A/N: I'm sorry. I really don't know what happened with the last chapter. I tried reposting it to get rid of the bold (which is the explanation of any of you getting updates), but...yeah. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed! You probably hear this a lot, but it really does mean a lot, haha. Just tell me if I get too annoying ;).

Oh, and to answer Sheherazade's Fable, Emma assumed Mr. Gold burned down the hospital because of the whole burning-of-town-hall in Desperate Souls.

Anyway...

Enjoy!

-•-

Mr. Gold guides Isabelle back to his house again. They'd left quite early to get to his shop, and it had been foggy, so hardly anyone was about. But now the townspeople milled around, shooting Isabelle odd looks. It was almost as if, even with her hair and without her hospital gown, they could tell she was a mental patient. Like they saw her as some sort of disease, even though they were holding mental patients in their own homes.

"Ignore them," Mr. Gold instructed under his breath as Isabelle crumpled under their stares. He could have shot out a few choice glares, but that would only arise suspicion. He couldn't let on more caring than he had previously shown. It was far too much already.

They shambled back into his home, Isabelle collapsing in relief, free from their ogling eyes. Mr. Gold felt himself smiling a little at this. She wasn't his Belle, yet didn't mind her company. As Isabelle wandered off somewhere, he found someone had delivered a package to his door. It was in the same loopy script as the note from the hospital. He didn't bother with the contents until he read the words scrawled inside. They looked like dosages, but...

Mr. Gold reached for one of the containers the package had been holding, his hands trembling with rage. They had her medicated. They'd medicated his Belle.

He turned and hurled the container at the wall with all his strength. It didn't break, as he had hoped, but bounced off and clattered to the ground. Three other tubes of pills were rolling at his feet, and Mr. Gold threw those too.

"Mr. Gold?" Isabelle's frail voice called from the stairs. It was the first time she'd said his name.

He closed his eyes, calming his fury.

"What-what are you doing?" Her voice grew higher and quieter at the same time. Isabelle sounded almost as if she was scared for his mental instability. Or perhaps she was just scared of him. Perhaps she'd heard the bit about Moe French after all.

"Nothing." He glanced at his watch. "I think I'll be getting to bed now." Mr. Gold leaned a little more heavily on his cane as he eyed the treacherous stairs.

She watched him go, saying nothing. Standing at the foot of the stairs with a haunted stare, the way she always seemed to. Just as Mr. Gold was about to shut his bedroom door behind him, her voice pulled him back.

"Tell me a story," Isabelle whispered.

He turned, gradually, to find her now halfway up the steps. In the dark her eyes didn't seem so blue anymore. They only looked dark and inquisitive. The eyes of a girl who'd seen to much, who battled with demons and sometimes won, who learned to laugh at the jokes of a devil.

"A story?" Belle loved stories, he was sure. After all, he'd used it to barter her return. The return he did not expect, but couldn't help the happiness swelling through him.

"Yes."

Mr. Gold studied her. "About what?"

Isabelle frowned subtly, closing the distance between them. Her hair had come completely lose. "I see spinning wheels sometimes. And water. Lots and lots of water. Tell me about them."

Spinning wheels. "I'm not a very good storyteller." He informed her, the teasing edge to his voice again. Isabelle was two steps away. She was looking at the ceiling, her eyes following images he couldn't see.

"Please?" Isabelle prompted, stepping into her room. She curled up under her blankets without changing out of her dress.

Her pleading expression got him, really. It looked far too much like Belle's that it deluded the straight thinking he'd been maintaining all day. The clarity between Isabelle and Belle evaporated, leaving him only with a girl that was somewhere in-between.

"Fine." Mr. Gold scowled at her, to prove how troublesome this was to him. "Once upon a time there was a naiad-do you know what those are?" Isabelle's expression was hard to read. "Of course not," He breathed. "A naiad is from Greek mythology. It's like a mermaid."

"I have a deal to discuss. A certain mermaid..."

Isabelle nodded, awaiting more.

"And she found a spinning wheel in a little bay, off the coast of a land that no longer exists." Isabelle was staring at him expectantly. Well, what was he supposed to do? He didn't know how to invent stories. The naiad part had been a little strange, he had to admit. "The spinning wheel could turn seaweed to silver, and straw into gold. It spun sand into pearls and made jewels out of molten rock. And the naiad was fine with all that. But the naiad was lonely. And what she really wanted was some music."

Belle's blue eyes. They were like oceans to drown in.

"And then?" Belle-no, no it was Isabelle. Isabelle the mental patient. Isabelle the timid.

"Um..." Well, what was his favourite way to solve problems? "So the naiad went through every piece of the spinning wheel. She took it apart and put it back together two thousand times. She'd tried playing with shells and weaving seaweed, but never before had she found music. So the naiad took the spinning wheel apart again. But this time she took two of the pieces out and replaced them with pearls. And when she spun again it played the most beautiful music she had ever heard."

"Yes?"

Mr. Gold gazed at Belle, abashed. "Well, that's it!"

"But you said she was lonely. Didn't the music bring her any friends?" Belle-ISABELLE- was giving him a poignant childish look. Then again, what adult asked for a bedtime story?

"No." He said, getting up with the aid of his cane. "That's it."

Isabelle's brows knit together and her face fell into a frown. "But what about her happy ending? No prince? No friends? Just some music and a spinning wheel?" She'd become very talkative. "That's ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous." Mr. Gold informed her somberly. "It's just realistic." Then he left her, distraught, in a pile of blankets and a dress that didn't quite belong to her.