Rumplestiltskin sat by Belle's bedside, waiting.

Belle's bedside. That was a lie. It was the bed he'd given Bae. The trundle bed, one of the many insults he'd given Belle, had been moved into the playroom where Bae was sleeping in it. The boy would have stayed up all night to watch over his mother, if his strength had matched his will. But, he was only six years old. Exhaustion and Rumplestiltskin's soothing voice as he told Bae reassuring stories of people he'd healed had finally left him nodding off. Rumplestiltskin had carried him over to the smaller bed and tucked him in, along with the blanket he always slept with.

Then, Rumplestiltskin went back to his wife.

His wife. He didn't even have the right to think of her as that.

But, there was a difference between rights and debts. He was only beginning to guess how much he owed Belle. Not that it mattered. A man didn't do the things he'd done to his wife. Even a twisted imitation of man, like Rumplestiltskin, knew better. Or should have known better.

The worst of Belle's danger was past, enough that he hadn't felt panic or fear (not really) in the few minutes it took to put Bae to bed. Enough that, before Bae was ready to admit how tired he was, Rumplestiltskin had finally found the courage to bring Belle here to rest. Thinking a little more clearly than when he'd raced into the great hall with Belle in his arms, he'd magicked her into a night shift before unwrapping the golden fleece. He'd even pulled up a sheet over her before laying the fleece back on her, as if it were just one more of the many blankets he'd piled on top of it. The thin layers of cloth wouldn't block the magic of the fleece. Much. And he was here to watch for any sign of danger if it did.

After putting Bae down, Rumplestiltskin took a moment to put a small spell on the doorway leading to the playroom. If Bae woke up, Rumplestiltskin would hear any sounds he made, but Bae wouldn't be woken by any noise coming from this side. If Belle woke, he could talk to her without disturbing Bae's rest.

If. When.

Although no one, of course, had come to sit by him while his ruined leg knit back together, he remembered when other soldiers had come to visit their fellows. There was something comforting in hearing human voices, even if none of them were speaking to him. He remembered lying there quietly, pretending he was included in that circle of friendship as they discussed common, everyday things: the weather, army food, their lives before the war, the lives they hoped to live after.

So, he got out a book to read to Belle, hoping the sound of a voice—even if it was his—would be comforting to her. She had been reading The Tale of Britomart, and he started with that. But, Belle had just gotten to the story of Hellenore.

He'd forgotten this. Or, no, not forgotten. Gods help him, it hadn't seemed important. If anything, it was a slight jab at the life she'd led. That he'd thought she'd led.

Hellenore was the opposite of the heroic Britomart in every way. An unfaithful wife, she abandoned her husband for a chance met lover and, in the end, willfully chose to live with a small colony of lust filled satyrs. As the tale put it, "and every one as common good her handled."

Rumplestiltskin barely resisted the urge to tear the pages out of the book and throw them in the fire. He'd given this to her. He'd given it to her, her husband, knowing this was in it, hoping to rub salt in her wounds.

Well, he'd succeeded, hadn't he?

If Belle didn't have such a deep respect for books—and if he didn't think she'd come looking for it later—he would have destroyed it. More than that, he would have been tempted to track down every copy in the land and burn the offending pages in all of them.

Instead, he summoned a book of bland, simple children's stories. No surprises or forgotten twists here. Maidens were never carried off by monsters with any worse intentions than eating them. Hungry monsters were always thwarted by brave heroes or by the maidens themselves. In one story, a maiden was set to be married off to a rich traveler. Her father liked the man (and his money) although the daughter was deeply disturbed by her bridegroom, not that the idiot father listened to her pleas. Finally, she set out on her own to learn the truth and came back (after harrowing adventures) with gory proof that the man her father had chosen was a robber and a murderer (body parts of victims were produced in evidence). Rumplestiltskin didn't try to hide his relish as the evil, murderous fool who couldn't recognize what a treasure he'd had a chance to spend his life with was hanged. It was better than he deserved.

Maybe he told it with a bit too much relish. Belle began to toss and turn. Quickly, he put the book down and went to her side.

"Rumplestiltskin," Belle murmured in her sleep, one of her hands curled around the locket. "Rumplestiltskin, help me."

The words jolted him. His name had strange powers—one of the reasons so few people knew it. It could be used to summon him (not that he had to come). Now, he learned that when his wife spoke his name while holding the locket with his hair inside it, he could feel her pain as she spoke it.

Had the spell around the Marchlands shielded him from this? Or had it been his unwillingness to listen? If he weren't in the same room with her, would he have felt that down to his bones?

He couldn't tell. But, Rumplestiltskin realized he knew—knew—his name was another thing she kept locked inside her, along with every other injury. He felt it was in the quick stab of pain when she named him. Only a terrible day—like today—could drag it out of her.

If she had spoken his name in the castle, no matter how blind and deaf he'd chosen to be, he didn't think even his power could have blocked that out.

She whimpered again in her sleep, and he started to reach out to her before seeing his claws. Hesitantly, remembering what had happened last time he changed shape for her and hoping this wasn't as great a mistake, he became again the man she once knew. If Belle had opened her eyes, she would have been sure she was dreaming, seeing her husband looking down on her.

"Belle?" he whispered, using his real voice. "Sweetheart, it's all right." Sweetheart. He had no right to call her that, no right at all.

The hand that had held the locket fluttered towards him, her eyes still closed in sleep. Or almost-sleep. He folded his own hand protectively around it, glad he had hidden his claws.

"Rumplestiltskin. . . ?"

"Here, sweetheart."

"It hurts." She was crying. She was dreaming—or close to dreaming—and she still wept "It won't stop hurting," she whispered. "I've tried. But, I can't—I can't—"

The pain in her voice tore at him without any magical help. He thought of all the ways he could make her suffering go away, each more terrible than the last. Take away the memories that wounded her so deeply, including all the things he'd done to her (and, oh, how he wanted to do that) and he would take away all the things that went with them, her courage and endurance and her deep love for Bae.

He could reach in, he thought. He could take out her heart and all the hurt it was causing her. Just for a little while. Just till she'd had more time to heal, till she was strong enough to endure what her heart was doing to her.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. He was lying to himself. He knew how hearts healed, and that wasn't it. If he did that, when he gave it back to her, the pain would be as sharp and fresh as before. Nothing healed, nothing changed.

He thought of the last night he had spent with Belle, before he went to war, before everything went wrong. She'd been afraid that night, too, though she tried not to show it. He remembered how she hunched, ever so slightly, when she was worried, her shoulders tensing. He'd reached out that night as she lay beside him, pretending worry wasn't keeping her from sleep, and gently rubbed at the tightness there. The knots in her neck and shoulders had begun to ease away beneath his fingers as he told her everything would be all right. He thought Belle had even believed him till she rolled over, turning to him and holding him as tightly as she could, afraid to let him go. Later, learning the day his son had been born, he thought that must have been the night they summoned Bae's small life into being.

He wanted to hold her like that now, to soothe away all the pain and ache of seven years.

That had been Lord Maurice's plan, hadn't it? If Rumplestiltskin had correctly pieced together the bits and pieces Bae had given him, Belle had gone to Maurice for help, and he had come up with the brilliant idea of finding another man to bed the scarred, injured woman fate had landed on his doorstep.

If there was anything worse Rumplestiltskin could do her than taking her in his arms and trying to kiss it better, even his imagination failed to conjure it for him.

So, instead, he made small, pathetic attempts to rub the tense muscles in Belle's neck, whispering soft, hollow reassurances as he did.

"You're not here," Belle murmured. "Not really."

Always the clever one. And right again. As always. The man she'd loved, the one who deserved to be with her was gone, turned to ashes in the conflagration that had created the Dark One.

But, there would be no comfort in telling her that. Instead, he swallowed back the pain in his chest, that he told himself was a laugh trying to escape at the sad joke of it all, and said, "Real enough, sweetheart. Now, rest. You need to rest. I promise I'll watch over you."

Watch over her. Another duty he had failed at, telling himself she didn't deserve it, doing everything he could to convince her to stay behind in Maurice's court. Then, trying to drive her back. He'd wondered if the Dark Ones who went before him ever watched their successors. If so, he wondered how hard they were laughing now.

"I love you," she whispered. The words were barely more than a mumble. She was falling back into real sleep. Which she needed, he reminded himself. There was no reason to try and keep her awake. Especially for this.

She said something else. It sounded like, "I miss you."

Unwisely—the most unwise thing he'd done since he thrust the dagger through Zoso's heart and took his powers—Rumplestiltskin began to lean in towards Belle, ready to draw her towards him.

No.

Firmly, he pictured Belle the night he'd tried to kiss her, conjuring up each line of horror in her face, the terror shining out of her eyes. He pulled himself back, away from her. He couldn't touch her, he told himself. Not like that. Not ever.

Maybe he could have, if he hadn't been such a fool. He imagined himself appearing in Maurice's court with his human face, dressed like a king. No deal making, no promises, just an announcement before them all that he had come for his wife and son. He would have offered, of course, to free the Marchlands and protect them, but that would have been as a monarch rewarding the underlings who had done him service protecting his family. Every sharp tongue that had wounded Belle would know she was greater than a queen and that her son better born than a legion of princes. . . . Perhaps, if he'd done that, he might have made it so that, someday, he could hold her—just hold her, nothing more—without fear of conjuring that terror in her eyes.

It was too late now.

He wiped his transformation away. If Belle woke again, she would see the truth. It was not her husband but a monster sitting beside her, and she would look at him with all the revulsion he deserved.

"I miss you, too, sweetheart," he whispered, backing away from her, not sure if she heard him or not. "I miss you, too."