last night. Better to deliver these honey-sweet lies than to be the one screaming up there herself (again).

"He was very handsome," Snow said.

Regina blinked at Snow's coy smile. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well…" Snow suddenly looked very concerned; sometimes Regina thought it was her default expression. "I mean, it's…it's been several years since Daniel left you." She pressed forward even as Regina turned away to hide whatever her expression might reveal. "I know he hurt you, but maybe it's time to move on. If not with the Huntsman, then—"

"This is none of your concern," Regina said. Too harsh. Too abrupt. (Too revealing.) "I'm happy here," she said in a softer tone, and sold it further by turning to wrap an arm around Snow's shoulders. "You're right—Daniel was a long time ago. But with the mourning period for your father coming to an end soon, I think we'll be too busy to worry about romance for a while."

"I just want you to be happy." Snow took a deep breath and grabbed Regina's hands, pulling her to a halt to stare searchingly up at her. "Stepmother said that…that some people had been cruel to you."

Regina choked on a bitter laugh. Tightened her grip on Snow's hands to hide it. Tried very hard not to see this girl's mouth spread wide, spilling all her secrets before the specter that haunted Regina's nightmares. (Tried, above all, to blot out the sound of screams and of the emptiness in the palace stables.)

"Just because you're not the heir-apparent doesn't mean that you're any less important here, Regina. You'll always have a place at my side. Whatever you want, I will make sure you can have."

And this, here, was why Regina couldn't truly hate Snow White (try as she sometimes did). This compassion. This affection. It was alien to Regina, so foreign that sometimes it seemed nothing more than a parody. But then, someone else had cared. Once. Before he vanished in the dead of night. Regina could almost feel her mother's hands on her face as she cooed over her, so stilted and uncaring as she told her that men would always betray them but power never would.

Ha! As if power mattered nearly as much as the feel of someone's arms freely wrapped around her, warm lips against hers, a smile every time he saw her, the breadth of his shoulders and the feel of his support just behind her. Power could never replace that.

(Power could do nothing but take away, piece by piece, everything Regina had ever cared about.)

"Thank you," Regina finally said. She pulled Snow into the semblance of a hug (tried not to flinch when Snow hugged too tight against fresh bruises) and hid her face in the younger girl's shoulder. "That means a lot to me. But really," she pulled back to exhibit a tearful smile, "I don't need anything."

Well, nothing except to know what shallow grave Daniel was buried in. Nothing except a ticket out of here, far from mothers with grasping hands and ambitious smiles and even farther from fathers thrown through looking glasses just because he tried to help her run away.

Nothing Snow White could provide.

"What a touching moment," a voice lilted from behind them.

It was second nature to push Snow behind her (maybe she wouldn't need a hidden balcony to find her permanent escape), though she knew Cora would reprimand her if she knew. That girl stands between you and the throne, her mother had told her a dozen times (Regina heard the truth, knew she meant me rather than you).

Snow gasped in her ear and even Regina (despite the horrors she'd seen in Cora's vault) shuddered at the sight of their intruder. He was short, and twisted, and leaned on a staff a bit taller than himself. An old, yellowed shawl was draped around his neck, incongruous next to the rich ornateness of the clothes beneath.

"Who are you?" Snow demanded as she tried to step away from Regina's protective hold. "How did you get in here?"

"Spoken like a true Queen." The creature (not a man for all his ordinary looks) bowed, an elaborate playact that mocked rather than deferred. "But surely my reputation precedes me!"

"The Spinner," Regina whispered hoarsely.

Her mother had promised. She'd promised that she'd never again work with him.

(Regina had stopped believing in her lies about the time laughter had vanished from the stables.)

"Ah, so you remember me." The Spinner steepled his hands together and peered at her over them. "We met before, you know. You were smaller then, more portable. Still counts."

"Why are you here?" Snow demanded again. "I can call the guards here in a moment!"

"Oh, no, whatever shall I do?" Sniffing, the Spinner moved closer. His walk belied the crutch, smooth and prancing, as sinuous as a snake's and as a put-on as the best performer's. His eyes were intent on Regina until he was a mere step away, then they shifted, startlingly quick, to Snow. "Guards and alarms aren't necessary, your highness. Why, I've been invited, by royal decree. You shouldn't act so surprised to see me. It's not quite polite," he sneered through bared teeth.

Snow sucked in a sharp breath (Regina held her own as the moment teetered between two futures). "But I didn't…"

"Mother must have," Regina interrupted. "Snow, why don't you go get the guards? I'll take him to Mother."

"Regina—"

"It's all right." Regina forced a smile for Snow's sake. "I know you had that excursion into the woods planned for this afternoon. No need to delay."

The Spinner watched their negotiations silently, a smile ever-present on his thin lips. Regina worried he'd grow impatient and simply poof himself away (her mother had done that to Regina so many times she choked on magical smoke in her dreams), but he gave no sign of hurry.

"Be careful," Snow whispered to Regina, and then she was gone in a flurry of skirts and cloak. The bag Regina had brought her, stocked full of apples and other supplies that should keep her for a few days, bumped against her legs as she hurried away. Hopefully, it would be enough to see her safe to a neighboring kingdom. From there, it all depended on how tough she could be (most of the time, Regina would be willing to bet on her; occasionally, she doubted).

"A pleasure to meet you," the Spinner called after her departing form. When his eyes fell once more on Regina, he arched his brows. "Alone at last."

"You know it wasn't Snow White who summoned you."

"Summoned?" The creature shuddered with his whole body before flourishing a hand just under her chin. "Only those who know my name can summon me. Do you know it?"

Regina breathed very carefully. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispered.

"Ahhh." Rumplestiltskin released his breath slowly, as if he savored it (as if he'd been waiting ages for this moment). "Let's step outside, shall we?"

Regina took small steps as she followed him out to the nearby balcony. The trees below towered menacingly toward her and Regina tried not to look at them too closely (better them, though, than the tower looming overhead).

Rumplestiltskin lounged back against the railing and tapped a finger over his chin as he studied her closely. His stick was held upright by his elbow, and sometimes, when he wasn't flourishing, she noticed his fingers rubbing softly against the weave of that shawl.

"So," he finally said, "what could the not-heir-apparent want with the Spinner? Haven't you heard enough spooky tales about the Dark One to know not to invite it into your home?"

"Mother did," Regina said.

She had to be brave. She had to be strong. There was no more time for playacting or pretenses that had grown too realistic for her liking. If ever she had a chance for escape, it was now, and she'd be damned to Darkness herself before she let it slip away.

"A long time ago," she added. "I know you taught her how to use magic."

"So I did. A deal's a deal, after all, and I—always—honor—mine."

"Then I want to make a deal with you."

Inhaling, Rumplestiltskin circled closer to her. "Really? And what might this deal be? Escape? Flight to safety? The road to true happiness?"

"Power." Regina met the Spinner's eyes without flinching (her heart thrummed in her throat). "I want you to teach me magic. I want to be strong enough to stop my mother."

"Why?" he hissed.

"She's planning on killing Snow today," Regina blurted. "The Huntsman wouldn't help her, but he agreed to help me and he's going to help Snow run away. But Mother will never stop. She'll always want more power. And she hates you. You know she's going to come after you eventually."

Rumplestiltskin's lip curled. "I'm not afraid of your mother."

"I am," she admitted, and slumped back against the wall of the palace. "And I'm so tired of it. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to fight."

"Such spirit." The Spinner's face was a mask, but somehow, Regina was sure she'd impressed him. "And what's brought this all on suddenly? You've been quite content for years. Surely you're not risking everything for Snow White's sake when you didn't find reason to fight for…oh, what was that stableboy's name?"

Regina flashed cold. "How do you know about that?" she snarled.

"Your mother likes to gloat, dearie. Surely you've learned that."

The sky wavered overhead. All Regina could smell was straw and horse and hope. Another breath, a blink of her eyes, and the stench of death overpowered her (she'd never even gotten to say goodbye).

"This isn't about Daniel," she gritted. "This is about my father."

Rumplestiltskin turned so still she might have thought it was a curse.

"Mother banished him. I think she meant to kill him, for trying to help me escape her, but instead she sent him to another world."

"Ah, that." Rumplestiltskin waved his hand. "A bit of impatient advice. Who knew she'd actually take it?"

Trying not to show her alarm, Regina dared to step up against the edge of the balcony. She felt strong, here, with the Spinner at her side and magic in reach (and that alone made this entire deal worth it). "I tried to rescue him, but Mother impoverished the only realm-jumper I know of. She killed his wife and threatened him against ever speaking to me."

"She does get around, doesn't she?"

"She brought him back."

Rumplestiltskin's eyes, almost unnaturally large in a gaunt face, were unblinking. The closer Regina drew to him, the longer she stayed near, the more her skin prickled. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. There was something…off…about him. Something lurking behind his eyes. Something dark and powerful and terrifying.

And exactly what she needed.

(She'd never be able to face Cora on her own. She'd had to finally admit that, bitter as it was. But with the Dark One…oh, then who knew what she could do?)

"My father. He came back yesterday. Mother locked him in the tower." Regina swallowed. "He screamed all night long. Even after I snuck into see him. He's different now. Harder. Crueler. He almost didn't even recognize me. And he called Mother in, betrayed me to her. They've been closeted together all day and I think…" Regina couldn't breathe (she couldn't remember Daddy anymore, not with the bruises he'd left on her ribcage and heart still smarting), could barely finish saying, "I think he's helping her with her plans."

"Wonderland's not a nice place," Rumplestiltskin said, and he almost sounded apologetic. "No one who goes there ever comes back quite the same."

"I don't care." Regina drew herself up. Made herself breathe. "Daniel's dead. Daddy's…gone. Snow will be either dead or a fugitive by nightfall. I have nothing left. But I refuse to just leave."

"Yes?" The Spinner drew nearer, hovering over her shoulder, his breath whispering against her skin. He smelled like magic. Like power. Like possibilities.

"I want her to pay," Regina snarled. "I want her to lose just as much as she's taken from me."

"Then I will teach you." The simple nod he gave her was somehow more deferential than the elaborate bow he'd given Snow earlier. "Magic enough to face and defeat the Heartless Queen."

"And in return?" Regina remembered to ask. "What do you want?"

"Ah, dearie." Rumplestiltskin smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

-Storybrooke-

Her hands are shaking. She can't stop them. Her steps are soundless against the street, her coat dark against the night, every inch of her as accustomed to blending in as to pain, but for the first time in ages, she cannot still her tremors. They're bleeding out into open air, cold and revealing and weak.

Regina hates them. She hates the fear constantly living in her. She hates the darkness following as close as an omnipresent shadow. Above all, she hates her mother.

Burying her stained hands in her pockets, Regina hurries through the night to the accompaniment of her tripping heart. When the sign, lit against the darkness (a show every bit as false as her own), comes into view, she almost gasps out a sigh and only barely chokes it back. She learned a long time ago never to admit any hope or longing or happiness (not when pain rips them all away too quickly).

A long moment paused outside, flush against the cold wall, her hands clenched into fists (that shake and shake and may never stop again), and then she finds the strength to tug at the door.

It opens with the clatter of a bell (she wonders if it reminds him, every time, of the same thing it does her).

Mr. Gold looks up from the ledger in front of him. His brows rise high before he offers her a small smile.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure? A bit late for business calls."

The words tangle up in her throat like a bit of poisoned apple, lodged so firmly it chokes her. How many years has she been informing on her mother to Gold, yet for once, she feels not the slightest bit of paltry triumph. (No, now she is the monster, and it doesn't feel so pleasant to be the one stabbed in the back.)

"Regina?" Gold's brow creases and he grabs for his cane without looking, maneuvers around the counter, and steps close. Too close. Regina imagines that he can smell it on her (the guilt; the blood). "What did that mother of yours do now?"

"She's planning something," Regina blurts out. Misdirect. It's all she knows how to do. It's the only weapon she's ever had available to her. "She's allied herself with that stranger to town and now she thinks she can bring you down."

"All very interesting, but hardly unknown to me." His touch to her elbow is so light she might very well have only imagined it, but still it gets her moving, preceding him into the backroom. There, behind curtains and darkness and secrets, their collusion is hidden.

Regina closes her eyes, and thinks of Henry.

(He will never scream through the night. He will never wear the marks of bruises where there should only be love. He will never look at her and see only the monster lurking in every nightmare.)

This is all for him.

Slowly, so slowly she thinks she means to rewind time, Regina pulls her shaking hands from their hiding place.

There's blood etched in every print, outlining every nail, smudged between knuckles. The smell of copper (real or imagined) brings bile surging up her throat, and somehow Gold (unsurprisingly) sees the signs and gets a cup under her mouth just in time. Regina retches and heaves and wonders if it's possible to completely vomit up a lifetime's worth of corruption. If only it could be so simple to rid herself of the marks staining every day of her life from before her birth to now.

"It's my fault," Regina whispers. "She made me do it. Both of them, they…they were standing there. Mother called me out to the woods. She said…"

"Her and Jones?"

There's something in his voice when he speaks the man's name. Something that reminds her of the darkness she senses in him whenever she draws too near (not that she brings herself to that too often; one monster in her son's life is more than enough).

Regina shudders and stares in grim fascination as the bloodstains change form and color when she clenches her hands into fists.

"They were waiting for me in the dark. And they weren't alone."

"No?"

"The ranger stumbled over them." Regina is dimly aware that she's curling forward, hunched in on herself. It brings her closer to the coppery stains and her stomach roils. "Jones was holding onto him. Mother…she said it was time for me to step up."

You're a mother now, Cora's voice rings in her ears. Time you know what it takes to ensure the best for your child.

"She had a knife." For all her abstraction, Regina doesn't miss the exaggerated stillness that takes over Mr. Gold. Quite telling and just as evasive as she's learned to be (if there's one thing she's learned in the years of her dealings with the Deal-Maker, it is that nothing is ever as it seems). "She made me take it. I didn't want to." Regina latches eyes with Mr. Gold, desperate that he not look away. "I didn't want to. I tried not to."

"I believe you," he says softly. And then he shows more kindness than her mother ever has—he turns away. Busies himself with a basin and water and unearthing washrags while Regina shakes and tremors and tries not to go mad.

"Mother said Graham would turn us all in. She said that since I was there, I was an accessory."

"Accessory to what?" Mr. Gold asks in his quiet voice.

"To murder."

She'd held the knife. She fought it at first, of course she did (she always makes a token struggle; it helps her sleep at night), but then she held the knife. Of course she did (she always plays right into her mother's hands; it helps minimize the nights spent bruised so badly she can hardly move).

"Jones shoved Graham at me. The knife…it just went right into him." Regina flinches when Mr. Gold sits beside her. Flinches again when he reaches for her hands.

"Easy now," he murmurs (he does not flinch when the blood touches him). "So Mr. Humbert's dead."

"Yes. I couldn't move. Mother said there was no going back now. She said that as long as we all kept silence, we'd all be safe."

"Simplistic tripe," Gold mutters. "And nothing more than a scare tactic. As you obviously figured out."

"I'm always an accessory," Regina says. She watches as Mr. Gold immerses her hands in the warm water. Feels nothing as he gently rubs to rid her of the blood (nothing will rid her of the act itself). Only belatedly realizes that his soft movements, the pinking water, her whitening hands, are helping.

She's not shaking as badly anymore. In fact, she has to look closely to notice the tremor.

"No matter what I do, I always end up helping Mother. It's as if just by breathing, I keep her safe."

"You haven't always helped her. We both know she intended for you to do a lot more than drug that mechanic and spread a bit of strategic blood. This isn't the first time you've gotten your hands dirty—or that you've fought back."

"And what good does any of it do?" she snaps, full of vitriol that disappears whenever her mother is near. "And Billy wasn't like… This isn't the same."

"No," he says. "And for what it's worth, she fought for you once." A pause, and then he admits, "Or maybe it was only herself she fought for and you were part and parcel of that deal. Regardless, she does value you."

"But she doesn't love me."

The truth falls like snow between them. Soft and delicate and cold enough to kill.

"She doesn't know how to love," Mr. Gold says with a hint of bitterness. "I thought… Well, no matter. Cora is what she is. No amount of wishing can change that. Did they bury the body?"

Regina blinks at the abrupt change in subject. Her hands clench spasmodically. Mr. Gold patiently waits with the washcloth until she relaxes again.

"I…I don't know. Jones carried him away. Mr. Gold…" Regina takes a deep breath (it's time to be strong). "They said they know how to stop you."

"A good thing I have a few plans already in motion to subvert their expectations."

The hint of cunning malice, sly intrigue, that spark of desperate fury quickly submerged beneath menacing patience—it reminds her of just how narrow is the line that she walks.

(Cora's not the only one who's lied to him.)

"They said they had the key to your destruction."

"And I assure you, they're mistaken."

Regina grabs his hands, stilling them, and forces him to meet her eyes (strength, bravery, desperation, whatever it is, she lets it fill her up). "They weren't messing around, Gold. We both know you're not as invulnerable as you want everyone to think you are. You're saying there's not even a single weakness they might have found? Not one chink in your armor? Nothing you really care about?"

He goes cold. Silent. Still as a grave (that was empty, but it was better, more useful, to pretend it wasn't).

"Jones," he whispers, and there. That's the beast she's looking for. That's the monster she needs to counter her mother.

"Whatever they're planning, Mother's more confident than I've ever seen her."

Mr. Gold stands. The basin sloshes warm water into her lap. As she sets it aside and dries her now-clean hands, the last of her tremors subside.

"Such a faithful informant you are," he finally says, almost conversationally.

Regina is a chameleon. She's a shadow. She's invisible. (All the old tricks, so easy to slip back into, so simple to employ; always useless with him.)

Mr. Gold's expression is incisive, calculating, as he stares at her.

Regina is frozen.

"Tell me, little mother, what price this eager cooperation?"

"We had a deal—"

"Please." He sneers at her. "No one ever fulfills a deal without trying to weasel out of it in one way or another. Well, only one, but it wasn't you."

"I'm doing this for Henry," she says (truth is its own shield). "He doesn't deserve to be in the middle—"

"Yes, yes, a noble sentiment to be sure. But you came to me with this—for what? For comfort? For absolution? To remind yourself you're not the villain compared to others you know? Or because you already know the war we're fighting and have decided to pick your side early?"

Swallowing, Regina thinks it best to stand. She's an inch taller than Mr. Gold and she needs every bit of advantage she can muster (never enough, nothing she does is ever, ever enough). "Mother's been in charge here too long. With all these strangers in town, things are finally—"

"The strangers. Interesting how they found their way here." Mr. Gold's smile conveys none of the warmth it should. "As if they were invited. By postcard, perhaps?"

"What are you implying?" Regina asks with a tongue that feels leaden in her mouth.

"I think you know, dearie."

She's always known this day was coming. Of course she did. She just hoped she could put it off for so much longer (and ideally, it wouldn't have occurred anywhere so near anything to do with the ghost hidden in the clatter of bells and the reminder of a not-so-occupied grave).

"Tell me, since you're so fond of fulfilling deals to their letter, just why it is you are so intent on warning me against Mayor Mills' actions." Mr. Gold prowls closer, a sinuous prance not affected at all by the limp he now bears and the cane he needs as more than just affectation.

"Mr. Gold—"

"I think you know that's not my name. Just as I know whose blood runs in your veins."

Be strong, she tells herself. Fixing Henry's bright eyes and warm hugs in her memory, Regina finds the strength to meet Rumplestiltskin's gaze.

"Blood magic," she says evenly. "Cora remembers the old world, as does everyone tied to her by blood. I've always remembered who I am. Who we all are."

"Ahhh." There's something in Gold's (Rumplestiltskin's?) eyes. Something she can't read but that nonetheless sends a shiver down her spine. "Daughter of the spell-caster. Daughter of the heart that powered the curse."

Bile rises again. Regina forces it back. Mr. Gold was soft and quiet, demure and restrained, even gentle, almost friendly at times—everything Rumplestiltskin was not. And for all she's imagined that perhaps this mask is the truer of the two, it is Rumplestiltskin who stares back at her now (there's no more place for weakness).

You know what you have to do, Regina. I named you for a queen, and now, you will hold to that promise. Tell him exactly what he needs to hear, and remember—I'm not the only one with secrets that could bring his wrath down on me.

Taking a deep breath (reminding herself this is just another part to play), Regina says, "Cora remembers. I remember. You remember. I'm assuming Captain Jones does as well. That means the curse is weakening with every pinprick in its fabric. Aren't you the one who taught me that every curse has a breaking point?"

"So glad you remember." Rumplestiltskin studies her for a long moment, leaning one-hipped against his cane. "And what deal are you honoring, dearie? A son for information? Or magic for an ally?"

"Both," she says firmly (she can't have him doubting her, not now, not when blood stains her hands and secrets strain between them and a weapon's been dug up from beneath the ground). "I am your ally, Rumplestiltskin, for as long as you oppose my mother."

"Well, then." His smile is smug, his eyes glittering with triumph, but Regina is too skilled at subterfuge herself not to recognize the desperate elation fizzing beneath his skin (not to feel the power mounting with every utterance of his name). "If Mayor Mills and her pirate comrade feel that they are in position to mount their own offensive, what say we begin our own?"

"And what's that?" Regina asks. Her hands are steady. Her back is straight. Her memories are filled with Henry (and she is not the monster; she will not be the monster, that is the entire point of her deals with the Dark One's master: he will be the villain for her).

"Why, to break a curse, naturally." Rumplestiltskin smiles. "And for that, we'll need True Love."

He's out for his daily walk through the surrounding woods (exercise is good for growing children, does he remember reading that somewhere?) when he stumbles upon what looks to be a secret.

There's a shovel and a briefcase, a rich suit and heavy-duty boots, a smile and veiled threat. All of it there, not two realities struggling to assert themselves, but self-contained in one man.

The man smiles (he remembers that smile, wrapped in gold, dripping in gold, breathing out gold fire). "Good evening. Not often I meet someone out here."

"I know the feeling," Jefferson says. There's something familiar about this conversation, a powerful sense of déjà vu that calms him. For once, he's not torn between two sets of memories (for once, he's the normal one). "Little late for a spot of gardening, isn't it?"

"It's never too late for doing what you love." The man (or is he an imp?) shrugs and steps over a fallen trunk. There's a cane in his hand, and at the sight of it, all Jefferson's calmness falls away.

The Spinner.

The Deal-Maker.

Maybe even, some said, the Dark One.

No. No, no, no, that's not right. There's a gold glint behind his smile, but it's not gold thread, it's a gold tooth, and this isn't the Deal-Maker, but the pawnbroker, not the Spinner but the landlord, a beast, a villain, the bogeyman that lurks in the shadows.

(Jefferson isn't afraid of bogeymen. His fears are all tied up, rather, in courts and judges and rulings.)

"Mr. Gold," he's finally able to say.

"No secrets here," Gold says as if he can read Jefferson's mind (perhaps he can; couldn't he, before?). "If you want to pass on that I've been out here in the dark of the night, be my guest. I'd love for Cora to waste her time digging up countless holes in search of her lost treasure. Perhaps that's why she's allied herself with a pirate."

"A pirate," Jefferson repeats.

There are no pirates, not with hooks for hands and an eternal grudge against a Crocodile. Not in real life (the life with Grace, no, Paige).

Jefferson shakes his head and hopes all the wrong thoughts are shaken loose. But when he opens his eyes, the Spinner is still there.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"They brought a woman up out of the ground," Jefferson says. It seems important information, though he cannot remember why in that moment. Was that even here? Or in another life? "I looked for Grace, but instead there was only a girl held like a weapon. Do you think people can be weapons?"

"I think they are the greatest weapon there can ever be," Rumplestiltskin says quietly. "But your daughter is a gift, Jefferson, and I admire you for always knowing that—even if you did jump through a portal without her."

There are no crickets. Nothing to break the silence all around them. In that instant, Jefferson might have sworn that they were the only two people left in any world. And he keens, ragged and broken (Grace, Grace, where is his Grace?).

"I can help you get her back," Rumplestiltskin says.

Others were always afraid of the Deal-Maker, but Jefferson never quite knew why. There were stories, whispers of dark fates and slaughtered fields, but that was only ever for the people who crossed him. The people who weren't honest. Jefferson was honest. Always (even here, and perhaps that is why his mind is breaking beneath this vast lie), and so he never feared the Spinner the way others did (not all the time).

"My daughter," Jefferson grits out.

Gold's eyes are darker, more sinister, than Flayme's. There is a menace in his expression that the District Attorney will never be able to attain. And, oh, it makes Jefferson want to weep with gratitude.

"What is her name?" he begs. He grovels—drops to his knees and stretches out his hands in supplication. "I can't…I can't remember which is real."

"Get up," Rumplestiltskin says with a trace of impatient irritation. "No need to kiss any boots tonight, Hatter. I'll tell you her name free of charge, and then we'll make a deal, you and I."

"Anything," he says. (The wrong thing. No one says that word to the Spinner, not without unending repercussions.

Jefferson doesn't care. Anything is better than another three decades separated from his precious daughter.)

"Stand up," Rumplestiltskin repeats, and he will not continue until Jefferson drags himself to his feet.

"Her name," Jefferson demands. "Her name and I'll make as many deals as you want!"

"Grace," Rumplestiltskin whispers.

He was right—there is power in names. In her name.

Grace. It folds through him, layers itself through the network of his veins, sinks into the porous nature of his bones, blazes as the cornerstone of his soul.

"Grace," he says, and the name is a promise, a reminder, a seal on the deal they haven't yet made.

"I will return her to you," Rumplestiltskin says, "if you help me with your hat."

"I…" Jefferson is speechless with fear. "I don't have it anymore. I lost it. I've tried—you don't know how many times I've tried—to make it again, but it's a portal. They were created long ago by magic long lost."

"Not lost, destroyed." Rumplestiltskin shrugs and holds out his briefcase. "I have it. A bit the worse for wear, but it was worth the man I had to retrieve in return for it."

"The King of Hearts?" Even with Grace thrumming in his heart, Jefferson nearly lunges for Gold. "He was the one who kept me there! I made a thousand hats for him but none were ever good enough! He took my head! And you rescued him?"

Rumplestiltskin arched a brow at him. "Trust me, dearie, you didn't want to go where he went. Bad as Wonderland is, it's a paradise compared to Cora's dungeons."

"At least I would have been in the same world as Grace," Jefferson snarls.

Rumplestiltskin says nothing. Instead, he simply places the briefcase on that fallen trunk and pops it open. Inside lies the hat that has overshadowed so much of Jefferson's life. In turns, it has been salvation, escape, wealth, temptation, destruction, hope, but always, it has been just outside his reach. For all he called himself Hatter and fancied himself his own master, it is the hat that has always decided his fate.

Now, at the sight of it, Jefferson can see only his daughter.

"Magic doesn't work here," he makes himself say. His feet burn to leap forward, his hands itch to grab hold, his mind splits down the middle (the hat took him away from Grace; the hat is his only way to get back to her). "The hat won't work."

He has a room full of useless hats in that useless mansion to remind him how useless this world is.

"Ah, but if one has brought magic through in the form of items?" Gold slips a case from his pocket. "One can power the hat—not enough to travel through it, perhaps, but certainly enough to reach out and retrieve an object."

"I don't even know if our world still exists." Jefferson's not entirely sure why he's arguing this (why he's doing anything at all to jeopardize his chance of getting Grace back), except that it's been so long since he's dared have hope. Letting in the possibility of it now might very well drive away whatever sanity he's still clinging to.

And then who will Grace see when she looks at him? (Will she be afraid?)

"What we're retrieving is from the past. Before the Dark Curse."

Jefferson stares. He should have known. He did know.

Not real. He's making all this up. Imagining it. Conjuring it up because he's running out of patience. (And maybe Grace's name is really Paige.)

"That's time travel," he says (doomed to always fall into these rabbit holes), "and that's impossible. The three laws of magic—"

"Can be transcended by portals," Rumplestiltskin lectures. "There's a reason the fairies hid the beanstalks from the world, you know. A reason the beans were allowed to be razed to the ground and all the enchanted trees were burned and mermaids were hunted. Portal magic overrules our world's inviolable laws, as it does every world's—including this one's—and since your hat is a portal, it can get us what we need."

"So…" Jefferson tries not to look too desperate (an impossible feat). "I could travel back in time? I could go back to Grace before this curse was cast? I could make sure she's never left alone!"

"No." Maybe he imagines it, maybe he deludes himself into thinking it's possible, but he thinks there is pity in Rumplestiltskin's eyes. "The magic needed to send a person through time would burn whole worlds to ash. However, to retrieve a simple object, providing it doesn't affect the timeline too much, requires only this."

And he flicks open the case to reveal a glass orb. Jefferson remembers retrieving that for Rumplestiltskin. The Spinner had wanted slippers instead, but still paid gold for this little sphere. But that was another world. Another life. Another reality.

Tentatively, almost not daring, Jefferson reaches out and brushes his fingers along the glass surface. It's cold. Slick. Real.

Or is it? Maybe he's still in his empty mansion. Maybe he's broken his telescope and crumpled to shattered pieces on the floor and dreamed himself up everything he's ever wanted (complete with the right, real name).

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Jefferson doesn't care. If this is the reality where he gets Grace back, he'll take it, straitjacket or no.

Gold snatches the orb back out of reach. "Here is the deal I propose," he says. "For as long as the curse lasts, I will act as your lawyer and work to win you equal custody rights of Paige. Once the curse is broken, I will ensure you and she are reunited in all ways. In return," he catches Jefferson's widening eyes, "you will use your hat and the item we retrieve to help me break the curse. Deal?"

Caution slithers through him like a snake.

Fine print. Technicalities. What-ifs and maybes and dangerous loopholes.

A sane man would pause. A smart man would examine this from all angles. A calm man would negotiate and question. But that man has everything to lose (and Jefferson has nothing).

"Deal," he snaps, and grabs for his hat.

Rumplestiltskin lets him have it.

"What are we looking for?"

"An apple," Rumplestiltskin says. "A poison apple with only a single bite taken from it."

People have asked for stranger things (even in this world, people's motives can be opaque); Jefferson doesn't concern himself trying to figure it out. His only concern is the baby he held, wet and sobbing, in a hovel, under a clouded sky free of hanging islands, while the name Grace spilled from his lips and love filled up his heart until he thought he might die of it (he still might).

Jefferson sets the hat on the ground (realities collide in his head). Rumplestiltskin murmurs something over the orb, then drops it into the hat. There's no thump. No sign left of it. It's simply gone, eaten up and spit back out as power. Jefferson's wrists twist in a practiced motion he's never forgotten (the one constant) and the hat spins. Light spills out from it and the hat continues to whirl, round and round, an endless loop that gathers light and power and sparks outward around them.

Magic.

He's laughing out loud. The sound joins the power. The portal opens. Trade for a trade, the orb completes its journey, and with a quick grab, the apple is in his hand. A glimpse of green fields, heartless figure, fallen princess (a world removed, a world gone, a time he can touch but never reclaim), and then it's gone, swallowed up by this world.

Jefferson stares down at the apple in his hand. Bright crimson, too appealing to be safe, larger than he expected.

"Here." He offers it to Rumplestiltskin.

Gold doesn't take it.

"Ah, ah, ah." He shakes his head and backs away a step. The cane is different here, but just as much a statement. The Spinner and Deal-Maker; the pawnbroker and landlord (master of the fine print and the dotted line). "Our deal's not over yet. Remember, you still have to use that item to help me break this curse."

"How?" he demands. His blood is boiling. His heart is spinning fast as a hat. Grace teeters on his tongue (so close, so far). "Don't you think if I could break this curse, I would!"

"True Love is the only thing that can break the curse," Gold tells him. "And in order for that True Love to be unleashed on our little section of this world, we need a catalyst. That catalyst is Henry—so get him to eat that apple."

His hand goes numb and tingles so badly he nearly drops the apple (the poison).

"What?"

"Henry will fall into a sleep this world can only call death, the promised Savior will be moved to desperation, a kiss will be bestowed, and easy as that, the curse is broken."

"And I'll be reunited with Grace?"

"Everything will be as it should be," Rumplestiltskin agrees (or does he? it's all in the little details). "The only caveat is this: don't give it to the boy until I tell you to. The Savior isn't quite ready yet, and until she is, we still have time to set the board. Not everyone will be happy the curse is broken."

"You said you'd reunite me with Grace!"

"And so I will. I've already told the DA that I'm taking your case and have scheduled our next hearing. Monday morning, 8:00, don't be late."

Jefferson almost lets him walk away. He's so used to helplessness, powerlessness, that he very nearly slips back into the terrible habit without even a peep.

But now he knows his daughter's name (now he knows that he may have abandoned, he may have left behind, but he never hurt, never attacked, never shoved at fragile bones so near a tall staircase). Now he is something more than just useless.

"What about the unburied girl?" he calls out.

Rumplestiltskin cocks his head back. He looks small there, outlined against the blackness. Vulnerable in a way Jefferson's never seen him in any of a dozen worlds he accompanied him to or retrieved him from.

"The Heartless Queen and the pirate dug her up and carried her away. Deep in the woods. There's a cabin. A vault. Something. They put the body there, saved for a rainy day."

"A girl?" Rumplestiltskin turns to face him completely. Jefferson can't see his face through the shadows. The cane is held in a rigid grip that gleams white-knuckled below the starless sky. "Did you know her?"

"Bells rang," Jefferson mutters. There had been something about bells, hadn't there? Or was that only a dream? "Bells that don't make noise anymore."

The forest is so quiet even crickets would quail before the terror of it if they only existed. Rumplestiltskin doesn't look small anymore. He seems tall, aloof, so austere that the trees themselves cower before him.

"They dug up her body?" Gold asks. "For what?"

"Maybe their portal transcends another law of magic," Jefferson muses. The apple fits in his hand so well. One child for his daughter. Is that really such a terrible trade? There will be a kiss, after all, and though Jefferson's kiss to his wife's heartless body had done nothing, he's heard that kisses worked for others. It might for the son of the mayor's shadow. And wasn't anything worth Grace?

"Thank you, Jefferson," Gold finally says (another shadow, though this one possesses glowing eyes and unfathomable powers, solid and terrifying). "I'll see you at the courthouse on Monday."

"Maybe a pie," Jefferson muses. "Kids love pies."

One bite, one kiss, and happily-ever-after will be his again. Grace need never know. Regina need never know. Rumplestiltskin always honors his deals and never throws those who do the same to the wolves. Things can still turn around for him (there is still magic in this world).

"No," he decides as he tucks the apple away in a handkerchief and then in his pocket. He turns for the mansion (for home). "A turnover. And then maybe some tea for Grace. I'll make cookies."

As he walks home, reciting recipes aloud, he doesn't notice the crickets that begin to chirp all around him.

Dark. Confined. All that upheaval, all that trouble and disturbance, and it's only another cell. This one smells of dirt and crispness, of smoke and maybe just a hint of that bitter salt, and she tries to be grateful for the novelty. Beggars (prisoners) can't be choosers (heroes), after all.

She lies where she wakes for a while before she reminds herself that she has chosen to move rather than accept. Her legs wobble, her arms shake, her head spins, but she makes it to her feet and begins to shuffle around the new confines of her world. There's a whisper in the back of her mind that tells her the dark is something to be frightened of, but she's never been afraid of it. Perhaps she clung to the window and the shattered light that filtered through, but night is no different than day. In both, there is something worthy to be found (she can't remember where she learned that, but it seems to be a lesson well-learned, cherished even, engraved through the bones of her).

A corner, her left hand trails a wall (log? wood of some kind), another corner, a window boarded up with splintered planks. She sucks at the sharp wood embedded in her finger before continuing on. A door with a doorknob. Her heart leaps for a delirious moment before she realizes it doesn't turn, and her meager strength is no match for the solid make of the door and whatever lock holds it. There's no panel in this one, at least, no snick to allow honey-dangerous eyes to watch her from afar. Another corner, another wall, this one brick that surrounds a square (a fireplace, some dim corner of her mind resurrects to inform her). She checks the chimney, but small as she believes herself to be, she can't quite contort her shoulders into letting her climb up to the sky. Another corner and another wall, and a warmer space under her bare feet that she assumes is the place they dumped her and the place where she woke.

Into the middle of the room. A chair that stubs her toe. A low table. A bucket. A bowl with something that smells of grains. She eats the dry cereal, wishes for a drink to wash it down with, and huddles beside the fireplace. Not for warmth (she has long since given up hoping for such luxuries), but because she can almost taste the free air through the chimney. Perhaps, if she refuses the next several bowls of cereal, if they continue to forget water, she will be able to wedge herself up that chute and strain for the only freedom she's ever tasted.

Gradually, so slowly she wouldn't notice if she weren't so used to searching for it in her first cell, light begins to bend its way past the planks nailed over the window. It stretches across the floor, reaches for her toes, illuminates the chair with ropes helpfully left prepared around the arms and front feet of it, and splashes black charred stains along the fireplace she's chosen as her center.

She knows better than to dwell on freedom, or choices, or more company than honey and salt. But as the light tries to warm her fingers, as she finally locates the stubborn splinter and tugs it free, she wishes that she hadn't been moved here at all.

How can she be courageous without the brave girl's constant humming to borrow from?

Where will she find strength if there is no third cell, buried deepest and darkest, to remind herself it's possible to endure worse?

Huddling deeper into her shapeless gown, she curls into a ball and realizes that the wrong one was plucked from their buried cells. Surely they meant for the brave one, or the strong one. Not for her. All she is…is in between. Nothing special. Nothing worthy of being chosen. Nothing but the one to leave behind, to drive away, to shut out, to forget.

There's a low keening sound filling the room. When she realizes that she's the one making it, she startles and the sound dies away. (It's not quite a melodious hum, not quite stalwart silence, more broken, more fragile, than both those things.)

Before she can decide if she wants to make the sound again, there is a noise outside the door. Not dim footsteps growing nearer. Not the snick she's heard countless times before (she should have counted; why didn't she think of that?). This is a thump and a thud and then a squeak as the door swings open.

Two forms on the other side. The woman with honey eyes and poisoned smile. The man with terrifying single-mindedness still brimming over from his cold, too-full eyes. He tosses something her way, and snickers when she cowers away.

"Like calls to like, eh, love?" he asks.

Meaningless words. She thinks she could so easily love words—if they did what they're supposed to and actually communicated (thoughts and concepts and memories, expansion and dreams and education). But these words are meant to exclude, to demean, to shut out, and she has had more than enough of that. So she ignores him in favor of the bottle rolling toward her. It takes quite a bit of concentration to coordinate her numb fingers enough to twist open the cap and take careful sips of lukewarm water.

They don't mean to kill her, then. She is still only worthy of being locked away. Trapped in limbo forever.

Eventually, thirst slaked (or at least put off for now), she grows aware that the two are whispering together in front of the door. The door they closed behind them. She can't help but blink at that. The notion of someone else being in the cell with her is daunting, world-shattering, revolutionary.

If they can be here too…then why couldn't the brave one and the strong one have shared her cell? Why couldn't they have found solace together all these…years? decades? lifetimes? Has their solitude only ever been for cruelty's sake?

"What makes you think he'll come?" the bitterness asks.

"Please. As if he doesn't keep as many eyes and ears in this town as I do. He knows this cabin is hidden away for a reason and keeps tabs on it in order to know what I'm up to. He'll come."

She's never heard so many words from the honey-sweetness before. They bite. She hears them, and feels as if there is something breaking somewhere, somehow, somewhen.

"And once he does come?"

"Then as soon as he's given me what I want, he'll be all yours."

"Good." The man's eyes drift to her, cold and merciless, implacable as the sea but a thousand times more vengeful. "It's time that Crocodile got what's coming to him. He deserves to pay for what he took from me. What he did to him."

"Oh?" Dark eyes tilt up. Calmness covers an ocean of hidden agendas.

The forgotten girl shivers and curls farther away from the two (captors, villains, monsters).

"You can't think I'm the only one he's hurt in his centuries of darkness," the salt bites out (she rolls her lips inward to hide from the sting of saline while tears burn her eyes). "There's more than one score to settle when I get my hands on him."

"Well, you're the one who's been watching him—has he deviated from his routines?" Honey is thick, cloying, and oozes instead of moving purposefully (seeps into every crevice no matter how you try to remove it). The forgotten girl imagines that it's also quite good at dulling screams, suffocating breath, covering dead eyes.

"Aye, he's been in the woods a fair few times the past several days."

"Interesting," the woman breathes. "Does he take anything with him?"

"A shovel, boots, and a briefcase. Odd combination, that."

The woman is silent. The girl looks up. The man is distracted, peering down at her, seemingly oblivious to the poison behind him. She thinks maybe he's only pretending, but then she sees the intense focus in his eyes and realizes that he little cares what danger comes his way so long as it also nets him whatever it is he wants so badly.

"Stay with her," the honey-eyes declare. "I'll head into town and see if my daughter's actually done as she's supposed to or if she's failed me yet again."

"Don't worry," he promises (leaden fear twists around her spine at the dark intent in his voice). "I won't take my eyes off her."

The door opens. Easy as that. A hand, a knob, a twist, pull, and squeak go the hinges, and then slam as it once more closes her in. She can't help but stare. She's never loved the honey eyes, never attached any importance to them but the deviance in monotonous routine and perhaps some dim intimidation. But now, left alone with the man clothed in black as he strokes a silver hook in his left hand, she wishes for those eyes, that voice, her presence back.

(None of her wishes ever come true.)

"Just you and me, love."

She hides the water bottle in the notch between her legs, curled up tight against her chest. It sloshes against her heart, and she imagines its liquid rhythm as a part of her own body. Movement. Impetus. Inertia. Stuck in place but moving as it should. Straining to be spilled into the open. Fluid and bending and reforming behind whatever disturbs it. (Clear, transparent, nothing to hide, nothing to see, take it for granted.)

When she turns her face toward the fireplace and lays her chin over her knees, she tries to remember fire. She knows the word. She understands the concept. She thinks maybe (surely) she's seen it in reality, at least once. So as she stares into ash and char, she imagines something different overlaid atop it. Red and orange ribbons, yellow streamers, blue heart hidden deep. Sparks dancing in the air. Ash piling up beneath eye-catching colors blending together. Logs, strong and whole and chopped to size, disappearing bit by bit, eaten away. Warmth emanating outward, destruction turned to usefulness, an object to fear corralled into a necessary tool, danger become soft and heated and welcoming.

She loves fire. She has seen it before, many times (must have, in order to have such a strong reaction to even the fantasy of it), and now she longs to see it, to feel it, to touch it again. She wants to wrap herself around it, to blow away the growing ash, to add new kindling, to bask in warmth and color, to smile and enjoy and appreciate, to not fear.

"Milah." The man's voice shatters the moment and dissolves the fire. She is once more left cold and alone (and crazy). "The Heartless Queen. And you? I have to say, I don't see it. The Crocodile's attracted to what he isn't. What he can never be. Bravery. Wonder. Strength. Fire. But you?"

She balls up tighter when he kneels in front of her, studies her as if there is a snicking panel between them and the lights are on solely for him to see her in the shadowed corner.

"You're as much a mouse as he is, deep down beneath all that bluster and show. There isn't even a fraction of Milah's passion in you. I suppose you're pretty enough, all cleaned up, but what made him let you go?"

She craves the silence he falls into. Revels in it for the few minutes it lasts. (Nothing ever lasts save imprisonment and abandonment. Even the strong one has not endured into this new cell.)

"Maybe he didn't do it of his own free will," muses the man (pirate? she looks at him and thinks only of the sea and of far-away places and all the places in the world not worth exploring). "Do you know more than you're admitting, love? If he let you free of a deal, that means you made one with him to begin with. What did he give you? What did he ask for in return?"

The memory of the fire fades. Cold invades her, bites deep, roots itself and settles in for a long stay (as long as prisoners are kept in cells).

"Do you know anything about a dagger?" the man asks abruptly. For the first time, there is something besides that glittering focus in his eyes. Or maybe it is the same, just slanted in a different angle. A darker, more restrained intent. "If you know about the dagger, you know the Heartless Queen won't be any better than he is. You know its magic needs to be contained. I know someone who can do that. Just think: no more Dark One to worry about ever again."

She blinks. Blinks again.

Magic. Fairytales. Apples and poison and slippers and balls and spinning wheels and—

Spinning wheels. Spinning, spinning, spinning, straw into gold, fear into laughter, necessity into longing, spinning, spinning, spinning, curtains and teacups and wide, wide, startled eyes and spinning, spinning, spinning, the man is a beast is a man is a beast is a null void that leaves her shut out and alone and lonely and empty.

Gasping, sputtering, she falls to her side. The bottle rolls away. The man jumps back, curses on his lips, surprise on his brow, disinterest seeping into his eyes.

"What a waste," he mutters. He toes the bottle away. It spins, sloshes, rolls, a curved angle always away from her. "You're just as useless as him."

Lying on her side, hand outstretched to the empty fireplace, the forgotten girl tries to dream up another fire.

She can't.

(There is no more kindling.)

A/N: A reminder that I consider nothing canon post-3x11, so whatever they said about time-travel in 3b (I did watch it, but I can't really remember a lot of it, thankfully) is not applicable here. And for all that time-travel is considered impossible, I always wondered how Regina and Jefferson were able to retrieve that poisoned apple from the past. So, here, a little bit of theory that made sense to me. Hopefully it does you too. :)