A/N: Hello, everyone! We hope you had a lovely Easter/Passover/week! And that you enjoy this chapter as much as we enjoyed creating it. Please review! Feedback is inspiration!

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

~Chapter XXXIII~

The world was empty of sound; there was no sweet night music soaring outside, nor the faint crackle of a fire dancing in the cabin's hearth. Only a tense, impenetrable silence greeted the boy as he gradually roused from slumber. The weight of the heavy blankets covering him felt so stiflingly hot, he felt he might burst into flame if he did not remove them at once. With a low groan he pushed them off his flushed form and pulled himself into a sitting position.

The gentle rush of cool air which greeted him was bliss, but the anxiety he felt did not relent, continuing to coil uncomfortably in his chest. The boy's flesh suddenly puckered in goosebumps, the hairs on his arms rising, and he had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him, like a helpless prey in the moments before its stalking predator strikes.

A sudden grating sound, like metal against a sharpening stone, pierced the silence around him. The noise sent an involuntary shudder through his body, and he hesitantly stepped onto the cabin floor. His father occupied a nearby chair, his head leaning on his shoulder as he finally succumbed to exhaustion. Another long screech echoed from outside, causing the boy to start slightly, but the man remained motionless in his seat, save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Inhaling a deep breath to steel his courage, the boy strode toward the cabin's entrance. He paused just outside the doorway, his heart thudding in his ears so loudly he almost missed the next metallic scrape. After another steadying breath, he forced himself to step over the threshold and onto the vine staircase.

It took all of his strength not to release a shout at the sight which greeted him. At the end of the stairs stood Hook, his right hand sliding a sharpening stone along his silver namesake. The captain glanced up, a dark smirk stretching his lips at the sight of Peter's horror-stricken face.

"H-how did you find this place?" Peter stumbled, feeling as though he might be sick when his worst enemy simply laughed scornfully.

"You told me yourself," the captain retorted wryly, tossing the sharpening stone aside and inspecting his polished hook in the moonlight. "Were you not listening when Papa explained it all?"

Anger and fear roiled within Peter at the man's words, and he gripped the railing in front of him so tightly his knuckles shone white.

"Why are you still here?" Peter asked forcefully, struggling to regain his composure and assume the flippant attitude he typically presented when around the pirate. If he let his walls down, this would only hurt even more.

Hook's answering chuckle sent a chill down the boy's spine. His black eyes glinted with murder, and in a low, hissing voice he responded, "Because you're still here."

The pirate bore his teeth in a sinister grin, slowly ascending the steps of the vine staircase. "But not for long," he added in a sing-song voice, his leer widening when the boy shuffled back a step. Hook drew nearer, and Peter could not seem to command his legs to remove himself from the approaching danger, remaining frozen in place. Although he had faced his worst foe countless times, and often with scant more than a flicker of unease, the boy felt an inexplicable, paralyzing fear in his presence now.

Peter cast a frightened glance into the cabin, wishing he could call for his father to come help him, but his throat was suddenly unbearably dry and Hook stepped closer and closer. Before the boy could even summon the breath he needed to try to yell, the pirate was an arm's length away, his silver namesake glittering menacingly in the moonlight.

"He wouldn't come for you anyway," Hook sneered, his eyes flickering to the man slouched in a chair beside Peter's abandoned sickbed.

Peter snapped his gaze back to the pirate, his face feeling hot with anger. "Yes, he would," he insisted adamantly, his voice raspy, "He came all the way here, to Neverland, just to find me!"

Hook threw back his head, releasing a harsh laugh before shaking his head incredulously. "He came here to find the boy he lost all those years ago, not the monster you've become since then."

Peter felt an anvil of dread sink in his stomach, and it must have shown in his expression, for in the next moment Hook tutted in mock sympathy.

"You really thought he would want you?" He said with a tenderness that was not reflected in his cold, lifeless eyes, "After all you've done?"

He raised his only hand to caress the boy's cheek, but before he could Peter jerked his head out of his reach, his gaze horrified. The pirate's hand was coated in a thick, syrupy layer of blood.

His expression bemused, Hook glanced down at his hand, chuckling when he realized the source of the boy's fear. He rubbed his fingers together, smearing the crimson mess further.

"Afraid to face the blood you helped spill?" He challenged, returning his gaze to Peter's. His features darkened, and in a snarling voice he added, "It's on your hands too, boy."

Peter's gaze frantically darted to his own hands, and with a strangled cry he realized the captain was right. Heart racing and chest heaving, he desperately tried to wipe the blood on his trousers, but the stain only spread, as though it were leaking from his hands instead of covering them. All the while, Hook laughed, reveling in tormenting his other half.

A low growl suddenly echoed beneath them, drawing both of their attention. Peering over the railing, they glimpsed the long, torpedo-shaped form of the crocodile that had plagued them both for centuries. With its sharp claws it pulled itself closer to the base of the tree, its jowls opening in hunger as it fixed them with a hungry glare.

"It wants both of us," Hook hissed, a note of relish laced in his dark tone. Peter met his black gaze, feeling almost faint at the sheer hatred he saw within it. "It will never stop until it does," the pirate added in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Before Peter had any time to react, the pirate lashed out, gripping the boy's upper arms with his hand and the groove of his hook. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled them both over the railing, and all Peter could see was the crocodile's open jaws as they fell down, down, down...

Rumplestiltskin stood on the vine staircase, leaning against the winding railing as he watched Belle escort the other boys into the clearing to prepare supper. The sun hung low in the sky, preparing to abandon its post and make way for Neverland's night. Another day had passed, and still his son was lost in a fitful and feverish slumber.

A sudden frightened shout echoed from within the cabin, setting Rumplestiltskin's nerves on edge and heart pounding as he turned and bolted inside. The moment he crossed the threshold, a jolt of relief coursed through him upon finding his son sitting upright, eyes open and alert. The reprieve was short-lived, however, when he saw how frantically the boy's gaze darted around the room, his face pale with fear and his form trembling slightly.

"Bae?" Rumplestiltskin prompted gently, stepping over to the side of his sickbed. So as not to startle the boy further, he slowly sat down in the chair he had been occupying almost the entire time since his son drifted once more into unconsciousness. He watched as Baelfire's eyes darted to the window, widening slightly as they took in the descending sun and the boy realized he had slept the entire night and day away. But the boy's shock at the passage of time seemed to dissipate as he returned his gaze to the corner of the cabin, shaking his head slightly as though in response to a question Rumplestiltskin could not hear.

"Son, it's all right," Rumplestiltskin assured softly, reaching out a hand to place on the boy's shoulder, "It was only a dream."

Baelfire leaned away from him, keeping his shoulder out of his father's reach. His brow furrowed and his expression appeared almost affronted at the man's words.

"It's wasn't just a dream!" Baelfire responded harshly, and his voice would have been a yell were it not hoarse from so many hours of disuse. His chest heaved with every breath he drew as though he had sprinted the entire length of the island. "This one was different."

"What do you mean?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his forehead creasing in concern as his son continued to stare fixatedly at the opposite end of the cabin.

"I can still see him," Baelfire answered shakily, closing his eyes for a moment and swallowing thickly, "Hear him." A shudder ran through the boy and he clasped his free hand over one of his ears, screwing his eyes tight. Rumplestiltskin felt dread close about his heart like an iron fist at the sight.

"Bae, listen to me," he said urgently, leaning closer to where his son slouched on the bed. The boy whimpered, pressing his hand even tighter against his head. "You can fight this!"

"I can't!" Baelfire shouted, his whole figure shaking from the strain of sudden use.

"You have to!"

The boy flinched at his father's shout, his breathing quickening as he shook his head once more. Hesitantly, as though fighting against an invisible force, he pulled his hand back down to his lap. After a long moment, he lifted his eyelids, glancing at Rumplestiltskin with eyes that appeared black in the slowly fading sunlight.

"Why should I listen to you? You were never a father to me," he grated in a low, growling voice that was not his own, "Only a disappointment."

Rumplestiltskin did not wince at the cruel words, not because they were not painful—for indeed, they were terribly so—but because they were the exact same words Hook had lashed at him on the dock. His son was fighting the sinister pirate at this very moment, and it chilled Rumplestiltskin to his core to think that Hook might be gaining the upper hand.

Baelfire continued to stare at the man, his lips curving upward in a smirk. "When I saw you so broken at the dock, crying," he sneered, his eyes glinting maliciously, "Was that for me?"

When Rumplestiltskin did not respond, the boy's lips stretched into a grin, eventually parting to release a low, derisive chuckle. Fear trickled down Rumplestiltskin's spine at the sound, and although he knew it was caused by Hook's influence, hearing such hatred spill from the boy's mouth seemed to shake his very soul.

But Baelfire's entire demeanor changed then: his eyes slid closed and he returned his trembling free hand to his ear.

"No..." He moaned in a tiny voice, squeezing his eyes shut, "Stop it!"

"Fight this!" Rumplestiltskin urged, his own chest heaving as he watched his son shiver and struggle against the demon plaguing him.

Baelfire suddenly yanked his other arm from beneath the bandage, clasping the freed hand against his other ear and exposing the line of black bruises along his rib cage.

"Enough!" He shouted, hunching his shoulders forward.

A long minute passed in which Baelfire continued to quake and groan, but then, slowly, his breathing became more even. He gradually lowered his hands from his ears, his shoulders releasing some of their tension. With a shaky sigh, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, glancing about the domed cabin. This time, it seemed, there was no apparition to be found.

In the glare cast by the dying fire, Rumplestiltskin realized that his son's shadow, which he believed had been absent since Hook's demise, had reappeared, albeit it remained unnaturally faint. Countless years dealing with magic told him that this could be a positive sign, that the boy was beginning to overcome the darkness threatening to destroy him, and the man could not suppress the hope which sparked within him.

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin murmured in relief, placing a hand on his son's forearm. Baelfire jerked away from the touch, releasing a low hiss as the movement agitated his healing ribs. Hurt momentarily flashed across Rumplestiltskin's features, but it was soon eclipsed by concern as his eyes again traced the dark bruises along his son's chest.

"Please, son, it won't hurt so much if we bind—"

"What, afraid to watch me suffer from the injuries you inflicted?" Baelfire snapped, fixing the man with a steely glare.

Rumplestiltskin winced slightly at the question, guilt settling like lead in his stomach as he thought of all the pain he had caused his son, unwittingly or not.

Again the boy's demeanor seemed to transform, his angry features softening into an expression that Rumplestiltskin imagined likely mirrored his own.

"I'm sorry," Baelfire murmured shamefacedly, "I didn't mean that."

"I know," Rumplestiltskin responded softly. He watched his son for a moment, before reaching out to readjust the bindings. Silence fell between them as Rumplestiltskin lifted the strip of cloth to wrap it about the boy's torso.

"I can't do this," Baelfire blurted despairingly, leaning away again and pulling the bandage from his father's grip, though the gesture appeared to be more out of anguish and shame than anger. He lowered his head, his gaze settling on the blankets bundled at his lap.

"Don't say that, Bae."

The boy did not acknowledge his father's words, and a long pause passed before he opened his mouth to speak again.

"Please, go," Baelfire whispered, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his struggle.

Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply, wearily scrubbing a hand across his face. His eyes focused on his son once more, but the boy refused to meet his gaze.

After a long silence, Rumplestiltskin lifted himself from his seat, turning about to face the entrance to the cabin. With a last glance at his aggrieved son over his shoulder, he walked over to the doorway.

Before his foot could cross the threshold, however, he froze. A warm breeze suddenly wafted over the land, rustling the leaves so that they all reflected the golden rays of the setting sun, and transforming the forest into an iridescent canvas of light. Besides its entrancing beauty, the sight struck something within Rumplestiltskin, and he stared helplessly as a memory sprang to the forefront of his mind.

A harsh command from the mouth of a midwife pierced the air, followed by one last moan of pain, and then the most beautiful sound met Rumplestiltskin's ears: the strong, healthy wail of his newborn son. His form quivering with unbridled love and joy and relief, Rumplestiltskin felt two hot tears spill from his eyes as the infant was placed in his arms, squirming restlessly in his blankets. Too enraptured with the sight of his son's tiny pink face to look away, he heard rather than saw the midwife return to his wife to tend to her and remove the soiled sheets.

Rumplestiltskin crooned softly, rocking his arms in what he hoped was a soothing rhythm. His son quieted after a few more whimpers, before opening his eyes and gazing upon his father for the first time.

The new father could not stifle a soft gasp at the eyes peering up at him. In the glare of the firelight, they seemed to glow like two drops of liquid gold. But it was not this trick of the light which stole Rumplestiltskin's breath away; it was the sheer strength that blazed in their depths. The child looked upon his father and the world not with the fear or confusion one would expect of someone so new, but with courage and a thirst for adventure.

Staring down in amazement at the tiny person lying in his arms, Rumplestiltskin knew what name would suit him perfectly.

"Baelfire," he breathed out loud, an awed smile slowly stretching his lips. Chest feeling as though it were swelling with overwhelming pride, Rumplestiltskin turned away from the doorway. His son, his happiest memory, stared up at him, his face twisting into a bewildered frown as the man returned to his bedside.

"I told you to leave," the boy grated, frustration now joining the surprise in his gaze.

"I'm not going anywhere, son," Rumplestiltskin responded, sitting once more on the edge of the makeshift bed.

"Just go!" Baelfire insisted in a voice that shook with emotion, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"No," Rumplestiltskin answered firmly, watching as the boy sank a hand into his hair and sighed angrily, his gaze fixed on his lap. He gently placed his own hand beneath his son's chin, encouraging him to meet his eyes. "I'm not running anymore."

Baelfire stared at him, the anger draining from his eyes and leaving behind only shame, and the faintest glimmer of gratitude. He did not flinch away when Rumplestiltskin gently moved his hand to the boy's shoulder.

"Is it true what you said?" Baelfire asked finally in a voice so low Rumplestiltskin had to strain to hear it. The boy glanced down at his lap, before forcing himself once more to meet his father's gaze. "That...That you never stopped looking for me?"

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin breathed, giving his son's shoulder a light squeeze, "I would have done anything to find you, Bae."

Rumplestiltskin held his son's gaze a moment longer before he reached beneath the sash at his side, pulling out the silver bracelet he had retrieved from the ocean the previous night. He stared down for a moment at where it lay in the palm of his hand, before returning his gaze to his son's. Baelfire's eyes were wide with shock, and as Rumplestiltskin watched he saw guilt slowly slide into their depths.

"I...I was going back for it," the boy insisted, swallowing thickly as he glanced down at the silver piece.

"I know," Rumplestiltskin responded, unclasping the ends of the bracelet, "That's why I retrieved it. You hadn't given up on me. I'm not giving up on you." He held the chain in front of him, silently requesting to return it to its proper place.

Hesitantly, the boy offered his father his right arm, and with a pang Rumplestiltskin noticed it was trembling. He fastened the bracelet around Baelfire's wrist, smiling briefly before cradling his son's hand in both of his own, relieved when the boy made no move to pull away.

For a long moment, Baelfire remained silent, simply staring down at the glittering silver chain. Then, after inhaling a shaky breath, he opened his mouth to speak.

"What I said before, about not needing a father—" He began tentatively, his voice laced with the remorse that reddened his ears and neck.

"It's all right," Rumplestiltskin interrupted calmly, causing the boy's gaze to snap up to his.

"No, it isn't," Baelfire said firmly, his jaw set as he stared into his father's eyes. "I lived without a father for so long, I thought I no longer needed one." He paused, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, then shook his head. "But I was wrong. And I'm sorr-y."

Hearing his son's voice break on the last word sent a jolt of pain into Rumplestiltskin's heart, and he had to fight against the lump in his throat to say his next words.

"Oh, Bae..." Rumplestiltskin sighed, feeling as though all the angst that had built up between them over the years was finally rising to the surface, "I'm sorry, too. Not just for breaking our deal, and letting you go, but for all the things I said—"

"You were only trying to help," Baelfire insisted, cutting him off, but Rumplestiltskin only shook his head.

"But I shouldn't have said them the way I did, son," he added sincerely. He looked down at their joined hands, his brow furrowing in remorse even as his lips formed a small smile. "If I could take back all the pain I put you through...Please believe me, I would."

Rumplestiltskin's throat constricted as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He had to summon all of his strength of will to keep them at bay, forcing himself to focus on his son and the words he had waited too long to say. "I'm not asking you to forget what I did to you, Bae; the past is something we should learn from."

He lifted one of his hands and placed it lightly against Baelfire's chest, feeling the strong heartbeat thumping beneath his fingers. Inhaling a quaking breath, he met his son's eyes.

"I know that I don't deserve a second chance," he choked, clearing his throat in a futile attempt to overcome the lump welling there, "But can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

They stared at each other for what could have been seconds or years, only silence passing between them now. Slowly, so that Rumplestiltskin at first thought he had imagined it, Baelfire's eyes filled with tears. His bottom lip twitched and his face began to flush pink as innumerable emotions overwhelmed him.

Moved so deeply that his own eyes swam with unshed moisture, Rumplestiltskin lifted the hand that lay above his son's heart and cupped the boy's cheek. A sound caught between a sigh and a sob escaped him when Baelfire clutched his father's hand in one of his own trembling ones, pressing it closer to his face.

"Papa," Baelfire whispered, his breath catching in his throat. He pressed his lips tightly together and slowly nodded his head, granting his father the forgiveness he thought he would never have the strength to give.

Relief surged so powerfully within Rumplestiltskin, he did not know whether to laugh or weep. His eyelids slid closed, and for a long moment he simply basked in the feel of his son's hand wrapped about his own. A second chance; it had been all he'd wanted for centuries...And now they could finally have it.

Feeling almost light-headed with hope, Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes. His son still stared at him, his brown irises practically concealed behind the tears gathered there.

"You have always been so brave," Rumplestiltskin praised, the corners of his lips lifting in a tender smile, "I could never ask for a better son."

Baelfire's face flushed a deeper shade of pink and he seemed to find it difficult to hold his father's gaze. He cleared his throat, blinking his eyes in a frantic attempt to clear away the tears before they could fall. With a low cough, he gently removed Rumplestiltskin's hand from his cheek, turning so that his legs hung over the opposite side of the bed. He rose gingerly from his seat, trying to stifle a sniffle with his hand.

The man felt a twinge of dread as he realized what his son was doing: he was restoring his defenses, lifting the walls on which he so often relied in moments of vulnerability. The boy's shoulders shook slightly, and it was the knowledge that such movement was caused by repressed sobs that inspired Rumplestiltskin into action.

"You don't have to do that anymore," he said quietly, rising from his own seat, his features softening as his eyes focused on his son.

"Do what?" The boy asked, his voice hoarse with barely contained emotion. Rumplestiltskin moved to the end of the bed so that only a few paces stood between them.

"Be the man I should have been."

Baelfire hesitantly turned around, his jaw clenched tight as his eyes once more welled with unshed tears. Gaze fixed unblinkingly on his son, Rumplestiltskin slowly stepped closer, his expression becoming even more tender when the boy's chin began to quiver.

"Let go, Bae," Rumplestiltskin murmured, "I've got you."

Baelfire shook his head, involuntarily taking one step backward. "I can't, Papa," he choked.

"Yes, you can," Rumplestiltskin said fervently, gazing intently into his son's face. His feet carried him two steps closer, but he came no nearer than that, allowing his son to determine his own fate.

Baelfire's breathing increased, sounding closer to a series of gasps. His chest heaved as he continued to step backward, stopping only when his back softly collided with the cabin wall. He stared ahead unblinkingly, and then his expression crumpled as a solitary tear spilled onto his cheek. A soft gasp escaped the boy and he swiped at the tear with his finger, glancing down at the drop of moisture before meeting his father's gaze once more, something like apprehension whirling in his own eyes.

"It's all right," Rumplestiltskin encouraged, traversing the space remaining between them until he was but an arm's length away from his son. He slowly reached out a hand toward his son's shoulder, and something within the boy seemed to break.

Breath hitching in his throat, Baelfire slid down the wall, one more tear rolling down his cheek. And then another. Rumplestiltskin followed him, crouching so that their gazes never wavered from each other's. When they both reached the floor, Baelfire slouched against the wall with his father kneeling before him, the boy finally allowed himself to weep.

A strangled sob escaped his throat, and he reached out a hand to grasp his father's shirt as the latter leaned forward to embrace him. Arms wrapped about his son, Rumplestiltskin stroked the boy's back as he began to cry in earnest. Although each despairing sound pierced Rumplestiltskin like a blade, he could not help but feel grateful, and so very relieved, that his brave son had found the strength to let go of all the pain he had accumulated over the years, forgive him, and trust him to be the father he deserved.

"I'm sorry," Baelfire sobbed into his father's chest, his shoulders tensing as he prepared to withdraw from the man's embrace, "I'm s-so sorry—"

"I'm so proud of you," Rumplestiltskin breathed, keeping his embrace firm as he pressed a kiss to the crown of his son's head.

Immediately Baelfire abandoned his attempt to withdraw, clutching his father's shirt in both hands and pressing himself even closer. His weeping intensified, each gasp and sob shaking his entire frame as any resistance he might have been holding onto crumbled completely. Rumplestiltskin squeezed his eyes shut as he gently rocked his son, his heart throbbing at the realization that his boy had finally lowered his defenses and could now begin to heal.

"My beautiful boy..."

A soft pattering echoed outside, and Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes to glance at the cabin window: a mild rain had begun to fall. There was no thunder, nor harsh winds to accompany it; only the soothing sound of droplets plopping quietly on all that lay below. The sun, though very near to the horizon, still shone brilliantly through the tree canopy, its beauty seeming only enhanced by the sudden shift in weather. The golden rays reflected off of everything the rain touched, and Rumplestiltskin was once again reminded of the first time he looked into his son's eyes and saw something not only worthy to admire, but to strive to be.

He ran his hand soothingly up and down his son's back as the boy continued to sob in his arms, his heart beating with a new strength, one he had not noticed with such profundity until now:

The strength of a father never willing to let go.