A/N: Thank you all so much for your feedback on the last chapter! We hope you continue to follow this adventurous tale and let us know what you think!

Disclaimer: We do not own Once Upon a Time or Peter Pan. May credit be given where credit is due.

~Chapter XXXII~

The sensation of a cool, damp cloth gently dabbing his forehead was the first thing Baelfire noticed as he slowly slid back into consciousness. Next to follow was the somewhat stifling weight of several blankets lain atop him. Through his closed eyelids he could see the orange glare of what must be a fire burning in the hearth, and with a soft groan he blinked them open.

Despite how unwell he still felt—his head swimming slightly and his joints aching from fever—Baelfire could not help but smile up at the woman sitting at his bedside as she gasped in surprised relief.

"You're awake..." Belle breathed, and Baelfire might have laughed at the obviousness of her observation had he not glimpsed the pearly moonlight filtering in through the window. It had been dawn when he had drifted off at the beach... Had an entire day passed while he slept? Or had several days?

"How are you feeling, Bae?" Belle asked concernedly, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead and cheek. He forced his anxious thoughts to the back of his mind as he considered her question. A dull pain throbbed in his joints, perhaps from the combined effect of his early fall and the fever Belle had been apparently trying to calm with the damp cloth resting in her hand. His chest felt tight and ached when he tried to draw a deep breath. Perhaps worst of all was the way his stomach still twisted with fear from the vivid, sporadic nightmares that had been plaguing him. Baelfire swallowed thickly, repressing a shudder as he fought to retrain his focus on Belle's words.

"Not so bad," he croaked eventually, his throat scratchy with thirst. It was an obvious lie, but Belle looked like she had not slept in days and the last thing Baelfire wanted to do was worry her even more. Her bottom eyelids were framed by purple bruises and there was something wan, though no less sincere, about the smile she had offered him.

She seemed to see through his words anyway, compassion filling her turquoise eyes as she reached over and lifted a tin cup from the floor beside her feet.

"Here, try to drink some water," she commanded softly, placing a hand behind his head and bringing the cup to his lips. Although the cool liquid felt like heaven as it flowed down his parched throat, Baelfire could only manage a couple mouthfuls, the energy required to lift his head quickly leaving him. He let his head fall back against the pillow, murmuring weakly in gratitude as his head swam from the swift movement.

For a few moments Belle simply gazed down at him, her fingers tenderly brushing his damp curls back from his forehead. Her touch was soothing and sweet, not unlike the warm breezes Neverland sometimes breathed when he was in need of comfort. A question suddenly sprung to the front of Baelfire's mind, and when the room finally ceased spinning, he opened his mouth to voice it.

"Did you know?" He asked, surprised to find his voice was no louder than a whisper.

"Know what?" She responded, her forehead crinkling slightly in confusion.

"That...I was his son?" Baelfire averted his gaze from hers; he was almost afraid to hear her answer. As irrational as it was to suspect anything ill of someone as kind and loving as Belle, he would not be able to help but feel a twinge of betrayal should she confirm that she had known, and had not told him...

"No," Belle answered softly, cupping his cheek and bringing his eyes back to her own, "But I hoped you would be."

Baelfire felt a rush of affection at her confession. Living and adventuring in Neverland with the other Lost Boys as Peter Pan, he had never really felt a lack of friendship or love. But at night, as they all had lain awake in silence, waiting for slumber to come, there had been a sadness, a loss that had hung in the air even before Scout's death. But since Belle's arrival, with every story she told and lullaby she sang, that sense of abandonment grew less and less. Baelfire never wanted to feel it again.

"I love you, Mother," he whispered so softly he was surprised that Belle heard him, her eyes widening slightly and filling with tears. Baelfire felt a surge of worry that he had somehow upset her, and opened his mouth to apologize, but his fear was calmed when she leaned over to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

She straightened a moment later, sniffling lightly and smiling down at him. She turned her gaze to the doorway then, biting her bottom lip briefly.

"Your father's just outside," she said after a moment, looking back down at him, "He'll want to see you, Bae."

Baelfire inhaled slowly, before sighing as he rubbed a hand across his face. Shame coiled uncomfortably in his chest at the memory of their earlier argument, of the way he had acted. He had been angry, was still angry, but that did not justify all the things he had said. After taking another steadying breath, he nodded, keeping his hand over his face even as he heard Belle rise to her feet and walk over to the cabin's entrance.

With his eyes closed, the shadows lurking at the corners of his mind, the residue of his fevered nightmares, seemed even more menacing. The boy breathed slowly through his nose, focusing with all of his strength on Belle's and his father's muffled voices outside, if only to stave off the silver hooks and cruel leers flashing relentlessly in his thoughts.

They stopped speaking shortly after, and Baelfire listened as a pair of feet stepped into the cabin, pausing just over the threshold. Tentatively, a different sort of anxiety rising within him, the boy lowered his hand and opened his eyes.

His father stood several feet from his makeshift sickbed, his hand tucking something small and silver beneath the sash at his waist. The clothes hanging on his frame appeared darker, as though damp, and his hair was somewhat disheveled. Under any other circumstances, Baelfire might have laughed at how closely his father resembled a buccaneer in that moment.

Instead, he merely stared silently up at him. Unbridled relief shone in the man's brown eyes, but it was accompanied by a hint of something else, something unsettling...It was what Baelfire imagined he would feel if he were handling something unpredictably dangerous, like the packed gunpowder the pirates so often used. For a long moment neither father nor son said anything, and then when the boy did attempt to speak, he was seized by a brief coughing fit.

Rumplestiltskin immediately strode to his side, concern etched into his expression. Although the coughing lasted but a handful of seconds, it left behind a burning pain that radiated from several ribs.

"Do you want to try drinking something?" His father asked quietly, gesturing to the cup of water Belle had offered him earlier.

Baelfire nodded; the coughing had gotten his blood flowing and he felt a little stronger than he had before. He braced his hands beside his waist beneath the blankets, pushing to lift himself into a sitting position.

In the next moment, Rumplestiltskin's arm was around the boy's shoulders, attempting to help him. Baelfire shrugged him off, his cheeks reddening from a combination of embarrassment and frustration.

"I can do it," the boy bit out harsher than he intended, his jaw clenched against the pain. After a brief pause to gather his strength, he forced himself upright, holding the blankets close as the cool air met the flushed skin of his back. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his chest, and he could not smother a hiss as he placed a hand above the smarting ribs.

Rumplestiltskin's brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in a firm line. "What is it, son?"

"Nothing," Baelfire mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter against himself to cover what he was sure must be bruises.

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin pleaded, looking into the boy's eyes, "Tell me what hurts."

Baelfire stared at him for a long moment, inhaling deeply to sigh and flinching at the resultant twinge of pain. Shaking his head in resignation, he lowered the blankets. Both he and Rumplestiltskin glanced down as the move revealed three black bruises peppering the left side of his chest, each surrounded by a ring of deep blue and violet. Baelfire lightly grazed one with a finger, wincing and glancing up in silent question at his father.

Guilt flashed in Rumplestiltskin's eyes as they trailed over the angry bruises, before he returned his gaze to his son's. "I –I tried to revive you without magic, first."

The mention of magic inspired a wave of anger to crest within the boy, but he managed to quell it before it could manifest in cruel words. Glancing back down at his chest, Baelfire nodded, recalling the method his father said people used to revive others in the land where he had lived before coming here.

"Here, I can help with the pain." Rumplestiltskin stretched his hands toward him, but Baelfire could not help but pull away, grunting at the resulting sharp jab he felt in his ribs.

"No magic?" He asked, his teeth gritting against the throbbing ache.

"No magic," Rumplestiltskin promised, and Baelfire frowned briefly before reluctantly leaning back against the cabin wall that was serving as his headboard.

"There is a way to bind them, so that it does not hurt as much to move," he explained, rising to gather some of the spare strips of cloth Belle had left on a nearby table, "Something I learned back in the ogre wars."

He sat back down at the boy's bedside and reached out a hand, silently requesting to touch his left arm. Baelfire nodded, watching as his father folded the arm across his chest, palm down.

"I will never use magic again, son. I couldn't if I wanted to," Rumplestiltskin said softly as he wrapped a strip of fabric around the boy's shoulder. Baelfire's gaze snapped up to meet his father's, confusion and shock written in his features.

"When Belle and I came here, the Rheul Gorhum granted me a very small amount of magic. If I could refrain from using it, could demonstrate self-control, I would be free to wield magic as I so desired upon returning. If I used it, I forsook any right to it, forever."

Baelfire remained silent as his father wrapped the last strip of cloth about the base of his rib cage. His mind, still somewhat sluggish with fever, struggled to comprehend the man's words.

"No more magic, ever," Rumplestiltskin simplified, and Baelfire was surprised to detect no semblance of regret in his father's tone. "It is my price for using the little she gave me to save you."

Rumplestiltskin finished binding his chest, twisting the last inches of fabric into a knot. Balefire still could not bring himself to speak, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on his father's face.

"And I am glad to pay it, son. I would do it again, in a heartbeat. I would pay any price."

His father's words seemed to travel straight from Baelfire's ears to his heart, which clenched at the sincerity and truth behind them. A lump rose in his throat as he struggled to find a response; what does one say when they've finally heard the words they had been waiting to hear for centuries?

A sudden movement out of the corner of Baelfire's eyes caught his attention, and his gaze darted to the opposite side of the cabin. He bit back a shout at the sight which greeted him.

Leaning against the wall, his polished namesake pressed thoughtfully against his chin, was Hook. A deep red stain covered half of his shirt, but he seemed to pay it no mind. A sinister smirk stretched his thin lips as his black gaze met Baelfire's. Baelfire could not seem to tear his own away, instead staring, transfixed, at the menacing apparition.

"He's lying," the pirate sneered, his eyes glinting in the firelight, "He has always loved his magic more than you."

"What's wrong, Bae?"

The boy's gaze snapped to his father, his brow furrowing at the look of confusion on the man's face. Did he not see...? Heart pounding, Baelfire looked back across the cabin. Hook was gone.

Trying to ignore the way his blood now felt like ice in his veins, the boy shook his head, meeting his father's gaze once more. Rumplestiltskin did not seem convinced, so with a small cough Baelfire tried to change the subject.

"What—what happened to me, at the beach?" He asked haltingly, his fear-laced mind striving to recall the day's events, "I don't think I drowned; the tide wasn't that strong..."

"You didn't drown," Rumplestiltskin confirmed, hesitation slowing his words, "You...Your heart stopped, son, while you were swimming."

Baelfire's eyebrows rose in shock, trepidation twisting in his abdomen at the revelation. "W-why did it stop?" He asked, his voice shaking slightly.

His father sighed, rubbing a hand at his eyes wearily before meeting his son's gaze once more. The gravity of his stare did not ease Baelfire's fear as he waited for the man to answer.

"Do you remember when Hook controlled me at the dock? When he tried to make me..." His voice trailed off, but Baelfire nodded anyway, knowing that he would likely never forget how close his own father had come to unwillingly killing him.

"Do you recall how you stopped it? How you freed me from the command?" Rumplestiltskin continued, his voice wavering slightly as he obviously fought not to frighten Baelfire with whatever he was trying to explain.

Again the boy nodded, his eyebrows knitting together as he awaited further clarification.

"You were able to do that, Bae, because..." Again Rumplestiltskin sighed, and Baelfire's pulse began thudding in his ears, "Because you and Hook are, in essence, the same."

Rumplestiltskin spoke so quietly, Baelfire almost did not hear him over his own racing heartbeat. But when his mind finally did comprehend the words, he could not tell what he wanted to do: laugh at the absurdity of the notion or yell at his father for once more comparing him to his greatest foe.

As though detecting his son's conflicting emotions, Rumplestiltskin hastily continued, his tone apologetic and urgent. "When you arrived here, after you fell through that vortex-after I let you go, the fairies taught you to fly, right?"

His breathing somewhat heavier as he tried to curtail his rising frustration, Baelfire nodded.

"As you flew, you forgot," Rumplestiltskin explained, his eyes filled with anguish as he pressed on, "All that pain, pain I caused, left you, and..." He inhaled a deep, steadying breath that only made Baelfire even more nervous. "It transformed into Hook, growing in intensity with each passing year."

His father's words struck Baelfire so soundly, he was incapable of speech for a long moment, his thoughts whirling at a nauseating rate in his mind. His worst enemy, the man he had feared and fought for centuries, the villain who murdered fairy and child alike without pause, was a part of himself?

Bile rose in Baelfire's throat at the idea, and he shut his eyes as he fought to steady his staggered breathing. Vaguely, he registered the pressure of his father's hand on his shoulder.

"It was the price of the magic the fairies used to teach you to fly," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his voice sounding just as anguished as the boy felt. Baelfire's eyelids sprang open at the news, his breath catching in his throat as he stared in shock at his father.

"Did they know that I—that Hook and I were—"

"No," Rumplestiltskin responded, shaking his head. A tiny fragment of Baelfire's distress left him at the assurance; he did not think he could stand it if Aibreann, his dear friend and guardian for all these years, had committed such a betrayal.

White-hot fury unlike anything Baelfire had ever felt suddenly blazed within him, and with a heated glare in the direction of the windowsill on which the fairies so often perched, he snarled in a voice deeper and darker than usual, "Good thing I managed to kill off three of them."

Both he and his father started slightly at his violent words, their mutual appalled gazes meeting briefly, before Baelfire averted his eyes to his lap. His breathing quickened as fear and guilt gripped him with their icy talons. All the crimes Hook had committed, the mermaids he had finned, the fairies he had slaughtered...how close he had been to killing Belle for her selfless refusal to reveal the location of the Lost Boys' shelter, how he had tortured his father...

Unadulterated shame coursed through the boy's veins as he recalled how he, as Hook, had imprisoned his father in the sweltering bowels of the Jolly Roger with very little sustenance or water.

"I made you abandon Belle, locked you in the brig," he confessed in a low voice, still staring down at his lap.

"You remember that?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his voice laced with what Baelfire could only define as dread. The boy nodded, swallowing thickly.

"The memories are all...jumbled, like a puzzle. But if I focus on just one," Baelfire paused, looking up with unfocused eyes, "I can remember everything."

He fought back a shudder as the memory of Hook—himself—brutally punishing a crewmember for losing the Lost Boys in the forest flooded his mind.

"You don't have to go there, son," his father pleaded, gently squeezing the shoulder on which his hand rested. Baelfire did not listen, allowing his thoughts to delve farther into Hook's memories.

"I controlled you with the dagger, wanted you to use your magic to kill that brat Peter Pan," he hissed, rage filling his veins like hot tar as he thought of how much he longed for that boy's death... No! Baelfire shook his head, trying to will away the thought. He was Peter Pan, and he was good and true...

"And then when you were only trying to escape," he continued in a lifeless tone, his gaze tracing over the bandage covering his father's chest, "I did that."

His hand seemed to lift of its own accord, his index finger curving down into the shape of a hook. With the point of his finger he slowly traced the wound, mimicking the memory currently playing in his mind. Rumplestiltskin flinched at the motion, and when Baelfire met his eyes he found a mixture of hurt, and horror whirling in their depths.

For a miniscule stretch of time the boy felt a sinister sense of satisfaction at the man's distraught expression, but the feeling fled as quickly as it had come, leaving distressed empathy in its place. Baelfire gently flattened the palm of his hand over the wound, wishing he could undo all the pain he had caused.

His father remained silent, staring at him apprehensively. The look in his eyes reminded Baelfire of how he had felt when he and the Lost Boys had stumbled upon a wounded wild Neverbear: longing to help the poor creature, but wary of the pain it could inflict with its claws. It unsettled him to think his father felt that way now toward his own son.

His gaze settled on the strip of cloth wound about the man's forearm, and he grazed it with his still-curved finger. "And when we were fighting on the dock, I wanted you to feel pain, but I didn't want to kill you..." His voice trailed off for a moment, and when he looked up at Rumplestiltskin he felt another dark surge of satisfaction at the abject fear he saw in the man's eyes. "No, I had something better in mind."

A smirk stretched his lips as he looked back down at his father's bandaged arm. "And I made this," he sneered, sharply dragging the point of his finger across the wound just as he had on the dock. One of his father's hands suddenly grasped his own, holding it still.

"You also mended it," the man said softly, and with a jolt Baelfire looked up at him, feeling a rush of panic as he comprehended the cruelty of his recent actions. He felt his face flush with shame once more, and never before had he longed so terribly to fly again, to forget. His eyes darted to the window; maybe if he could just find one happy thought...

"You can fight this, Bae," Rumplestiltskin assured him fervently, bringing the hand that had been resting on Baelfire's shoulder up to cup his cheek.

"I've done so many horrible things, Papa..." Baelfire whispered, a crushing wave of grief closing in on him. He inhaled a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet his father's gaze.

"All this time, I felt like Scout's death was my fault, like I could have prevented it—"

"Bae—" Rumplestiltskin attempted to interrupt, but the boy pressed on, his tone growing angrier.

"And I was right. It was my fault, because I killed him," he grated scornfully, feeling more hatred for himself than he had toward any other person or creature before. What would the Lost Boys think if they knew the truth? What would Tootles think, if he learned that the boy he looked up to so much had murdered his best friend?

Another rush of hatred coursed through him, but this time it was accompanied by a mental image of a small boy cowering before a tall, hooked shadow. "But I wanted to kill him," Baelfire hissed with relish, his eyes glinting in the dying firelight.

"No, son," Rumplestiltskin said urgently, placing both hands on the boy's shoulders, "Those are Hook's feelings, not yours."

Baelfire stared up at him, frustration at the man's words bubbling in his chest. "Don't you understand?" He asked harshly, trying to jerk his shoulders out of his father's reach. "I'm a monster!"

"Baelfire—" His father interjected sharply, but the boy paid him no mind, continuing his tirade.

"I've hurt so many, I've done such terrible things—"

"And I still love you," Rumplestiltskin said firmly, causing Baelfire to freeze in shock, "Will always love you."

Baelfire stared at him, his eyes wide and his chest feeling almost excruciatingly tight.

"I said so even then on the dock," his father added quietly, gently squeezing his shoulders, "Do you remember that?"

The boy's mind immediately supplied the memory of Rumplestiltskin cornering him on the pier, his expression tortured as he swore his love before inflicting the fatal blow. Baelfire slowly nodded, focusing his attention back on the present.

"But you said yourself you know what I can be capable of," the boy murmured ashamedly, glancing up at his father before once more staring down at his lap, "You were right."

"No, I wasn't, Bae," Rumplestiltskin said tenderly, but Baelfire could not bring himself to believe the words and shook his head vehemently. He heard his father sigh heavily.

"Now you listen to me," Rumplestiltskin said firmly, and Baelfire felt the makeshift bed dip slightly as his father moved to sit on the side. The boy kept his gaze lowered, his bottom lip trembling as he fought against the guilt threatening to drown him.

"Look at me, son."

Swallowing heavily, Baelfire slowly met his father's eyes, grimacing as he imagined the hate he feared he would see in them. But he found only love in their depths, and it made his throat constrict almost painfully.

"Hook was the man you could have become, but you are not him," he said fervently, staring unblinkingly into his son's eyes. "Can you believe that?"

Baelfire dropped his gaze once more. He wanted to believe his father, truly he did. But image after image of all the pain and suffering he had sown throughout this land flashed inexorably in his mind.

"I don't want to talk anymore," he murmured dejectedly, leaning farther back on the bed. He felt nauseous at the onslaught of terrible memories, and his vision had begun to blur at the edges.

"Bae—"

"Please, Papa." His voice must have sounded as weary as Baelfire felt, for Rumplestiltskin did not argue further, and returned to his previous seat next to the bed.

"Try to rest some more, son," his father advised gently, lifting the blankets higher so that they covered Baelfire up to his neck. "We can talk again when you wake up."

"I'm afraid to sleep again," Baelfire whispered even as his eyelids began to droop.

"How come?"

"Hook's there. We fight," he mumbled drowsily, the room already beginning to fade away. Through the haze he glimpsed his father's face, lined with deep concern.

"Who wins?" The man asked in a quavering voice.

"I don't know," he breathed, his consciousness drifting into darkness, "I never get that far."