Chapter Thirty-Three—"Vengeance is Victory"

"He's kind of cute, don't you think?" Ruby asked, making Emma look up from her hot cocoa.

"Who?" she asked, blinking. She'd been lost in thought, sitting quietly at the counter in Granny's, and hadn't noticed Ruby sauntering up and leaning over the counter to talk to her. The diner had gone quiet while Emma was distracted, and the breakfast rush seemed to be over. Henry was off to school, and Emma had been mulling over Graham's current depression without paying attention to her surroundings.

"August," the waitress replied, popping her gum.

"Who?"

"August W. Booth. The writer."

"Oh, so Mister Mysterious told you his name." Emma snorted. "It's about time that he stopped playing games."

Not that this 'August' had been in Storybrooke longer than two days, but Emma was still a little annoyed about how he'd run circles around her. So, it was really kind of nice to see someone poke a hole in his careful aura of secrecy.

Ruby laughed. "Actually, I got a look at his credit card when he checked in," she admitted. "But I still think he's cute. Did you know that he's travelled the world?"

"No, I haven't talked to him since he taunted me with his box," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"It's kind of fascinating. He said he was in Hong Kong and Phuket before coming here, that he travels all over the world looking for inspiration. He writes about the things he sees and the people he meets."

"My ears are burning," another voice said before Emma could respond, and suddenly he stranger was sitting on the stool next to her, smiling fondly at Ruby. "Good morning, ladies."

Twisting to look at him, Emma arched an eyebrow. "August, huh? It doesn't sound quite as enigmatic as you were aiming for."

"I guess you've got me there," Booth laughed.

"So, what are you doing here, anyway?" Emma demanded, and then held up a hand before he could answer. "And don't tell me that you're just here for inspiration. You wouldn't have been playing these mystery games if you were."

"I might just be a jerk," he offered with a charming smile.

"I don't think that's in question right now," Ruby piped up dryly.

"Point taken." August laughed, and then abruptly turned to look directly into Emma's eyes. "But no, I'm not just here for a book. I'm here for you."

"What?"

"I didn't expect to find you already here, to be honest," he replied. "I thought I'd have to hunt you down."

"What the hell are you talking about?" What was this guy, some kind of long distance stalker? Racking her mind to remember if she'd ever seen this man before, Emma couldn't recall his face. Or the two blue eyes that now stared at her so intently, as if he was waiting for something amazing. He was striking enough that Emma thought she would recognize him if she'd met him before, but nothing came to mind.

"I'm talking about you," August replied earnestly, his eyes shining with the same passion Henry's did when he talked about his Book. "You're special, Emma. I bet by now that you've noticed that Storybrooke isn't a normal town. And everyone here is counting on you to—"

"You're a little late to that game, buddy," Emma cut him off, her voice sharp with disappointment. Did everyone have to try that tact? "I've heard all this before. Did Regina put you up to it?"

August blinked, seemingly having a hard time processing that information. "Who?"

"Regina Nolan," she explained as Ruby listened, clearly interested. "The mayor's daughter."

"You can't trust her!" the newcomer burst out, suddenly animated and concerned. August sat up straight on his barstool, and Emma thought he actually might jump to his feet in alarm. "She's the Dark Princess! She's betrayed everyone who ever trusted her!"

"Whoa, there. Calm down," she said before he could get to excited. Not that August didn't seem to have already flown off the handle. His eyes were wide and his expression almost comically worried; Emma wasn't quite sure how August could get so worked up after two days in town, but he was obviously excited.

"You don't understand how important this is," he tried again, and Emma rolled her eyes. The rhetoric was as annoying as the mystery already.

"I've got a pretty decent idea, thanks. Now, why don't' you stop making a scene and scaring people who have no idea what's going on?"

"You already believe," August breathed as if it was a prayer.

Emma sighed. "I wouldn't go that far."

"But—"

"Look, let's talk about this another time, okay?" she suggested, interrupting him again. Emma couldn't take much more of this zeal for the curse. At least Regina didn't preach at her like this—even if the so-called 'Dark Princess' had a temper that matched Emma's own—and Henry was ten. He had an excuse for his enthusiasm. August looked older than she was, and Emma wasn't in the mood to listen to a grown man go on about curses and fairytales. "I have to get to work."

Emma stood and walked away before August could object, refusing to look back as she exited the diner. A headache was already threatening to build behind her eyes, and Emma knew it would go nuclear if she had to listen to more of this insane curse crap today. Still, a little voice in the back of her mind persisted:

He's not from Storybrooke. Regina didn't tell him, and I know Henry hasn't met him. How in the world did he know about the curse?

Weak men were always the easiest to manipulate. This one was easier than most; Cora hadn't paid any particular attention to Moe French—formerly an unimportant landed knight whose name Cora would not have remembered if she had not looked it up in her records—while casting the curse, but she didn't need to. The general misery of Storybrooke had embraced him far too well. He was a recreational gambler with terrible luck, a businessman with questionable monetary sense, and the father of a timid girl with loose morals. None of those characteristics were particularly crippling, but they did make him so very simple to…persuade.

"I can't let this go on, Madam Mayor," Moe said pitifully, wringing his hands as he stood before her desk. Cora watched him calmly, hiding her satisfaction behind a politely attentive expression. "I just can't."

"And you shouldn't," she soothed him after just too long of a hesitation, giving Moe plenty of time to convince himself. "But you do face a significant problem."

"I can't believe the sheriff has found nothing!" he half-shouted, and Cora could hear victory singing sweetly in her ears.

"It is a pity," she said smoothly, still gazing up at him with the most innocently concerned expression she could muster. "But I have always had my doubts about Miss Swan. I am not certain that she is investigating things as thoroughly as she should."

"Then what can we do?"

Under other circumstances, Cora would not have been able to put up with that obnoxious whining, but for now it served her purposes. So, she sighed a little theatrically, since Moe needed to be led by the nose and subtlety was utterly beyond him, and answered: "When the law cannot protect those he loves, a strong man takes matters into his own hands."

Not that Moe French was strong, but he perked up upon hearing her appear to think he was. Immediately, his chest puffed out and he straightened. Cora could see ideas whirling through his mind, but he wasn't where she wanted him to be, not yet, so she added:

"The only way to free Lacey is to teach Gold that he cannot hurt her," she said, feigning thoughtfulness, and tugging on the curse just so. Moe didn't need much of a push, but a little encouragement couldn't hurt. "If no one ever teaches that horrid man a lesson, he will continue to do as he pleases."

"I thought you were fond of him," Moe said a little suspiciously. Perhaps she was laying it on a bit thick.

"He has his uses, but only insofar as he understands his place," Cora replied as demurely as she could. "I fear I have failed to enforce that. Perhaps it will take a better…man than I to manage it."

He bit like an eager puppy offered a bone. "What do you think I should do?"

Cora smiled.

3 Years Before the Curse

Poor Regina had been so startled when her darling stepsister had disappeared immediately after biting into the apple, but Cora had planned for everything. She'd even expected her daughter to come striding into her presence chamber full of pain and righteous indignation, demanding to know where Snow had gone. So, Cora only smiled, relishing Regina's fury. She knew it was something she could build into a proper detachment; after all, the greatest pain bred the greatest power. Had she not had her heart broken repeatedly before she made her own choice? Someday, Regina would thank her mother for the way she was planning out her future.

"She's safe, of course," she answered her daughter's question. "In a place of my devising, where she can suffer out her last days alone."

"Alone? Mother, you've already cursed her! What more vengeance do you need?" Regina demanded brokenly. "Why can't you let her spend the last days around people who love her?"

Apparently, sentimentality remained one of her daughter's weaknesses. "I'm doing those fools a kindness," Cora replied frankly. "Otherwise, one of them might try to save her and die doing so. I can only imagine how violent dear Snow would get if she managed to find a weapon."

"That's your doing!"

"And yours, darling. You did curse her, after all." Cora shrugged, waving a hand at the mirror. Sidney was forbidden from appearing in Regina's presence, but the magic she'd imbued him with still lingered. "Show me Snow White."

A thin gray fog appeared over the mirror's surface momentarily, quickly resolving into the image of a fair young woman trapped in a glass coffin. The coffin had been Cora's special touch—every memorable tale needed such details, after all—and it allowed Cora to trap her stepdaughter and view her at the same time. It will also keep any well-meaning heroes from reaching her…as will the surprises lurking in the cave around her. Snow was twitching violently, already caught up in the worst nightmares she'd ever had, and Cora found herself wondering exactly what Snow was dreaming of for one delicious moment. Was it Leopold's death? Her mother's? Being trapped on that runaway horse with no one to rescue her? Losing her precious prince to Regina? Whatever it was, Cora was sure Snow was in hell.

Shivering in delight, she turned back to face Regina, realizing that she had no idea what her daughter had just said. "What was that, dear?"

"I asked why you had to put her there," her daughter repeated mulishly.

"Well, we can't have Prince James rushing in there and getting himself killed now, can we?"

"You can't possibly still want me to marry him!" Regina glared, but Cora answered honestly.

"Of course I do, dear. Marrying James will give you two kingdoms, not just one." Reaching out gently to brush hair out of her daughter's face, Cora frowned when Regina jerked away. "I only want what's best for you."

"No, you don't," was the bitter answer. "You just want more power for you."

"No, I don't," she replied seriously. "You'll be queen when I am gone, Regina, and someday you will understand."

"I doubt it," Regina muttered, and Cora sighed, transferring her attention off of her ungrateful offspring and back to the mirror.

The sight she saw made her smile. Snow was screaming, thrashing within the coffin, with tears streaming down her pretty little cheeks. Even without her heart, Cora felt a warm feeling building within her chest. Look at your precious daughter now, Eva. She's going to die screaming, and my daughter will be queen.

The article hadn't turned out quite like he intended, but after a conversation with the mayor, Francis had to admit that it was better than he'd expected. Cora gave him a bit of even more useful information than he'd gained while spying on David Nolan, too. At first, he hadn't quite believed what she had handed him. After all, Francis wasn't a fool. The mayor had her own agenda, and he wouldn't put it past her too feed him falsehoods and then hang him out to dry. So far as he knew, Cora had no particular reason to dislike him—Francis had helped her often enough, even when doing so went against his better judgment—but Cora Mills was a wily woman with as much compassion as a dead cat. Takes one to know one, I suppose, he thought with a wry smile. I'm not particularly known for my compassion, either.

"Liz!" he bellowed, and waited a few seconds for his assistant to scurry over. He didn't bother to look at her, never lifting his eyes from the old-fashioned hardcopy of his article he'd been studying. "Find me the most innocent looking picture of Mary Margaret Blanchard that you can."

"Yes, sir," the dark-haired woman replied, scurrying off.

Francis ignored her; he always did. Instead, he swept his eyes over the second paragraph.

It's easy to think fondly of Mary Margaret Blanchard, the article read. She's quiet, she's kind, and every student loves her. But what kind of monster lurks beneath the perfect façade? Can anyone be as perfect as our mild-mannered elementary school teacher pretends to be? Of course, everyone has their flaws, but when one holds a position of such public trust as is required to teach our children, those flaws must be examined.

It's not Ms. Blanchard's affair with David Nolan that should worry us, though. Sordid though her relationship with a happily married man—and father!—is, surely both parties are to blame there. One can easily imagine Blanchard seducing Nolan away from his lovely wife, all innocence and sweet looks, but that is not the thing that should worry parents at Storybrooke Elementary. Surely Regina Nolan will face that terrible pain bravely. No, there is something much darker and much more monstrous in Mary Margaret Blanchard's past.

The article was short and to the point, full of pictures of the couple at Lover's Point and also of them talking outside of Granny's. Liz had also managed to dig up a family portrait of the Nolans, the domestic happiness in which serving a great counterpoint to the passionate kiss between David and Mary Margaret that Francis had captured on film. And then there was a picture of the dignified-looking Leonard Blanchard, who everyone knew had bankrupted his own publishing company and then died under a cloud of shame. Right after that specific picture, the article continued:

We all know that Leonard Blanchard died in an accident not long after the catastrophic failure of Fairest of all Fiction. Few mourned him, particularly his creditors, but what no one thought to mention at the time was that it may have been no accident. Then-Sheriff Graham Humbert—a longtime friend of Mary Margaret's—preformed a cursory investigation, but nothing came of it. Records indicating that Mary Margaret was actually present for her father's fall off the clock tower were brushed aside, barely mentioned, and all but purposefully buried. Of course, the former sheriff is now facing plenty of his own problems, but that doesn't erase what happened.

So, what did happen? Might Mary Margaret have decided to rid herself of her drunken gambler of a father before he could rack up any more debts? Might she have tried to stop him from committing suicide…or might she have helped?

There's no way to know, but there are plenty of questions to ask, aren't there? Do we want someone like that teaching our children? She might have killed her own father. Will she teach them to do that? She is tearing a marriage apart. Will she tell them that family values are unimportant? The man she seduced is the father of one of her own students. What kind of message does that send to her class?

Questions like this make me glad I have no children, because personally, I'd be terrified to send them into fourth grade.

Finally, he scrawled a title across the top of the page: "SCHOOLTEACHER WITH SORDID SECRETS." Liz would make his changes, and they'd get the article ready to go for tomorrow's edition. He'd have to remember to tell the printer to put out extra copies. This article was going to light someone on fire, and if he was lucky, the blaze would engulf all of Storybrooke.

Emma hadn't expected to come downstairs and find her roommate crying. The morning had started like any other, although Emma had hit the snooze button twice more than usual, which meant she trundled down from her room late enough that Mary Margaret had already fetched that day's edition of the Daily Mirror. She was staring brokenly at the front page, pale as a ghost and with tears streaming down her face.

"Mary Margaret?" Emma asked worriedly, forgoing her normal morning coffee and sitting next to her roommate at the table. "What's wrong?"

"This," Mary Margaret whispered, gesturing at the front page of the paper as she bit back a sob. Plastered on it, right at the top where everyone looked first, was a rather nice picture of the schoolteacher. She was smiling in the picture but not now, and once Emma saw the headline, she understood why.

"Let me see that," she said around the sudden lump in throat. Mary Margaret handed the Daily Mirror over, and Emma scanned the article quickly. "What the hell is wrong with Francis Scadlock?"

"I don't know," was the barely audible answer, and Emma wrapped an arm around her, squeezing gently.

"We'll fix this," she reassured Mary Margaret. "No one is going to believe this trash about you, anyway."

Inside, however, Emma was steaming. Reading the article a second time only made her angrier; it was an utter piece of trash, without a shred of proof for the truly damning charge. Yeah, there were pictures of Mary Margaret and David, and that meant there was nothing anyone could do to shield Mary Margaret from that affair. But by coupling the affair—and its questionable morality—with the possibility that Mary Margaret had had a hand in her father's death, Scadlock had done far worse than call her the 'other' woman. He'd insinuated that she was a murderer, a monster, a daughter who killed her own father. Parents were going to freak out. What a rat bastard, Emma thought acidly, making a mental note to have a chat with Francis Scadlock.

And Graham. She needed to ask Graham what in the world had happened. This was the second very questionable thing she'd discovered his involvement in, and between this and arresting people who later wound up in the asylum, Emma was beginning to worry. She wanted to trust Graham, and she liked him a lot, but what the hell was going on?

Mary Margaret's only response was a miserable gulp and a watery nod; what little makeup she was wearing was already running, and Emma hugged her again. "I don't know what to do…"

"I'll talk to Scadlock," Emma promised, resisting the urge to promise to beat him senseless. But she was the sheriff. She couldn't do that kind of thing now.

"It won't help," Mary Margaret moaned.

"Don't say that," she said firmly. "We have to fight this, okay? And we have to start that by you telling me what happened."

"You know about David already. We met the other night, just to talk. We both talked to Regina, and she said that she's all right with this! Why is Scadlock making her out to be the victim?"

"Because it sells papers." Emma shrugged cynically, and then continued. "The affair isn't the problem, Mary Margaret. The thing that's going to give you real problems is the insinuation that you had something to do with your father's death." She took a deep breath. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Huge, tear filled eyes focused on her, and Emma knew that one wrong word on her part would break Mary Margaret's heart. I won't do that, she promised herself. Mary Margaret was the first real friend she'd ever had, and Emma would stand by her no matter what.

"I don't think you did anything," she said gently. "But I need to know, and not just because I'm your friend. I'm also the sheriff, and you know that Cora's going to make me investigate this. She hates you."

"I've never understood why," her roommate said softly, dropping her head to stare at the tabletop again.

Things like this make me want to believe in Henry's curse. At least that would explain Cora's irrational hatred for Mary Margaret.

"Why doesn't really matter," Emma pointed out. "But what happened to your father does."

"I don't really remember. It's all so foggy. I thought…well, I didn't really remember him falling off the clock tower until I read it here," Mary Margaret admitted. "I just remember losing him so suddenly, and then my husband died... I drank a lot after that, and I don't think my memories are very reliable."

Emma blinked. Regina said she thinks the curse is weakening… "You didn't remember that happening before now?"

Shaking her head miserably, Mary Margaret replied: "I remember it now, though. I must have forgotten." She shrugged. "I probably drank too much after I lost my daughter."

"Lost your what?"

"I had a miscarriage. It was a long time ago." Mary Margaret still looked unbelievably sad, though, and Emma felt her own chest growing tight. They'd rarely talked about their pasts, except for failed relationships and men, and Mary Margaret had never once mentioned losing a child.

If Henry and Regina are right… That child was me, Emma though, barely able to catch her breath. How could that book include details like that? The only logical explanation was that none of this was real, but it all made too much sense. Common sense, however, still told Emma that this curse was all a giant hoax or practical joke, even if Regina and Henry didn't realize that. It couldn't be real. Could it?

But Mary Margaret hadn't remembered those events until she saw them in the paper, either, and although Emma was no expert on memory loss and alcoholism, she knew there was something off about that.

"Maybe you should talk to Doctor Hopper," she suggested. "He can help you figure out what you remember, and maybe help you deal with it, too?"

"Oh, I couldn't bother him. I'm fine. I really am." She didn't look fine, though, and Emma wondered how many times Mary Margaret had told herself that.

"You might have been before, but you aren't now," Emma said bluntly. "Besides, Archie's the nicest guy in town. If anyone can help you, he can. And in the meantime, I'll try to get to the bottom of what happened."

"Thank you, Emma," Mary Margaret whispered, and Emma found herself being hugged back.

Life had been so much simpler when she was a loner who just hunted criminals down, with no attachments and no family. Despite that, and despite being stuck in a crazy town where two of the three people she was closest to insisted there was a horrible curse cast by an evil queen, Emma found she was rather happy in Storybrooke. It was insane, but it was…nice. It was nice to care about someone—more than one someone—and to have them care about her. Careful, Swan, she cautioned herself. All good things come to an end, and this one will end, too. Don't get too attached.

Still, she could investigate this mess in the meantime, starting with talking to Francis Scadlock.

3 Years Before the Curse

"I can't believe this," George snarled, slamming the newly-delivered missive down on the polished round table.

"What is it, Father?" David asked. He'd just walked in, having been summoned after the messenger arrived, and the king's outburst made him stop cold. David had never seen his adopted father so angry, not even when Snow had run away. But George was livid, now, red in the face and glaring at the black-clad messenger.

David recognized that armor immediately; this man was a guard serving the Evil Queen. He looked unhappy, though, and David squinted at his bearded face, trying not to jerk back in recognition. He was the Huntsman, the captain of Queen Cora's royal guard…and the same man who had allowed David and Snow to escape more than once. Snow called him a friend, albeit one who was stuck serving Cora, and David's heart leapt slightly.

"This message," George replied, shooting another glare at the Huntsman.

"Is there news of Snow?" he asked, half nervous and half hopeful. Snow had warned him before she left this time, at least, and David had told George to keep the king from getting worked up. George would probably have stopped Snow from going if he could, but David had been smart enough to break the news after Snow was already off to answer Regina's urgent summons. David knew how close the sisters were, and he hated the fact that Cora forced Snow to be on the opposite side of this war from Regina. He'd treasured a few hopes that Regina wanted to meet because she was finally able to join them, but Snow's disappearance indicated otherwise.

"Yes. Here." George tossed the letter to him, and David picked it up, quickly scanning the lines.

King George—

Your son's engagement with my stepdaughter is at an end. Snow White—traitor and murderess that she is—has been apprehended and dealt with. She will no longer trouble your kingdom. I expect news of her death shortly.

When you are prepared to make peace, I will be magnanimous, despite your attempt to conquer over my kingdom. I understand your desire to marry your son to an heiress, and such an arrangement could easily be reached, provided that you are prepared to be reasonable.

"You don't want do this," David whispered, turning to look at his adopted father. He knew that George would never care for him the way he had James, but David thought the two of them had come to an understanding over the last two and a half years. George knew that David loved Snow, and the letter had indicated that she wasn't dead. Surely his ambition would not override his hatred of Cora. "Please tell me you don't want me to—"

"To marry that viper's daughter? Not unless it's the last option available," George cut him off, and David felt an enormous weight lift off of his shoulders. The king's next words, however, made his heart sing: "Find Snow. Take as much of the army as you need, but bring her back. Do whatever it takes."

"I will," David promised. He'd started searching for Snow already, but having George's backing would make things much easier. She was out there somewhere, probably in Cora's keeping, but David would let nothing stand between him and finding his True Love.

I'm coming, Snow, he promised silently. I will always find you.

Rumplestiltskin was no hero, and yet he still spent several days puzzling over how to save his wife from her current predicament. Moe French had tried calling the house five times since his conversation with 'Lacey' in the park, and Rumplestiltskin answered the phone this last time to keep Belle from having to deal with her idiot father. He was one of the few people in Storybrooke who had Caller ID, and by now they both recognized the phone numbers to both Moe's apartment and his flower shop. So, he picked up the phone before Belle could even get into the kitchen from where she'd been playing with Renee in the living room.

"I've a mind to file a restraining order against you, Mr. French," Rumplestiltskin growled by way of greeting, not even bothering to say hello first.

"I want to speak to my daughter, Gold," Moe replied, but Rumple could hear the slight quaver in his voice. Good.

"And she doesn't want to talk to you," he replied shortly, remembering how Belle had cried after that last call, whispering that she just wanted her father to understand. Moe had called her a lot of things when she tried to tell him she was happy with Gold, and none of them were words a daughter should ever hear from her father. Rumplestiltskin was still angry over that, and he wasn't about to hold Belle while she cried because of this man. Not today.

"Let her tell me that herself," the florist snapped. "Unless you've locked her away somewhere."

Not this time, Rumplestiltskin thought, his inner imp cackling as the outer man snorted. "I'm not the one trying to make her choices for her, dearie."

"I'm trying to protect her from you!"

"Did it ever occur to you that that isn't necessary at all?" Rumplestiltskin countered before he could stop himself. But then movement to his right caught his eye, and he turned to see Belle standing in the doorway, looking torn and worn out.

"I'll talk to him," she said softly, stepping forward and placing a soft hand on his arm. "Thank you for trying."

She'll blame you, a voice inside him whispered, and whether it was his curse being obnoxious or his own persistent self-doubts, Rumplestiltskin didn't know. The trust issues in the early part of their marriage were mostly in the past—although the fight they'd had when Belle found the gauntlet he'd once traded for her had been explosive—but part of him always worried that he would put one foot wrong and Belle would leave him forever. She will, his curse taunted him. They always do!

"Sweetheart…" Rumplestiltskin hadn't meant to hide this from her, just to spare Belle another painful phone call, but she just shook her head, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. Her hand on his arm squeezed, and warmth stole through him when he realized she wasn't angry.

Meanwhile, Moe was shouting into the phone: "If you've hurt my Lacey, I swear I'll—"

"You'll what, Dad?" Belle cut in, having taken the phone in time to hear that. "I'd like to know."

Rumplestiltskin could hear Moe stumbling through some sort of explanation, but he stepped away to give his wife some space. Still, her voice carried even as he limped into the living room, and Rumplestiltskin could hear the heartbreak mixing in with her anger.

"No, you listen to me, Dad. I am where I want to be, and if you can't accept that, stop calling. I'm not coming home, and I'm not marrying Tony. I'm happy. End of story!"

Belle paused even as Renee toddled over to Rumplestiltskin and threw her arms out to him. Smiling, he picked her up, wrapping his little girl in his arms so that she didn't have to listen to her mother's angry words.

"Mamma angry?" their daughter asked, looking concerned.

"Mamma's putting someone in their place," Rumplestiltskin replied honestly, hobbling to the couch to sit down with Renee in his lap. "She'll be back in a minute."

"Okay." Renee reached up to tug gently on his hair. "Braid?"

Snorting out a laugh, Rumplestiltskin carefully pried his hair out of her fingers. "You can braid Mamma's hair, sweetheart. Mine's too short." Or at least he hoped it was.

"Poo," was her cheerfully annoyed response, and he had to try really hard not to laugh again.

"Not that word again," Belle sighed, walking into the room before he could chide their child. There were lines in her face but no tears this time, and Rumplestiltskin held his hand out to her invitingly. Belle took it, sinking down onto the couch next to him. Her hand trembled slightly, and he squeezed her fingers reassuringly. Belle gave him a wan smile and slumped into him, nestling her head into his shoulder and pressing the length of her body against his. Renee immediately shifted over to be in both their laps, reaching for Belle's long ponytail with chubby fingers and starting to braid it.

"Sorry for the bad word," Renee said after a moment, giving both her parents a bright smile before returning her attention to Belle's hair.

"Did he listen?" Rumplestiltskin asked quietly as Belle turned big blue eyes on him.

"I doubt it," she admitted quietly.

Slipping his fingers free of hers, Rumplestiltskin shifted to wrap an arm around his wife. Suggesting getting a restraining order against Moe French was on the tip of his tongue when a better notion occurred to him. "Sweetheart, I have an idea."

"Should I be worried?" Belle quipped, and Rumplestiltskin was glad to see a smile peeking out from behind her exhausted anger.

"I hope not," he replied, leaning in to kiss her on the side of her forehead. Rumplestiltskin wouldn't mention the things he wanted to do to her father—Belle didn't need to hear that, and beating Moe French senseless wouldn't do any good once the curse broke and Moe became Sir Maurice once again. Then, Belle would want to reconcile with her father, and she would have no chance of doing so if her husband screwed things up now.

"What are you thinking?" she asked with a sigh, though he could tell that her exasperation was not with him. "I think I'm ready to try almost anything at this point."

"You know how I love hearing that," Rumplestiltskin teased her, and now it was Belle's turn to snort.

"I said almost anything, you horrible beast," she laughed, and Rumplestiltskin let himself smile as he finally managed to cheer her up. Once, had Belle called him a beast, Rumplestiltskin would have flinched away, wounded beyond measure. But they had been married for a long time now, and he knew she was teasing him, just as he was teasing her.

"Well, then, in that case, will you marry the beast?" Rumplestiltskin countered with a grin.

Belle sat up to look at him, frowning as she gave him The Glare. "I already did, in case you've forgotten our trip to Amorveria."

"No, I mean here," he clarified. "If Lacey and Gold are married…it might make things easier. If not now, later."

"You mean after the curse—owh!" Belle cut off as Renee accidentally tugged on her hair, glancing down at their daughter, who had created a mess instead of a braid. "Careful, sweetie."

Brown eyes turned guilty. "Sorry, Mamma."

"It's all right," Belle reassured Renee, kissing the top of her head. She and Rumplestiltskin exchanged a glance over their daughter's head, and he could see agreement in Belle's eyes. "But will you answer a question for me, Renee?"

"Uh huh." Now her smile was sunny.

"How would you feel if Mr. Gold and I married? If he was actually your papa?" Belle asked, and Rumplestiltskin felt his hand tighten on his wife's shoulder. Her hand shifted to his thigh in return, squeezing gently as their daughter looked between them with a suddenly glowing smile.

"You be my real papa?"

"I would," he whispered around the painful clenching of his heart. I am.

Suddenly, the pressure on his chest was because his arms were full of his daughter, and Rumplestiltskin swallowed back the sudden rush of emotion as Renee whispered: "You are my papa."

Rumplestiltskin didn't know if that was Gabrielle bleeding through, or just a sign of Renee desperately wanting a happy family, but at the moment, he couldn't care. He loved her so much, loved both of them more than life itself. Perhaps marrying Belle in Storybrooke did not fit with Gold's usual desire to manipulate and hide, but he could protect them both this way. Even if this might expose him to ridicule (which he hated), it would be worth the price. And when Belle met his eyes, Rumplestiltskin knew that his initial instinct to lash out had been wrong. This was the right way to do things. He could always make Maurice pay after the curse broke if the fool persisted in being cruel to his Belle.

And I will, Rumplestiltskin promised himself. Reject her again at your peril, you cold hearted bastard.

"Captain, there's a visitor here for you," his assistant told him through the intercom, and Killian perked up. If he was lucky, Emma Swan would have taken him up on the offer to join him for a boat ride, and then his afternoon would definitely be looking up.

"Who is it?" he asked, running a quick hand through his hair.

"Sidney Glass."

Sitting up straight, Killian blinked at the intercom, willing the name that had just emerged from its speaker to be different. Unfortunately, lightning did not strike, a miracle did not occur, and a reporter was here to see him. And not Cora's pet reporter, either. This one is disturbingly independent, he reminded himself, remembering the article Glass had written. Of course, it had made Emma Swan sheriff, something Killian rather liked from a personal perspective. It was also something he enjoyed because he despised Keith Law; the bastard, whoever he'd been back home, was a constant abuser of women and an all-around lowlife. Men like Law gave pirates and other such rascals a bad name, and if Killian hadn't thought it would annoy Cora too much, he would have taught Law a lesson a long time ago. But doing so just wasn't worth the resulting mayoral temper tantrum.

"Send him in," he grumbled, scowling at the speaker. But he scraped up an insincere smile as Glass walked in. After all, it was possible that the reporter wanted to do an interest piece on Storybrooke's handsomest bachelor. Or maybe he wanted to give the Magical Marina good press of some sort. Killian would take that.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. O'Malley," the reporter started, and Killian resisted the urge to scowl.

"It's always a pleasure, Mr. Glass," he replied, rising courteously. He was one of the few people in this town who remembered old world manners, and Killian was not about to abandon them now. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Thanks," Glass nodded.

Killian returned the nod amicably, and was careful not to sit until his visitor had done the same. He'd learned quite a bit about playing status games as an officer in the King's Navy, and even pirates played it in their own way. He knew how to make his visitor feel appreciated and special, and Killian wasn't above stroking a reporter's ego to get what he wanted. I just wish I knew who he'd been back home. I don't recognize him, but given how long I was gone, that only says he wasn't in Cora's service. After his guest was comfortable, Killian asked: "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"I want something." Now Glass looked nervous, with the practiced reporter's façade slipping. "And I think you can get it for me."

Taken aback, Killian blinked. "Is that so, mate?"

"Yes. I know you're in the mayor's pocket. I know you're conspiring with her," Glass said quickly. "I have proof."

"Oh, do you now?" he drawled, abandoning the image of the amicable marina owner and returning to the dangerous pirate captain he'd been. Glass flinched, and although Killian found that gratifying, he was also getting angry. The reporter, however, continued despite obvious unease:

"Plenty of it."

"And what do you want in exchanged for this so-called 'proof'?" Killian pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

Glass flinched again. "I want my debts cleared. I didn't incur them. They appeared overnight, documented like they'd existed for years, but they're not mine. And the only one with the power to make that happen is the mayor," he said in a rush, and Killian was starting to enjoy his nervous tick a little bit. "I want them gone. She can make that happen, and you can get her to."

"And why in the world would I help you, mate? Why not just go straight to the mayor?" he asked curiously.

"Because I'm not crazy!"

Killian laughed. "Neither am I, mate. I don't demand things of Cora Mills unless I'm in a superior negotiating position. So, I'm afraid you're sailing against the wind, unless you can somehow motivate me to take your side."

"I left most of my evidence in a safe location," Glass said, but there was suddenly a bit of steel in his expression that Killian had not expected. "But I do have this."

Pulling a small recorder out of his pocket, Glass thumbed the play button and put it on the desk. The tape inside it scratched and fuzzed for a moment, but then voices emerged, clear as day. And they were voices that Killian recognized.

"How is your pursuit of Miss Swan going, Captain?" Cora's voice asked.

"Progressing slowly. She's stubborn, and it's hard to earn her trust," he heard himself say easily. Killian even remembered that conversation.

"Have you learned anything useful? I grow tired of you playing your romantic games. Seduce her, and find out why she's in Storybrooke."

"I'm close." Killian remembered making that promise. "It would help if that sheriff was out of the way for good."

"Graham has his uses," Cora replied, and Glass hit the stop button, looking at Killian expectantly.

The pirate forced himself to laugh. "That's hardly something that will damn me in a court of law."

"No, but I can imagine Miss Swan won't like to know that you're seducing her because the mayor told you to," the reporter countered, and then held his hands up. "Don't bother threatening me. I have copies of this in safe places, with people who will see that it makes it into the sheriff's hands.

Killian didn't even bother trying quiet his snarl down. Glass had more courage than he'd given him credit for, and that was annoying. Still, as much as Killian didn't want Emma to hear about the reason he'd started romancing her—which was, he had to admit, no longer his primary motive given his attraction to the feisty lass—that little blurb would do nothing to convince Cora. "Having a hold on me doesn't do anything to convince the mayor, Mr. Glass," he said testily. "That recording isn't going to make Cora do a damn thing."

Except hang him out to dry. Killian knew she could do that, and would, if he became a liability. Really, it was a pity that Cora couldn't rip hearts out in this world. Glass' loyalties really could benefit from an empty chest cavity, Killian thought angrily. Unfortunately, the reporter was far from done.

"This will," he said, and cued the recorder again. Soon enough, the same two voices emerged, starting with Cora's bland statement of:

"No. I have other plans for him, plans that do not include you murdering him. Yet."

Killian could hear his own past annoyance roaring through on the recording. "You've been saying that for years. I want the crocodile dead."

"Patience, Captain. I'll make him suffer in the meantime, if that helps keep your desire to avenge your lost love at bay," Cora purred, and even now, Killian wanted to throttle the Evil Queen. He'd always known that allying with her would make striking out at the Dark One difficult, but she'd grown even less helpful on that topic now that time was moving. "I will arrange his death in time, and I will make sure you are present for it. I'll even let you lend a hand."

"I'm a patient man, Cora, but even I have my limits. I've waited too long."

"As have I. We'll both have our vengeance, but it is a dish best served cold, is it not?" Cora laughed. "I'll give you what you want, but on my timeline. Not yours."

Again, Glass stopped the recording, and looked expectantly at Killian. The pirate held onto his temper with an effort, keeping himself silent for a long moment. Yes, that recording could be a problem. It would certainly get Cora's attention, although he doubted the queen would react quite like Glass wanted her to. The reporter was playing with fire, whether he realized it or not. Cora was not some small-town mayor with delusions of power. She was an evil and dangerous witch and knew how to manipulate people.

"Well, I daresay that the mayor will notice that little recording," he said as mildly as he could manage.

"Even she can't get away with planning a murder," Glass said passionately, obviously a little pleased with himself for having caught that on tape. "Even if she got off scot-free, she'd never be elected again."

As if this town has ever had elections. Cora would burn the town down before she let them vote her out of power, Killian almost snorted out loud. "I'll talk to her," he promised instead. "And don't come here again. I'll contact you."

Cora, he was certain, was not going to take this nearly as well as Glass hoped, and he almost felt sorry for the fool. Almost. Or perhaps he would have if Glass hadn't been smart enough to keep copies of his tapes in safe places. Now, Killian would have to find those to make sure they didn't get into Emma's hands, because he was not going to let some crusading reporter ruin his relationship with the sheriff. No matter what he had to do.

A/N: Don't be too hard on Will/Scadlock! He's under the curse, and Cora has his heart—two things that make it very difficult for him to do anything but what she wants. But speaking of choices, what do you think that Hook is going to do about Sidney blackmailing him? And what do you think Moe French is going to do after Cora's 'encouragement'?

Next up is Chapter Thirty-Four: "Worth Dying For," in which 'Gold' and 'Lacey' go on a date, Cora uses Graham's heart to hurt Emma, Mary Margaret finds out she has another debt she didn't know about, and Hook tells Cora about Sidney's little blackmail.

Back in the past, Belle and Rumplestiltskin face the perils of parenting, King George proves surprisingly helpful, and Rumplestiltskin sends Charming after Snow.