A/N: This chapter contains underage drinking. The description given of the spirit in question is taken from that of Pincer Vodka. Some dialogue tweaked from S2E22: And Straight On 'Til Morning, but used in a slightly different context.

Chapter 43

Bae frantically tried to remember everything Papa had been telling him. "I need a candle!" he said, shouting to be heard over the fierce wind, even as he fumbled in his pocket. Yes, he did have the box of matches he'd purchased yesterday and never taken out. "No," he remembered, "A lantern! Wendy!"

"I-I…"

"John, Michael, get out of here!" Bae snapped. "Wendy, I need a lantern!"

"I'll get one of the night lights!" John yelled back. "They're in the nursery."

Bae nodded. The room was lit by gas fixtures mounted on the wall, but the Shadow's presence seemed to have extinguished them. "Wendy, John, hurry!" he called. Then, "Where's…?"

His heart plunged. Michael hadn't followed his siblings to the Nursery. He stood frozen in terror, scant inches from where the Shadow now writhed. The malevolence in its eyes seemed to intensify as it extended a misty claw-like hand toward the small boy.

"No!" Bae shrieked, striking a match. The Shadow shrieked and twisted away. For a moment, relief washed over Bae, but too soon, the heat from the flame reached his fingertips and he cried out and instinctively shook the matchstick to extinguish it. Triumphantly, the Shadow surged toward Michael again, but Bae interposed himself between boy and monster. As he fumbled to light a second match, he felt icy fingers close tightly about his arm. The Shadow rose into the air, carrying him with it.

"Bae!" Wendy and John had returned, but there was no reaching them now.

"Stay back!" Bae cried, as the Shadow leaped for the window. "Go to my father! He'll know what to do!" He screamed the address to them, but he didn't know if they could hear him over the rushing of the wind and the pounding of his heart. And then, he was over the street, feet dangling desperate for purchase, as he cleared the London rooftops. Big Ben was dead ahead and, for a moment, he thought the Shadow meant to slam him into its clock face. He closed his eyes, bracing for an impact that never came, and when he opened them again, he found himself flying over open sea toward a small land mass that grew rapidly larger at their approach…

Rumple wished that his window looked out on the street in front, instead of on the alley behind the house. The only view he had was that of the back of the house one street over.

Bae wasn't back. Bae had to come back. Rumple didn't know what he'd do if Bae didn't come back.

He could have lied. He could have told part of the truth and omitted the rest. He'd come to believe that it was better to be honest and open, that he could trust his son to believe in him, and that nothing would come to sever the bond between them now. Well, he'd been open and honest and for what?

Bae was gone.

Oh, they'd had their arguments over the last few years. Arguments over education and prospects and whether to stay in their current situation or risk an opportunity elsewhere. Bae was growing up and he had his own opinions, that didn't always dovetail with those of his father, but they'd talked things out. Yes, sometimes the talks had been heated, and Bae had stormed off, but he generally came back after walking off his frustrations or sitting by the boating lake in Victoria Park and sketching for a bit.

He'd never been out by himself for this long before.

When he came back, well, 'grounding' wasn't exactly the preferred method of discipline in this time and place, but Rumple would do it anyway. And no art lessons for a month! Or art supplies! Or— When Bae came back, Rumple was going to hug him until he could barely breathe, apologize, and plead for forgiveness.

When Bae came back…

If Bae came back…

Bae would be back. He had to be. And when he was, Rumple would do… do… Well, he'd figure that out when Bae came back. And he would be. Of course he—

Please, Bae, Rumple thought urgently, come home. I'm sorry. Come home.

"Well," Belle said with a satisfied smile, "I've got Father's blessing on it."

Rumple's eyebrows shot up. "How ever did you manage that?" he asked. He and Moe French had never been on the best of terms, but their relationship had definitely grown sourer in recent years.

Belle shrugged. "I've no doubt he wishes I'd made a different choice, but at the end of the day, he just wants to see me happy. And he's accepted that being with you makes me that way."

Rumple's answering smile was a bit nervous as he murmured, "As being with you does me." Then he looked up hesitantly for her reaction and felt relief wash over him when she beamed.

"And then there is the small matter of how you sacrificed yourself to stop Pan," she added. "We all saw you defeat him and conquer your own Darkness to do it." She took his hand in hers and continued, "And now, the Dark One is gone and you're the man you would have been had he not been controlling you. And Rumple, that is so much better a man than you ever believed him to be." She leaned toward him and quickly kissed his cheek. "But then, I've known that almost from the start." She sighed. "I need to open the library. Most of the high school students seem to have research papers assigned and it's been busy these last weeks. I'll be back later."

Rumple nodded, still holding her close and smiling as he kissed her back.

After she was gone, though, his smile faded. The Dark One wasn't nearly as gone as she believed. How would she react when that truth finally emerged?

In London with Bae, he'd done his best to go back to the best version of himself, as Belle had once shown him he could. He'd been open. He'd been honest. And in the end? He'd lost Bae anyway and perhaps it had hurt all the more because he'd genuinely believed that if he admitted his past misdeeds, no matter how difficult, those who loved him would stand by him.

Bae hadn't.

And if his own flesh and blood had turned away from him when he'd learned the truth, then how could he dare hope Belle to behave any differently?

Rumple passed a sleepless night and when morning came, he barely registered it. By rights, between his lack of sleep and his condition, he should have been exhausted, but his mind wouldn't still.

He didn't want to go into the bank today. He'd get little enough work done in the state he was in. But perhaps, Bae would be there. Perhaps, Bae had been too angry to come home until it was so late that he'd decided to go directly into work and he was waiting to talk to him even now. Or, more likely, Bae was still angry, but he'd still gone to work and Rumple would find him there.

Oh, for the twenty-first century, when cell phones were both available and ubiquitous! But here in this time and place, while telephones were becoming more common, in poorer neighborhoods like this one, it was scarcely unusual for a house to be absent one. And this house was. He believed that there was such a device at the chemist's shop on the corner, but he wasn't about to use it, not when what he needed to say was best conveyed in person and when calling the bank to speak to his boy might get them both sacked—Bae for taking time away from his duties and he for not only distracting his boy but not reporting in for work today. No, he'd go in, he'd talk to Bae, and he'd put things right.

He refused to entertain the possibility that Bae wouldn't be at the bank when he got there.

It was an unnerving thing to fly. More properly, it was unnerving to be dangled high in the air, higher than the tallest buildings in London—and London had more than its fair share of tall buildings—by a disembodied shadow as icy winds buffeted him. Bae had long since lost his shoes; they'd fallen somewhere between the city and the Atlantic. At least, Bae thought he was flying over the Atlantic; he remembered that much from his geography.

His coat flapped about him and he felt a light weight strike his thigh. The matchbox, he realized. He still had it in his pocket. Not that it would do him much good a thousand feet in the air, but he had to land sometime. If the Shadow had meant to kill him, it could have dropped him at any time.

The Shadow plunged suddenly and Bae sucked in his breath as they dove through a cloud. It was still night when they emerged, and now Bae could see a small island below. It was directly before them and his captor seemed to be bearing directly for it.

"Neverland?" Bae demanded, craning his head upwards to see the Shadow's quick nod. His heart sank and he gazed down once more at his destination. And then, he saw it. A lone ship some distance from the island. It might be his grandfather's. It might be that pirate's, the one who hated Papa. It might even be abandoned. His indecision didn't last long. If the ship was his grandfather's than he was no worse off than he would be on the island. If it wasn't, then he was probably better off aboard—even Papa had admitted that the pirate had slightly more honor than his grandfather.

In one swift motion, he struck the match and thrust it upwards. An instant later, he found himself hurtling toward the sea. Icy water filled his lungs when he hit.

He was still cold and wet, but he was out of the water and lying on a wooden surface, while his lungs seemed to be trying to expel the sea and take in new air all at once. And as he coughed and sputtered, he heard a rough, friendly voice above him proclaim, "Good lad. Get the sea out of your lungs."

Weak though he was, Bae managed to twist his head to see a bearded man clad in black leather towering over him. "Who are you?" he gasped.

The bearded man smiled. "The name's Hook," he said, holding up his hand for emphasis. "Captain Hook. Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger, my boy."

Bae coughed up more water and, when he was done, he was too weary to do anything more than lie gasping and groaning on the floor beneath him. The bearded man bent over him. "He'll be all right," he pronounced. "Find him a berth below and see that he's given some dry clothing."

Bae felt the floor vibrate as footsteps approached, but he was already passed out from exhaustion by the time the men Hook had motioned to stooped down to pick him up.

There was no sign of Bae at work the next morning. Rumple thought, that is to say, he desperately hoped, that Bae was in the mailroom avoiding him, but he didn't go down to check. If Bae was avoiding him, then pushing the issue now would surely push him farther away. If he were to leave his desk and go to an area where he had no business being, there was scant worker protection in this time; he might find himself turned out of the bank with no wages and no reference—not that he'd be able to work much longer in any case, but it was easier not to dwell on his circumstances when he could keep occupied. If Bae was in the mailroom and Rumple distracted him from his duties, then they both might be sacked. And if, as he feared, Bae had never made it into work this morning?

Rumple didn't want to know. He rather thought that the only thing keeping him together right now was the possibility that Bae was here and still too angry to speak with him. His son did have a temper—slower and colder than his own, but not easily regained once lost—but he would cool down eventually, after all. He could give Bae the space to collect himself again and when the boy was ready, they could talk things over.

But if he took himself down to the mailroom and Bae wasn't in it, then as he'd once told Zoso in the Enchanted Forest, Rumple knew that he would truly, truly be dust.

Bae woke up on a narrow berth under a relatively warm blanket. A quick check revealed that his London attire had been exchanged for a linen shirt and woolen breeches. Both were clean and neither new. Looking about, he saw that his old clothes had been pinned to a line stretched from one end of the room he was in to the other.

Slowly, he remembered what had happened; his capture, escaping the Shadow, and being hauled out of the sea by a ship captained by the very pirate Papa had been telling him about before he'd... No. No good thinking about that now. He had to get out of here. He flung off the blanket and leapt to his feet, only to nearly fall to the floor—deck, it was called a deck—no, wait, was it still a deck if it was inside a room, or just if it was out in the open? Well, whatever it was, it was moving up and down under his feet and he'd just about lost his balance until he instinctively flung his hand against the wall to steady himself. Carefully, still keeping his hand on the wall, he made his way about the confines of the small room until he'd reached the clothesline. His own clothes were still a bit damp, but they were his. He changed back into them hurriedly and was buttoning his shirt when the door began to open.

He quickly sat back down on the bed, as the pirate entered. "Ahoy there," he greeted the boy cheerfully. "Aren't you lucky to be alive!"

Bae scowled at him. "Lucky?" he repeated. "I've gone from being captured by a Shadow to being captured by pirates."

The captain smirked at him. "That's as may be, lad, but I believe you'll fare far better with us than you would on the mainland."

"Will I?" Bae demanded. "Because either way, I'm trapped here." He frowned. "Unless you can get me home."

The pirate raised an eyebrow. "Are you that certain you want to leave? Most children think they've found paradise when they reach Neverland's magical shores."

"Maybe they do," Bae said, "but I know differently. I want to go home. No, I have to." A thought sprang to his head and he added after a moment's hesitation, "unless… If this is a magical realm, is there anything here that could cure disease?"

The pirate frowned. "You don't look ill, boy," he said.

"Not for me," Bae replied quickly. "My Papa. It's consumption. He doesn't have long. And my being here… If I can't get back to him, I don't know how much longer he'll hold on. With or without a cure, I need to get back to him."

The pirate gave him a searching look. "What's your name, boy?" he asked.

Bae hesitated only a moment. This was the man who had carried off his mother and, to hear Papa tell it, they'd spent many years together. In all that time, it was likely that Mama would have mentioned him at some point or other. And if she had, then once the captain heard his name, he'd guess who Papa was. And once he guessed that, if he still wanted Papa dead, then he'd never tell Bae what he wanted to know or help him to leave this place. "Cassidy," he replied.

The captain smiled. "Well, Cassidy," he said, "I'm afraid the only cure I know won't do your father any good. There's a spring on that island whose waters can cure every ill. Unfortunately, its power is bound to that island. Those who drink it can never leave it without their illness restored. And since your father isn't here…"

"But what if we brought it to him?"

"We can't leave this place," the pirate admitted. "This realm is ruled by the one called Peter Pan. None come to this island without his knowledge. And none leave it without his permission."

"Well, how do we get his permission?" Bae demanded.

All jocularity was gone from the captain's face when he answered, "We don't, boy."

Pan took in the Shadow's report with equanimity, his face betraying nothing until the creature had finished. Then he smiled. "It doesn't matter," he said nonchalantly. "The lad's quite safe." His smile broadened when the Shadow flickered and its cold blank eyes grew slightly rounder in surprise. "You know you're not my only eyes and ears in this place. I heard the tale off a mermaid just a short while ago. The boy crashed into the sea less than a league from that ship that's been sneaking about for…" He frowned for a moment and then his smile returned. "Well, time doesn't mean very much in a land where nothing ages, does it?" he asked with a slight laugh. "Anyway, they took the boy on board. Mermaid said he must've coughed up a bucket or so of sea water, but she believes he's alive and unharmed."

"I could retrieve—" the Shadow started to say, but Pan held up a hand.

"No. We know where he is and we can collect him when we have to. Meanwhile?" the boy who had once been a man grinned. "I don't think it's a terrible idea for him to know his way about a ship. The skill will come in handy when the time comes." He smiled at his first minion. "And when it does, I trust I can rely on you to help guide him to where the Savior will be waiting?"

"If your seer instructs truly," the Shadow nodded.

"Oh he will," Pan laughed. "He will." He frowned. "Meanwhile, though, I think there is some value in letting Baelfire believe himself safest if he stays close to the pirate and doesn't go exploring on his own. Can't risk him getting lucky and finding a way off this island too soon."

"None have managed such a feat yet," the Shadow reminded him.

"True, but this is my grandson we're talking about," Pan reminded him. "If he's inherited anything of my imagination, he just might be able to come up with something." He motioned behind him and a lanky youth with an almost predatory smile came forward.

"I'll handle it," he said unctuously.

"Delicately, Felix," Pan warned. "I don't want the boy yet, but I do want both him and the captain of that ship to believe otherwise. Don't spoil the game too early."

"You can rely on me, Pan," Felix said with a nasty grin. "Always."

"What's this?" Bae demanded, as a sailor poured an amber liquid into his tin mug. It was hard to hear his own voice over the raucous cheers and laughter of the crew seated about him. The pirate captain had called for this celebration to welcome him into the crew and while Bae wasn't happy about his circumstances, he did agree with Hook that he was better off here than on the mainland.

"A little something to moisten your hardtack," the sailor Bae had addressed replied with bluff good cheer. "I suppose you're not used to spirits, then."

"Spirits?" Bae repeated. "You mean… ghosts?"

"He means rum, lad," Hook spoke up from behind him. "The seas turn cold at night and a bit of strong drink warms the bones."

Bae pushed the cup away. "I'd better not," he said. "I'll just use a blanket."

Hook chuckled. "A worthy solution," he admitted. "But you're a member of my crew and this," he gestured to the cup, "is a social duty. However," he allowed, "as you're not accustomed to strong drink," he held up another flask, "perhaps some adulteration is in order?" He poured half of Bae's drink into the cup of another crewman, uncorked the flask, and held it over Bae's mug. Bae saw with relief that the liquid coming out of it was clear.

"I-I have had watered ale before," he said. "And beer. Without water," he clarified. Robertson Ay had taken him out for a pint when he'd been promoted to the mailroom. He'd drunk it, but he hadn't found anything particularly appealing about the beverage and he'd mostly stuck to water, tea, and saloop since.

"Well," Hook said, clapping a hand to his shoulder, "then it'll take more than this to get you squiffy, I think. Here, drink up."

Bae smiled nervously, but he lifted his cup, braced for the burn and took a tentative sip. It went down far more smoothly than he'd been expecting and the crewman beside him gave him a hearty slap on the back. Bae took another sip, larger this time, and was surprised to hear a roar of approval.

"Here," Hook said, "get the lad a plate; he'll need something to wash down!" A metal plate with a slab of some sort of meat, a portion of peas and a hunk of cheese appeared before him on the table. Bae thanked him, picked up the cheese, and bit into it. Something about his expression had Hook lean forward and ask with concern, "not gone moldy, is it?"

"N-no," Bae said, taking another gulp of watered rum. "Just wasn't expecting it to be so salty."

"Ah," Hook nodded. "Well, salt's one of the easiest preservatives one can find, particularly on the seas, and as our provisions need to last for as long as possible, I think you'll find it seasoning most of the grub. But there's plenty of liquid refreshment with which to wash it down. In fact," he smiled, "each able seaman on this vessel is issued a gallon of beer a day to round out the standard ship's diet. The rum," he added, "is strictly for special occasions. Tonight, it's in your honor, Cassidy," he added grandly, "to welcome you to our midst."

Bae smiled, feeling a rush of warmth wash over him that wasn't entirely due to the rum. He knew he ought to be on his guard around this man, especially after Papa's warnings, but watching him, listening to him speak, seeing the bluff camaraderie he shared with his crew, Bae couldn't help thinking that maybe he wasn't as bad as Papa had described. After all, Mama had gone with him willingly.

"Need a refill, Cassidy?" Hook asked and Bae blinked.

"Yes, please," he said. "Uh… could I get some beer this time? But still watered?" he added, reminding himself that needed to keep his wits about him, no matter how friendly these people seemed now.

The captain nodded. Someone poured took Bae's cup to a nearby open barrel and filled it partway from a dipper within. When he returned, the captain uncorked a leather flask much like the one he'd used previously. In fact, it was identical in form and composition to the first flask. The only appreciable difference was that this flask was filled, not with water, but with a distillate of grain, elderflower, and milk thistle. In the realm from which Bae had recently arrived, it was called vodka. And it was a great deal more potent than rum.

Hours later, Killian Jones sat in his cabin, a bottle of rum beside a bottle of vodka on the table before him, as he unrolled the self-portrait his true love had drawn for him nearly fourteen years earlier. His hand stretched out and wavered between the two bottles, finally settling on the rum. His mind was roiling like the sea beneath the Jolly Roger's keel and he rerolled the canvas and set it on the bench beside him before taking for himself a draught, rather than chance spilling anything on the image, but his hands were steady as he held the goblet in one hand, the bottle in the other, and poured out. His drink finished, he returned the portrait to the table and was still regarding the contours of the image before him when Smee entered.

The new boatswain took in the scene at a glance. "Milah was quite beautiful, wasn't she?" he asked gently. "Don't worry, Captain. You'll avenge her. No matter what it takes, you'll find a way to kill Rumpelstiltskin."

"I have the way," Hook replied dully. "Two ways, actually. I find a way out of this land and into the one our latest crewmember hails from, I find the Dark One and sink my hook into his chest, perhaps with a coating of dreamshade to seal the deal. Or," he shook his head, "I simply leave matters alone and let nature take its course. Of course, if I choose that option, I won't have my revenge, but the Dark One will be no less dead."

"But even if we could go to that land somehow," Smee frowned, "how could we begin to look for Rumpelstiltskin?"

"Well, there's the conundrum, Mr. Smee," Hook rasped, pushing aside the canvas again and pouring himself another glass of rum. "There's no leaving this land without Pan's permission. To obtain it, I must deliver him something that he wants. And yet," he shook his head, "that something is the very key to my revenge."

"Captain?"

"You were standing watch tonight," Hook said softly. "You missed the celebrations."

"Oh, I don't mind that, Captain," Smee laughed. "One of the crew brought me a plate to eat while I was on duty, and I daresay there'll be leftovers yet."

"Strong drink loosens the tongue, Mr. Smee," Hook continued. "I knew our Mr. Cassidy hadn't told us everything when we brought him aboard and I thought that with the right incentive and the right atmosphere, he would relax his guard enough for me to discover more."

"A brilliant ploy, Captain," Smee whistled. "But did it work?"

Hook smiled bitterly. "Oh, yes. He picked up the parchment again and unrolled it. "He has her eyes, you know," he murmured. "And some of her mannerisms, for all that he was little more than a babe when last he clapped eyes on her."

"Captain?"

Hook let out a noisy sigh. "It seems that our Mr. Cassidy had a different name bestowed upon him at birth. His mother called him Baelfire." He set the parchment down and looked straight into Smee's astonished face. "He's Milah's son."

"Captain!" A smile wreathed Smee's face. "That's wond—"

"And the Dark One's," Hook cut him off. "Thankfully, not much of his father in him, or I'd have gutted him where he sat, and that would have been a mistake."

"Of course," Smee said reassuringly. "Of course, the boy's an innocent in all this. He can't help who his father is."

"No," Hook said slowly. "He can't. But this is the dilemma before me, Mr. Smee. We rescued Baelfire from the sea after he evaded the Shadow. No doubt, he's one of those lads Pan abducts to swell his ranks on the island. Mark my words, Mr. Smee, he'll be seeking that boy. And if we should deliver Baelfire into his hands, that might just suffice for us to get free from this place. But," he continued, "if we bide our time for a spell, perhaps a different opportunity to win safe passage from our boy captor will present itself. And then, Mr. Smee, we'll be in a position do exactly what our newest member asked of us when we brought him aboard. We'll take him back to his land," he chuckled. "And once there, young Baelfire shall help me to get my revenge." A slow smile spread his lips. "He'll lead me right to the Dark One. And with any luck, that demon won't have breathed his last before this," he held up his gleaming hook for emphasis, "pierces his heart."