Rain poured down in heavy sheets as they passed through the gates into a small village on a river. They were only halfway to Gold's next estate, but it felt like they had been travelling for ages. When they had left the last estate, there had been a steady downpour, but now the rain could have better been described as ice.

It had gotten so bad that they bought two jackets for each of the horses—one for the day, and the other for the day after while the other dried. Self-sacrificial Wendy had even splurged and bought leather gloves to keep the sleet off and an additional wool cloak. She looked small and miserable as they had travelled. Skin pale and her usual glorious hair plastered to her face. It took a full hour of sitting in front of a fire to warm her every night. Peter had felt… bad, he supposed. He knew this journey was not meant to be an enjoyable one, but it was not meant to be like this. He reasoned he felt this way because it would be next to impossible to continue if she caught a cold. Not because he worried.

The night before when he had told her over dinner about his plan, she almost beamed. He knew Wendy wouldn't have put forth the idea herself. She was far too committed to getting to Neal to admit that she needed rest. Much too selfless to suggest it herself. So, he had been the one to do it.

When they arrived at the inn it was uncommonly busy. People milled about in the rain, the sky dark and grey, all looking severe and dressed in black. No one seemed to notice them when they handed their horses off at stables. No one was even at the check-in desk when they entered the inn.

Wendy looked up at him, still shivering. The check-inn area was flooded with golden light and the fireplace off to the side crackled as it chewed away on a fresh pile of wood, but still she looked like she might turn to ice. She gave him a questioning look and he shrugged. He knew as much as she did.

An older woman passed behind the desk and Peter called out. She turned and almost seemed to look right through him before focusing on the pair. "We'd like a room," he told her. "Is there anyone we can speak to about getting one?"

She shook herself."Oh, yes. A room." She drifted back over to the counter and began going through the motions of getting them a room. The woman was in her early sixties, with silvery hair and brown skin. She was strong and healthy, but her eyes were red-rimmed and she kept a handkerchief balled up in one hand.

It was his turn to give Wendy a questioning look. She, in turn, rolled her eyes. She seemed to know more than he did. Discretely, she mouthed, "Someone's died." Oh.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Rebecca, handed them the keys. "Thank you," said Wendy, taking the keys. "And I'm sorry for your loss." The woman looked up and seemed to actually see them both for the first time.

"Thank you for your condolences," the woman said, and then paused. Peter wanted to tear his hair out. Wendy had gone and opened up a can of worms. She didn't have to be kind to everyone they encountered; sometimes it was easier to just mind her business. "It wasn't in my family, you know. But I volunteered our dining hall because it's the best place for the wake. It wouldn't have been right to not volunteer, you know, given the circumstances." She waved to the many people milling about. Could this woman just let them go already? "I don't know them extremely well, but… I… It's always hard when a child dies. Such a sad thing, to have to bury your own baby." She shook her head.

He stole a glance at Wendy. He saw her swallow. She seemed even smaller now that he knew exactly what, or rather who, she was thinking about.

"Again, I'm so sorry," Wendy repeated. Her voice shook a little as she said it. Someone who didn't know her well wouldn't have noticed it, but he did.

"Oh, thank you, dear," the woman said. She reached over the counter and squeezed Wendy's hands tightly. "I can't imagine what they're going through right now. I've had five children and they're all happy and healthy. I'm thankful I've never known that kind of pain."

Peter's heart squeezed and he looked to Wendy, finding her eyes immediately. He knew she felt the exact same way as he did. He wanted to reach out to her, as he had felt all those years ago; he needed to touch her to comfort her, to be comforted by her.

The woman noticed the look they shared and her face fell, looking sadder than she had before; Peter hadn't thought it possible. She started to apologize, "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… You never know the lives people have lived."

Peter rolled his eyes. Did this woman have no filter? Was her speech just her inner monologue? He had no patience for rehashing old wounds with this innkeeper. He would effectively be crossing this inn off his list of acceptable places to stay.

"It's okay," Wendy said. "Don't worry about it."

The woman opened her mouth, about to go off on another tangent, when Peter interjected. He placed his hands on Wendy's shoulders and said, "My wife is very cold and needs to rest." He could have been mistaken, but he almost thought he felt Wendy lean into him.

"Oh, yes! So sorry!" Did every sentence have to include sorry?

He was glad to be rid of the woman and her chattering as they started up the stairs. He told Wendy as much. She gave him a withering look as she opened the door to their room.

"That's just how some people process," she told him. He almost wished had kept his mouth shut. He didn't need another lecture from Wendy. Especially after having to sit through that woman's chattering.

"She said she didn't even know the family well," he argued back.

She rolled her eyes. "You know, sometimes, you're very thick. Things don't have to be directly related to you to affect you."

He shrugged. "Whatever. I'm just glad we don't have to listen to her anymore." But unfortunately, the reprieve didn't last for long. Sometime in the late evening, there came an incessant knocking on the door. He had been lounging on the bed, reading one of Wendy's Earth books and Wendy sat by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, dozing. It had been peaceful until that woman showed up again.

Peter opened the door to find Rebecca, frantic and soaking wet. She carried a lantern in one hand while the other was caught mid-air, about to knock on the door again. "What do you want?" he demanded. He hoped his tone might scare her off, but to no avail.

She immediately burst out, speaking so quickly he almost didn't catch what she was saying. "…They found Margaret wading into the river, just in her night dress! Totally crazed and she won't respond to anyone. She won't let anyone take her inside anywhere and she's just on the dock now, freezing to death. No one can convince her to come inside, not even Tom!"

He turned to look back at Wendy, to give her a look to say, What the fuck is this woman saying? But when he found Wendy, she was already up and putting on her layers of half-dried clothes, seeming to have understood more of what Rebecca had said than he had.

"Get your things on," she told him. The tone of her voice told him not to argue so he put on his layers of half-dried clothes and followed Wendy and Rebecca out of the inn and back into the sleet. At this time of night, the air and the sleet were like tiny daggers. He sucked in a breath; even his magic would not help him now.

They followed Rebecca on horseback through the centre of town and then out again to the river. Although it was small, it was a trading post and there were several boats docked in the small port, barely more than inky silhouettes in the darkness, shaking in the wind.

He caught up to Wendy and finally got the chance to ask her what was going on.

"The mother of the child who died is… breaking down. She won't listen to anyone she knows. Rebecca is thinking you or I will be able to talk her down."

Peter scoffed. "As if I would try to talk down some crazy woman." Wendy gave him a sharp look. She looked so angry with him, angrier than she had looked at him in a long time.

"I can't believe you would speak like that," she spat. She turned and urged Ash faster forward, away from him.

XXX

"As if I would try to talk down some crazy woman," Pan scoffed. Was that really how he felt? The air was been knocked right out of her lungs. She stared for a moment before she could find an emotion to hold onto.

Anger was the emotion she found.

She narrowed her eyes at him, furious. It was often easier to be angry with him than to try and understand him. It was easier to just be angry with him now rather than contemplate whether or not he had ever actually cared about Gavin.

"I can't believe you would speak like that," she spat. Looking at him then, level blue eyes, proud and haughty features, she couldn't stand the sight of him. Pan had most certainly done worse before, but somehow this hurt more. She turned Ash and urged him forward, toward the dock and away from Pan.

They arrived at a dock with a small fishing boat named The Olly attached to it and a small group of townsfolk around it, huddled together in drenched cloaks. Down at the end of the dock sat a woman in a white nightdress, curled in on herself. A distance a way, a man stood, his hands open and pleading. Margaret and Tom, she guessed.

Wendy jumped off Ash and handed him off to a townsperson. She picked up her skirts and darted down the dock. She didn't mind looking over her shoulder to see if Pan was following her. Would he even be of help if he hadn't cared about Gavin, if he hadn't really mourned him?

Tom met them half-way down the dock. He grasped both of their hands, thanking them. "I'm Wendy and this is my husband, Peter," Wendy explained. She didn't glance back at him. She didn't want to see his face.

Tom was a couple years older than Pan looked, in his mid-twenties. If he hadn't been soaked to the bone, he would have had light blonde hair. If he hadn't been so miserable, he would have looked like a kind, warm man.

"I just can't get through to her," Tom explained. "It's like she can't hear me."

XXX

"It's like she can't hear me."

Peter understood what Tom meant. He could remember it vividly. He had heard screaming before he had seen anything amiss. He had known it was Wendy from the pitch and had come flying down to Gavin's room. His heart had shattered when he had seen him. She had been hysterical, violent even. She had been holding Gavin, small and lifeless. Once he saw, he had understood what had happened, but everything he said was lost on her. She would not listen to him as he tried to explain that he hadn't done this, that he wouldn't let the murderers go unpunished… that he had loved Gavin.

The only way to get Wendy to calm down was to let her. But it seemed as if letting Margaret just calm down wasn't an option. When Peter peered behind Tom, he could see her. She was pale as a sheet, her hair and night dress plastered to her skin. She was a ghost, caught between this world and the next.

Tom let them pass and Wendy rushed down the dock to Margaret. He followed.

Wendy stood a couple feet away from Margaret, who crouched by the edge of the dock, leaning forward, almost unmoving save for her shivering. She stared off into the distance, mute. Now this, Peter did not recognize. When Gavin had died, Wendy was all movement, screaming and sobbing. She burst with grief and sorrow.

"Margaret," Wendy said, softly, soothingly. He recognized this voice. She had saved it for their child and Peter had only heard her use it for him. It was a precious thing to give to stranger. "I'm Wendy. I — Rebecca's asked me to come speak to you."

Margaret remained silent.

"I know I'm a stranger, but I think I know how you might feel," Wendy said. Margaret remained unmoving. "I…um, lost my boy, too." Wendy's voice was choked. There was a lump in Peter's throat. He tried to ignore it and focus on how much this entire situation irritated him, but the lump demanded his attention.

"Everyone's had a stillborn," Margaret said. Peter sucked in his breath. The woman's tone and words were abrasive, but her voice cracked as she said it. Someone who was not Wendy might have backed down.

"No, he was a child," Wendy said, calmly, ignoring what Margaret had said.

This time Margaret turned and looked at Wendy, puzzled. "How old was he?"

Peter stepped forward. Wendy had not spoken of Gavin in decades, at least not in front of him. He was worried she might break down. He didn't care for Wendy when she was in hysterics.

Wendy swallowed. "Six."

"Must have been young when you had him," Margaret said.

XXX

"Must have been young when you had him." If this had been another situation, Wendy might have laughed at the comment.

"I'm a lot older than I look," she explained. It wasn't a lie.

"Mine would have been five next month," Margaret told her. Wendy nodded. She recognized how Margaret was now. Stony and unreachable. She recognized this. This was how Pan was when he was upset and it frustrated her to no end. She often felt like shaking him, demanding he just speak, explain. He had to be coaxed, slowly, in small increments to open up. Margaret did, too. "What was his name?"

She swallowed. It had been decades since she had spoken his name. When the pain was almost too much to bear, she would think of him, of Gavin, but speaking his name out loud was too much, required too much energy. But this was what was needed. "Gavin." She hoped her voice didn't betray how she felt.

"Olly," Margaret returned. Like the boat. She blinked and turned to Wendy, dark eyes glassy as she recounted, "It was my fault, you know. Tom was doing repairs and I turned my back for one second. He went right off the dock.

"When we finally pulled him from the water, he was so small. I didn't realize he was that small," Margaret said. Wendy wanted to close her eyes and put her hands over her ears. Her chest constricted and her stomach twisted. The thought was painful. A child, practically a baby, pulled from the cold water, all life drained from him. And then, to believe it was your own fault. It was a terrifying thought to think.

She pushed aside the thoughts that threatened to push her backwards into a pit. She nodded, trying to show Margaret she understood. "I thought that, too."

"How'd your boy die?" Straightforward, but she had half-expected it.

"He, um…" Although she knew she was supposed to be furious with him, Wendy turned to Pan. It was an impulse. He was the one person who was there… who understood. He was almost a comfort. Her heart fell when he looked back at her, his head tilted to the side, passive. She turned back. "Some older boys hurt him." This time she knew her voice had betrayed her.

Margaret just stared back at Wendy.

"That sucks," Margaret observed after a pause.

"I wanted to die," Wendy told her. Wendy didn't know if she had said it because she wanted to show Margaret how she felt or because she needed to say it. She hadn't even been expecting to say it, but it was true. She had felt like dying. When she saw Gavin that night, she had wanted the whole earth to just swallow her up. In that moment, she simply just did not want to exist so she wouldn't have to deal with the pain.

"But you didn't. How?" Margaret seemed to be intrigued now. She didn't seem to want to throw herself off the dock anymore, but she was still sitting in the sleet in her nightdress.

"I knew that he didn't want me to. I knew he wanted me to live a good life. He would have wanted me to be happy." Tears prickled her eyes.

Margaret soured. She turned and seemed to inch closer to the edge. Wendy almost reached for her, but held back. "That's because it wasn't your fault," she told Wendy. Wendy was at a loss for words. She had no idea how to respond. She tried to think of something, anything, but before she could, Pan stepped closer.

"It was my fault, too," he said. Shocked, Wendy turned to him. He glanced down at her, meeting her eyes. This time he wasn't unreachable and walled off. He looked… like he was grieving.

Had she been wrong before? Did he care about Gavin?

"You didn't kill him," Margaret said.

"No, but I put him in an unsafe situation. I should have listened to Wendy," he said. She had played back their argument about Gavin going back hundreds of times. She had never ever heard him say that nor had she ever expected him to say that. "I should have protected him. I was supposed to and I failed."

Wendy almost opened her mouth to respond to Pan. She remembered what she had told him after Gavin had died. He was echoing her words and he looked so beaten down. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, to be comforted by him.

"I failed, too," Margaret said.

XXX

"I failed, too," Margaret admitted.

Peter hadn't thought what about would happen at this point, but it was now Wendy's turn to interject. "Even though we fail sometimes, there are still things that are just out of our control. We had…Peter had tried to keep him safe. It just wasn't enough." She took a ragged breath. "Sometimes life is just terrible." Her voice didn't shake as much now. She was strong and comforting. It made Peter's aching heart feel a little less crushed. Even if she wasn't speaking to him, her words still mattered to him; they sounded like they were almost meant for only him to hear.

Margaret let out a hoarse laugh. "I don't think this is what they wanted you to do."

"No, but it's what you need. It's the truth," Wendy said.

"So what? That's all you have to say? That life is terrible?"

"No. Life is terrible, but sometimes, wonderful things happen. And then terrible things happen and life is horrible again. But I think it would be a dishonour to the wonderful things, in reaction to losing them, to do something horrible." Wendy sighed. "Life is already fucking terrible enough and I don't want it to win." Wendy seldom cussed. He was unsurprised, though, that she had chosen this moment to swear.

"So what? I should just wait around for another 'wonderful thing' to happen?" Margaret demanded.

"Maybe. I don't know if a 'wonderful thing' will happen again. Hell, my life was terrible for a long time after Gavin. It's only recently gotten slightly more tolerable," Wendy told her. "I just didn't want to add to all the horrible things that have happened. I wanted to honour Gavin by doing that. I know you don't think it, but I know Olly would want you to stay here, for him, and try for something good. Anything good."

Margaret regarded Wendy coolly as she spoke, as if she still didn't quite fully trust her. Her dark eyes flickered up and she glanced up at Peter and then behind him.

"Do you blame him? Do you hate him for it?" she asked Wendy, her eyes on Tom a few yards away.

Wendy shook her head. "No. I don't. It was something out of his control. I know that and Tom does, too. He's just worried." Peter barely contained a scoff. That hadn't been what Wendy thought a couple of decades ago. He could remember the argument quite clearly and what Wendy had said. Your way of life, what you've created, that's what killed Gavin.

Margaret glanced over Wendy's shoulder again, this time looking past Peter and back toward the crowd of onlookers. They waited patiently at the end of the dock with soft blankets and warm jackets and open arms.

"They all pity me, you know," she told Wendy. "I hate when they talk to me."

"You don't have to talk to them. All you have to do is put on some warm dry clothes and go inside." There was a pause. "Do you want to come off this dock?"

Margaret was silent for a moment, stony faced. She was barely shivering anymore, which was a major issue. She would most certainly die if they didn't get her out of the rain soon. He shook himself internally. Why should he care if this woman died?

"Alright," Margaret agreed. "But I don't want them to talk to me or come near me. I just want Tom."

"Okay, I'll tell them," Wendy said, standing up. She helped Margaret up and motioned for Tom, who stood a couple yards from them. When he saw Wendy waving him over, he looked as if a weight had been lifted off him. He rushed toward Margaret, throwing a blanket over her. He took her in his arms, holding her tightly, murmuring something Peter couldn't make out. The soft words they exchanged turned to weeping after a couple moment.s

Wendy had been right; Tom did not hate Margaret, he was just worried. Too bad that Wendy did not feel the same for him.

XXX

Wendy brushed past Pan, making her way to the townsfolk. She still didn't want to talk to him, but her anger was… different. However, she didn't want to deal with it just then. Instead, she focused on Margaret's wishes. She spoke quickly to the townsfolk and they all nodded in agreement before dispersing. Most began trudging back to their horses. When Pan finally reached her, Wendy explained, tightly, to him that everyone had agreed to let the couple be for the meantime and one of the men in the village with a carriage had volunteered to stay behind to give Margaret and Tom a dry ride back to their house. Wendy had also instructed Rebecca to fetch the doctor and bring him to Margaret and Tom's house. Their job was now done for the time being.

She could put Gavin back in that special place in her heart.

She desperately wanted to go back to the inn now. She had been out too long in this miserable cold and she was beginning to feel it. The chill seeped into her, the sleet plastering her hair to her face. She wanted to be warm and dry and comfortable.

Before they clambered back up on their horses, Wendy turned back and glanced at Tom and Margaret, both getting into the carriage before heading back home. She sat and stared for a long moment, before turning back to Pan and saying, "I know you don't care about anyone in this world or the next, but I can't believe what you said." She pointed her chin towards the carriage. "That was me. That was you." She didn't look at him when she said it. She didn't want to see the cold expression he wore.

The fury from before had turned into a cold terror. Terror at the thought that Peter had never even cared for Gavin. Had she ever really known he cared for Gavin? Had he ever said he did? She could still hear his frigid voice when he had spoken of Gavin in Storybrooke or of Margaret barely an hour before.

The ground slipped out from under her feet when she thought about it, casting her into a dark, lonely chasm.

XXX

"That was me. That was you." Her voice was clipped when she spoke to him. All traces of sadness, of her being near breaking were gone. She was back to being furious with him. Honestly, it was almost preferable. He never knew just what to do when Wendy cried, which she often did. Wendy being furious with him was comfortable territory.

However, what she said was not comfortable. What could he say? She was right. Margaret and Tom were them from decades and decades ago. He understood them perfectly. He knew Margaret was not crazy. He had been Margaret.

She didn't seem to expect him to answer because she turned Ash quickly and began making her way back to the inn. Back at the inn, she didn't wait for him to finish tying up Philipe before leaving the stable. She was already back in their room before he got into the inn, curled up in her bed with her back to him.