Nine years before the Dark Curse struck. . .

Belle's lips were probably blue by this point, cold as they were. In fact, that was all she could feel: cold. Almost her entire body was numb, and she had this unexplainable urge to pull her clothes off and go to sleep. Sure she was cold, but she also felt hot as sweat trickled down her back. She had read about this in her books; they called it hypothermia. Supposedly, the name had come from a doctor traveling worlds, so who knew which world the name came from? Normally she would care - after all, knowledge was important - but not now. Now, she was cold and hungry and tired. Now, her True Love was probably sitting at his spinning wheel and forgetting about her. He most likely didn't think she was even near his castle any more. She wanted to scream, to tell him she loved him, to tell him she cared, but her throat was raw and scratchy. When she opened her mouth to speak, she couldn't get more than a whine out. Still, she sat in the snow, her dress completely frozen, as the wind cut across her icy cheeks and stung her arms. She would die for Rumplestiltskin; even if he didn't know she was waiting for him, he would after he discovered the body.

{[(/*\)]}

Storybrooke, present day, night of December first. . .

Emma could have sworn her boots were made of lead as she sulked down the sidewalk. All she wanted was some alcohol, that couldn't possibly be too much to ask. Granny's was certainly out of the question; she wanted somewhere where no one would ask her questions or try to offer moral support. The amiability of Storybrooke got on her nerves more often than not, really. It was nice and everything, but it was a far cry from what she was used to. Gold, as bitter and cynical as he was, was a breath of - if not fresh, then maybe needed - air. He got on her nerves, too, but at least she was fighting someone who would actually fight back.

She pushed open the door of the Rabbit Hole, the seediest place in town. No one even blinked when she entered. The strong scent of spirits and sweat invaded her senses at once, but there were no whispers or strange looks. Finally, people who didn't give a crap. For a moment, with all the noise and people, she could actually convince herself that she was back in Boston; there were no tale-weaving kids, PMSing mayors, Hufflepuff roommates, or shady pawnbrokers/lawyers/probably something else. Before, she thought all she wanted was a family, and now she almost had one, yet she wasn't sure if it made her feel trapped or free. When had she gone from ready-to-run to maybe-stay-and-fight. It was a scary thought, above all else: fighting and winning. If she won, Henry would be hers. If she won, she would have nowhere to go. If she lost. . . could she leave? Before, she would have said 'yes.' Now, though. . .

"Whiskey," Emma huffed as she slid onto a bar stool.

The kid behind the counter hurried to fulfill her order, the whole time looking as though he would faint. His face was pale, and he couldn't have been more than seventeen. His head kept turning frantically like he was expecting someone to take a swing at him and his hands shook as he passed her the glass tumbler. She downed it in one swing and hissed as it burned its way down her throat. Let the brain numbing begin. Passing the glass back to the boy, she waved her hand for another.

"Mind if I buy that for you?" a voice called from somewhere off to her left.

Without looking up, Emma sighed, "Sure go ahead. Why would I be able to pay for my own drink anyway, right?"

"Hey, now, I'm just fighting the cause for chivalry," the smirk in his voice was evident as he took a seat beside her.

And she finally knew who it was. The voice rang in her head as she pulled up the memory of 'August W. Booth', yes, with the middle initial. The 'W' was key to his oneness with Batman, he had assured her, and who the hell was she to reprimand him for that? His mother must have skipped over Santa and just told him the muscular guy in the black suit glided down his chimney. Maybe his batmobile was pulled by bats, too.

"What do you want, August?" Emma leaned her head against the tabletop, savoring the cool surface.

"Aww, you remember my name," she could practically hear his smirk, just like Gold, "I'm touched."

"Shouldn't you be off wooing Ruby?" she accepted her tumbler back from the twitchy bartender.

"The waitress? I heard you made a great lemur for her. I think you nearly gave her. . . a heart attack?" she looked up to see the smirk that her imagination had been supplying for her thus far.

"She told everyone about the box, didn't she?" Emma squinted at Stubble.

"Indeed she did. Quite a tale, too, if I do say so myself. Then again, I doubt there were as many puncture wounds as she described," August scrunched his nose playfully.

Emma took a large gulp of her whiskey, "There weren't any puncture wounds. The heart was cut out carefully, with precision."

August nodded slowly, "Doesn't sound like Mary Margaret, not at all."

"You don't think she did it?" Emma's eyes locked with his hopefully.

"The meek school teacher? No. My guess is that it was Regina in the woods with the hunting knife," Stubble's smirk came back full force.

Oh, he thought himself funny, did he? Maybe all the men in Storybrooke were either stupid or cocky, not a good selection. Then again, there wasn't a good selection anywhere. To be kind, she was unlucky in love. She always attracted the smirkers.

"I have no way to prove it. Besides, I'm off duty. No arrests tonight," Emma took another gulp of her drink.

"Maybe I can help you," at her plain stare, he elaborated, "Find proof, not arrest someone. I've been a good boy, Sheriff: selfless, brave, and true."

"I'm still waiting for your nose to poke me in the eye," Emma grumbled.

August laughed and shook his head, "If only you believed."

"What?" she frowned.

"Nothing."

Emma sighed again, "So. . . proof?"

"Would you let me help?" August cocked a brow, "Or just yell at me the whole time?"

"Probably a bit of both," Emma frowned thoughtfully.

August smirked, "I suppose it wouldn't be you if you didn't yell at me. It will be the most interesting episode of Investigation with Emma, I'll make sure of it. No one can say no to this face."

"Investigation with. . . . What are you talking about?" Emma shook her head in confusion.

"Doesn't matter," August wrote something on a napkin and slid it over to her with a grin, "Call me."

Before Emma could say something back - most likely something snappy - August walked out of the bar, swinging his hips all the way to the door. Her life was just full of smug jerks at this point. She was inclined to just throw the napkin away, but help would be nice. She really was starting to feel as though she was running in circles. Picking up the napkin, she entered the number into her phone.

{[(/*\]}

Nine years before the Dark Curse struck. . .

Belle's eyes fluttered, but then quickly snapped shut again at the burning light. Everything either ached or felt numb, and she didn't know which was worse. At the same time, her body felt like it was being pierced by thousands of knives. She wasn't sure when she fell asleep, but she knew she had given in to the cold at some point. Maybe she was dead.

Something warm and soft covered her forehead; it was wet with hot water, she could tell. She parted her lips slightly at the comforting sensation, feeling the warmth slowly seep through her skull. Something cool was pressed to her lips and a moment later, cold water was flowing freely down her raw throat. She winced at the pain, but it made the scratchy feeling go away.

Next, some liquid - not water this time - was put into her mouth. A warm hand cradled her head and held it up, allowing her to swallow the thick substance. She hummed gratefully to whoever was helping her. She still couldn't quite get words out, but what she was assuming was warm broth and corn was helping to sooth her numbed nerves.

"You stubborn, stubborn girl," chided a warm voice from above her, "You could've died."

She liked that voice; it was smooth and silky. There was a slight accent hinted at, but she couldn't tell what it was. It seemed to be almost covered, and it was a little scratchy, as though the man hadn't used it in a while. It wrapped around her, sliding through her brain with ease. It was so familiar, the little lilt that almost sounded higher in pitch, but the deep tone threw her off.

"I don't know what I would've done if you had died," he spoke again, and she wanted to beg him not to stop, "I sent you away so that you could go experience your own life; maybe go see the world, like you said. My curse can't break, you must understand, because I have somewhere to be, somewhere important."

Belle made a whine in the back of her throat. Whoever was speaking to her sounded like they were in deep agony, like they were being torn in half. She didn't like it when people were troubled, it made her melancholy. So many weights to the world, and this man sounded like he picked them all up and put them on his shoulders.

"The son I told you about, I must find him. I wronged him deeply and I must apologize," there was such sorrow in that familiar voice, "I promised I wouldn't love again until I found him. You though, my dear, are something all of your own. How could I look at you and not fall in love? I broke my promise once before, but that love pales in comparison to the love I feel for you now. Unfortunately, as I speak, a pretty princess in a close kingdom sings to birds as her step-mother configurates a plan to murder her. It is still years yet until this Queen will be able to kill the King of this kingdom. A prince in another kingdom has yet years to die, then his brother will go fight in his place. So many pieces, so little time. I didn't think I could afford a distraction, but maybe. . . maybe. . ."

"How. . . old. . . is this. . . p-princess?" Belle choked out, desperate for more of his voice.

"Right now, she is a decade and nine years of age. In two years, her father will walk along a river bed and find a lamp that I will place. Out of it will come a genie, and the rest is up to Her Majesty. After the princess's father is dead, the Queen will attempt to kill her, but she will escape. For six years she will live in the forest, running, until she meets her price on the seventh year, just before her day of birth," the man spoke softly and without pause, as though reading from a book.

"Her. . . name?" Belle whispered.

"Snow White."

{[(/*\]}

Storybrooke, present day, night of December first. . .

Emma absentmindedly traced her finger around the rim of her glass, thinking about her life choices. Run away? Check. Steal stuff? Check. Get caught by your future boyfriend? Check. Fall in love? Check. Get knocked up? Check. Have the love of your life let you take the fall for stolen watches then give birth in jail and ten years later tell your son that his father was a hero? Checkity check check.

And with that, she brought her glass up to her lips and downed the contents. It probably wasn't wise, but she signaled the bartender for another one. There was sudden yelling behind her as she waited for her drink, and she turned to see what it was. There were two men approaching each other, and as one swung, the other ducked and punched. She was half way off her seat, intent on stopping the fight - she was the sheriff after all - when she decided to sit back down. Maybe it was wrong, but she was off the clock. The alcohol in her system made her mind fuzzy, and she didn't feel like muscling through the testosterone to break up the bucks. They could fight, maybe losing a few teeth would teach them a lesson. Doubtful.

As the boy set her drink down in front of her, shaking all the worse now, she slapped some cash on the counter not bothering to count it out. Downing her drink, Emma got up and walked out of the bar. She wasn't sure where she was going, and she felt a little woozy. She barely registered the hand on her arm as she was led into the back alley, tipsy - drunk - as she was.

"Hey, you need some help?" a voice whispered in her ear, "I could. . . drive you home?"

The stranger's hand landed on her hip, the other one trailing over her ribs. Her lip curled in disgust as she tried to push him off of her. The smell of cigarette smoke and beer invaded her nose as his breath ghosted over her face. Not at all like Gold's breath, or his scent. He always smelled crisp and spicy, just a touch of cologne.

"No, I can take myself home," Emma slurred as she attempted to get away again.

"Hey, hey, hey, what's the hurry? We can go slow, darling," the man's grip on her waist tightened, "I like to take my time."

Emma struggled against him as his lips came down on her neck, practically slobbering on her. She tried kicking him, but he was pinning her in place. Her gun was still tucked into her waistband, if only she could reach it. . .

A sharp crack rang out, along with this stranger's scream. Someone else was in the alley with them. The man was pulled back as he grunted in pain. He opened his mouth in surprise as he was struck across the face with the golden handle of a cane. Blood flew from his mouth as he fell to the ground, holding his hand against his jaw. There was a snarl, and then the cane came down again. . . and again. . . and again. Emma reached out and lightly put her hand on the arm of her savior.

"Stop," Emma whispered, horrified, "Please."

Breathlessly, the man with the cane answered, "As you wish."

"Gold?" she squinted, dim light bathing the pawnbroker's figure.

"The one and only," he hissed, still wound up.

Before Emma could think, she grabbed Gold's lapels and pulled him forward. Surprised, he moved towards her as she tugged. She crashed her lips against his, savoring the flavor of tea. He moaned in shock as her tongue invaded his mouth, but he didn't attempt to stop her. Her grip on his lapels was still tight as she tried moving him closer to her. Almost instantly, he broke away from her, panting heavily. Emma whined and attempted to chase after him, but he backed up.

"No," he stated firmly, if hoarsely, "You're drunk, Miss Swan."

"No I'm not," Emma argued.

"Yes, you are," Gold pushed, "And I refuse to take advantage of that. You're a good person, Miss Swan, I won't ruin you."

"What if I want to be ruined?" Emma stuck her chin out daringly.

Gold shook his head, "I'm taking you home."

"Gladly," Emma smiled coyly.

"To your home," Gold clarified.

"Does it really matter where we go?" Emma reached out for him playfully.

"In the car," Gold pointed to his Cadillac.

Emma crossed her arms defiantly. He sighed in aggravation before hooking his cane over his left arm. His limp was visibly worse as he stepped closer to her, finally. That didn't stop him, though, from bending down, wrapping his arm around her legs, and hauling her over his shoulder. She squeaked in surprise as he began limping toward his car. She tried kicking and pounding on his back, but he didn't stop. He opened the door to the back seat and set her on one of the seats before buckling her in. He walked around the car and climbed into the driver's seat, adjusting the mirror so he could see her pouting face. Once he was assured she wouldn't jump out, he started the car and drove in the direction of Mary Margaret's apartment.

"So. . . you never slept with ole Gina? Not even once?" Emma was almost bouncing in her seat, "Not even a little bit?"

"No, no, and no," Gold sighed as he waited for the light; it wasn't like there were any cars, anyway.

"Have you dated anyone in this town?" Emma pushed, overzealous.

"No," Gold answered shortly.

"Have you kissed anyone in this town?" she pulled her knees up to her chest.

She heard Gold's breath hitch before he whispered, "I've kissed you."

"Did that count?" Emma bit her lip in contemplation.

"I-I don't know. Maybe," he made brief eye contact with her through the mirror.

She tilted her head to the side, "Did you enjoy it?"

He didn't waste a second before breathing out his answer, "Yes."

Emma smiled, seemingly content with his answer. She hummed happily and continued bobbing in her seat. She had liked it, too. She wasn't sure if it was because she was drunk, but she really, really liked it. Through her foggy mind, she thought that maybe he was a better kisser than Graham. That had to be the alcohol.

{[(/*\]}

Nine years before the Dark Curse struck. . .

This time, when Belle opened her eyes, it was darker. She yawned, feeling drowsy and, thankfully, warm. When she shifted, she groaned in pain. Though she felt silk sheets beneath her, her entire body ached, and her skin was raw and burning. She had a thin cotton shift covering her, but the sheets kept her warm. There was a window to the right of her bed, curtains pulled back. She smiled at the sight of the many affable stars, shining starkly in the sky. Belle looked around, taking in the room she had come to call hers in the Dark Castle. He came back. She knew now who that deep voice had belonged to, the one that lulled her to sleep.

When she tried to sit up, strong, yet gentle, hands pushed her back down lightly, "You mustn't sit up."

Belle found herself looking into the reptilian eyes of her True Love. They weren't so guarded as they normally were; instead, they were clouded over with worry, and maybe even love if she dared to hope. Wordlessly, she settled back against the pillows, praying this wasn't some sick dream where she woke up to be cold and alone. If she never spoke, maybe he would stay. He bowed his head in shame as he looked her up and down, focusing on the bandages he had placed over the more sensitive areas of her skin.

"You have a bit of frostbite," Rumplestiltskin whispered, allowing but one tear to slide down his cheek before furiously wiping it away, "I-I'm so sorry, Belle. I never - never wanted to hurt you."

Belle covered his hand with her own tentatively, finally daring to speak, "I love you."

"But how could you?" he asked brokenly.

She moved her hand to his cheek, "Because, Rumplestiltskin, you're a good man."

"I'm a monster," he argued.

"A monster would have left me to the cold," Belle smiled.

"I love you, too," he leaned his head into her hand further.

"Isn't there any way I can kiss you?" Belle pleaded.

Rumplestiltskin held his hand over her chest before hesitantly touching her necklace. The teardrop necklace her mother had given her suddenly burned on her throat as magic flowed through it. It didn't hurt, but she winced just the same. Belle wasn't sure she would ever get used to magic.

"May I kiss you now, Dark One?" Belle grinned.

A huge smile split his face in half as he gave her a small nod. She leaned in and touched her lips gently to his. She could feel the smile curve his mouth as she slanted her lips. She wasn't really sure what she was supposed to do in a kiss, but he slowly took the lead. It was nice, her first kiss, really, since she had been avoiding Gaston. She didn't particularly count the kiss she had given the sorcerer earlier.

She hummed in appreciation as she found the taste of tea in his mouth. Peppermint tea had always been one of her favorites. She could smell the leather of his outfit, and she ran her hand over the silk of his shirt.

When they broke apart, she was breathless, "That was. . . amazing!"

"I love you," he gave her one more chaste kiss.

"And I love you," Belle wrapped her arms around his neck, "I promised you forever."

A slim golden band appeared in his hand and he smiled at her shyly, "Care to promise again?"

"I will never love anyone as I love you, Rumplestiltskin. I will promise as many times as you wish," Belle sighed happily.

"And I will never love another as I love you, nor will I ever kiss another. You are all I need. You and my son," Rumplestiltskin grinned.

"I can't wait to meet him."

{[(/*\]}

He couldn't help but feel guilty as he parked the car in front of Miss Blanchard's apartment building. He had kissed her. She had kissed him, and then he had kissed her back. He said he would never kiss another before he married Belle; he promised he would only kiss her, for she was who he loved. In kissing Emma, he had betrayed Belle, and the worst part was. . . he wanted to do it again. He wanted to kiss Emma until she couldn't feel her lips anymore, he wanted to show her how much he wanted her. He couldn't love her, he couldn't, but he was certainly very fond of her.

He walked around to open her car door, watching fluffy snowflakes pepper the ground. She bounded out, so sweet and innocent. Nothing like Belle, though, not even close. Emma was all rough edges and sharp looks. When he closed his eyes and pictured love, he saw chestnut curls, blue eyes, and porcelain skin. He felt soft kindness, feather kisses, and intimate love. No, Emma wasn't even close to his True Love, and she never would be.

The sheriff nearly ran up the stairs in her energetic state. Gold, however, took quite a few more minutes. They really needed to install an elevator. Though, he did own the building, so maybe that was his fault. Maybe.

When he got to the top of the stairs, Emma was attempting to unlock the door. Every time she tried to insert her key, she missed, stabbing the door several times. She was bent over, eye level with the keyhole. It was rather amusing, actually, as she spit profanities.

"The key won't go in the hole!" Emma growled in frustration.

Gold snickered, "Perhaps you're not pushing hard enough."

"I keep missing!" Emma pouted.

"Maybe it's your angle," Gold grinned.

"Maybe the key's too big for the hole," Emma nodded as if she had discovered the secrets of the universe.

"Just push really hard, and if it gets stuck, just twist and push harder," Gold suggested.

"But I can't get it in the hole!" she threw her hands up.

"Just center it, and then stick it in there," he laughed.

"Are we still talking about the key?" Emma's eyebrows rose.

Gold smirked, "Were we ever?"

Emma huffed and thrust the key into his hand. She pointed at the door and crossed her arms, waiting for him to unlock it. He had half a mind to say "yes, dear," but thought better about it. After all, drunk Emma still knew how to use a gun just as well as sober Emma. So he stuffed the key in the hole, smiling at her stunned expression.

"How'd you get it in there on the first try?" she looked at him quizzically.

"Practice," Gold motioned for her to enter the apartment.

Once they were inside, Emma locked the door, almost automatically. Gold studied the lock, considering telling Emma how flimsy it was, but decided against it. Regina had keys to every house, shop, and building in Storybrooke. If the witch wanted to get in there, she could. Gold looked around, taking in the Christmas decorations everywhere, almost like a bomb went off. Emma approached the stairs carefully, as though they were a dragon to be conquered. Gold stood behind her, just in case. She wobbled on the first few steps, but he propped his cane up on the kitchen counter and grabbed her hips to help steady her. They did their mini Conga line up to the top of the stairs where Emma's room was stationed. Well, not a room, really, more like the whole upstairs. He had seen the thin, white curtain that surrounded Mary Margaret's bed downstairs. She had clearly given Emma the better room. There were clothes littering Emma's floor, along with various papers that could have blown off her desk. Either she had had a window open, or she was really just that messy.

To his great surprise, as soon as he let go of her waist, Emma kicked her boots away and peeled her jeans off, throwing those on the floor, too. Gold looked straight up, but not before he got an eye full of creamy skin. He closed his eyes, holding his breath as he counted to ten, trying to calm himself down. It wasn't every day he had the sheriff put on a strip show for him.

He looked back down when he heard the rustle of the sheets as she climbed into bed. Her leather jacket was draped over the footboard, allowing her to snuggle comfortably into her sheets. Gold nodded once before turning to go grab his cane and leave.

"Wait," Emma called, "Please don't go."

"What?" Gold turned back around, confused.

"Please stay. Just for tonight," she pleaded.

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but she looked so helpless and sad, "W-Why would you want me to stay?"

"Without Mary Margaret, I'm alone. I don't want to be alone," Emma sniffed slightly.

All at once, he saw his little Lost Girl. The girl who had been torn away from her family to be shaped into his curse-breaker. He couldn't bear looking at her and saying 'no,' not now. After everything he did to her, he owed her this small request. This was the girl he shaped, the girl he broke. Now, he was putting her back together so she could break something for him. He was a monster, there were no two ways around it.

"As you wish," Gold dipped his head in acquiescence.

He laid his jacket over hers before grabbing a pillow and a blanket from the end of her bed. He settled on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. He had only gone to that bar because he figured that was where she would be. He had only wanted to tell her about his plan for Mary Margaret. Now, he laid next to her, albeit on the floor, in her bedroom so that she wouldn't be lonely.

"Good night, Gold," Emma muttered sleepily.

"Good night, my Savior," he whispered back.