Warning: Heavy mentions of unpleasant things like sex slavery and rape happening offscreen.

Chapter Forty-Two—"Ever Just the Same"

4 Years, 5 months Before the Curse

"No!" a voice cried, and then something cracked. One of the wolves yelped in pain. Then another thwack came, followed by a second yelp, and suddenly the weight on Rumplestiltskin's chest vanished.

Not sure what had happened, but knowing that staying on the ground would mean death—or at least as close to that as he could get—Rumplestiltskin rolled to his feet, fiery pain shooting through his right shoulder and arm. It was all but useless until he managed to send a shock of magic down to his fingers. His curse was more powerful—and far more deeply rooted in his system—than any mere loup-garou bite could ever be, and feeling crashed back into his right side as he swayed to his feet. Next to him, Belle stood with a sturdy branch in her hand, clearly having walloped the wolves to force them off of him. Rumplestiltskin stared at her for a long moment, blinking dizzily and trying to force himself to understand what had plainly happened. She had saved him, or at least kept him from being more seriously harmed, and—

Magic leapt out of his fingers, white light sizzling outwards at the three wolves who had decided to target Belle. She swung to face them, branch held defiantly in firm hands as her brown hair swirled around her, but Rumplestiltskin's magic slammed into the creatures before they could reach her, bathing them in light magic so strong that it left him dizzy and his curse howling in fury. That made the pack back off for a moment, circling and snarling, sniffing at the air and obviously trying to figure out how to make it past that shield. A slow smile spread on Rumplestiltskin's face while he watched them; it was nasty and dark, and entirely at odds with the purely protective magic he had just summoned. But the loup-garou had finally made a mistake; they had given him time and space to think, and he would take advantage of that.

"Are you all right?" Belle asked breathlessly, and Rumplestiltskin could see her eyes on his torn open right arm and shoulder. His coat hid the worst of it, but he could feel the wounds gaping open, could feel his curse fighting to close them to no avail.

"I'll be fine," he reassured her, his voice short and sharp with pain. He'd have to brew the antidote later; he was fairly certain that even a hundred bites couldn't turn him into a werewolf, but the wounds wouldn't close until he'd administered it, unless he was prepared to let nature take its course. Which he wasn't.

Unfortunately, that antidote took at least a week to complete, and at the moment, his right arm still felt like barely functional lead.

"Are you sure?" she asked worriedly, even as one of the wolves lunged forward a step, snapping and snarling. It was a feint, but the others were beginning to re-gather their courage as well. They'd not wait long.

"I'm fine," Rumplestiltskin growled, reaching through his magic and to the vault underneath the Dark Castle, summoning the one weapon he never let anyone see. But he needed a magical weapon now, and he wasn't quite certain if Excalibur—sitting on display in his great hall—would be magical enough. Or if it would even function in the hands of someone like him.

The dagger was his only choice. It glinted eerily in the late afternoon sun, his name glistening off of the polished metal as the familiar weight landed in his right hand. Rumplestiltskin. Even holding it made him feel both more powerful and utterly trapped; the darkness was so much more complete when the dagger was nearby, particularly when he touched it. Usually, he left the dagger to gather dust in his vault, but he needed it now. He needed it to save Belle.

Teleporting away never occurred to him; he knew that he could do so, but the wolves had Belle's scent now, if not his, and they'd hunt her for eternity if that was what it took to catch her. He had to kill them now or later, and Rumplestiltskin was not one to put off something like this. No, he had to kill them, and quickly, before the blood gushing out of his shoulder managed to incapacitate him. He wasn't sure if blood loss could affect him, but Rumplestiltskin refused to find out when his (overly brave and still watching him worriedly) maid was in danger. He'd brought her here, and it was his own arrogant fault that she was in danger. He wasn't capable of doing a lot of things right, and usually had a habit of making the wrong choices, but at least he could do this. He could protect her.

"What's tha—" Belle started to ask, but Rumplestiltskin lunged forward before she could finish the word.

Two of the wolves rushed forward to meet his movement as he swirled dark magic around himself, using it both as a shield and as a lure to draw the loup-garou in. Like all dark creatures, they craved power, and they lunged towards him like moths to a flame. Twisting right, he stabbed the first one in between his first and second ribs, low on its left side. Rumplestiltskin dug the dagger in up to its hilt and then twisted. The wolf yowled in pain, a pitiful scream of animal agony that made the Dark One's curse sing triumphantly in his mind. Even as it celebrated, however, Rumplestiltskin poured magic and power into his muscles, reaching out with his left hand to catch the second wolf by the neck. He squeezed, and it choked horribly for a moment before its neck snapped.

Discarding that wolf and tearing his dagger out of the first one, Rumplestiltskin wheeled to face the other two, grinning darkly. A high pitched giggle tore out of him before he'd even meant to let it; his curse was raging gleefully. "Ready to run away, dearies?"

Had the wolves been anything other than loup-garou, they probably would have demonstrated that sort of common sense. Unfortunately, they were werewolves, and two members of their pack had just been slain by a demon. Kill them, his curse whispered seductively. Make them suffer for hurting you. So, all three attacked him together, or nearly so; had Rumplestiltskin not teleported away from the spot he'd been standing in, they might have hit simultaneously. But he flashed away without so much as a cloud of smoke to mark his passage, appearing between the rightmost two wolves, slashing left, right, and then down with the dagger. Its razor sharp edge bit into one wolf, slicing its throat, and then stabbed straight into the heart of the second. On his own, Rumplestiltskin might never have known where to aim, but his curse guided his hand expertly.

The last wolf, the pack leader, landed and spun to face him, shock written all over its lupine features. But its eyes burned with fury, too…or her eyes, Rumplestiltskin realized, watching bloodlust consume the lone remaining loup-garou. She was no more in control of her actions than he had been in the early days of his curse, eager to rend and destroy. She wanted this, wanted to taste blood and victory, and for a moment he felt an odd kinship with her—right up until she wheeled to face Belle, gathering her haunches under her to leap for the maid. Belle still held her sturdy branch—where had she gotten it?—but that was no defense against the largest of the loup-garou, His curse didn't care about her, hated her even, but Rumplestiltskin did, and he could not imagine a world in which Belle was not there.

So he teleported again even as the wolf launched herself, appearing right in front of Belle. Rumplestiltskin ignored her yelp of surprise, ignored the way he felt wind whipping by him when Belle barely managed to abort her swing of the branch. He just stepped forward and stabbed, hitting the wolf in the belly while she was fully extended in the air. Her bulk hit him hard, and they both went down as her teeth gnashed in his face. But Rumplestiltskin was far stronger than any mere human, and his curse was fueling his body with unprecedented levels of power. Sawing the blade back and forth, he dug it upwards until he found vital organs and twisted, making the loup-garou howl. Her breath was foul and full of his blood, but Rumplestiltskin didn't care. She must have bitten him at some point, but she died with a final rattle before he could figure out where, going heavy and limp on top of him.

Bathe in their blood, bathe in their sweet blood, the curse sang within his mind, but a desperately worried voice broke through the vengeful exaltations.

"Rumplestiltskin? Rumplestiltskin!" Suddenly, Belle was next to him, trying to push the heavy wolf off of his body, and Rumplestiltskin giggled at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. The wolf probably weighed twice as much as she did, and Belle's efforts were going precisely nowhere.

"I'm all right, dear," he replied, and if his voice was low and husky, it had to be from pain. Not from any pretense at being human.

"You…you saved me," his maid said softly as Rumplestiltskin waved a hand—the gesture came out more dizzily than he'd expected—and magic pushed the wolf's body aside, allowing him to sit up.

"Did I?" the Dark One asked as nonchalantly as he could, staggering to his feet.

Evil demons did not need their pretty little maids to catch their arms and help them balance. They did not.

Still, Belle had grabbed his uninjured left arm, and Rumplestiltskin was loathe to pull away. Having her there, having her look at him like he was something more than a monster was…nice. She's only grateful that you saved her, the curse whispered. Take advantage of that. Take her, take what you know you want! Shocked, Rumplestiltskin pushed the voice aside, swatting at it like an annoying insect buzzing in his mind. Yes, he was attracted to his pretty maid. He would have had to been dead not to notice her beauty, but noticing and acting were not the same thing. The monster inside his mind might insist that he simply take what he wanted, but there were some lines even Rumplestiltskin would not cross. Ever.

"Why did you do that?" she whispered, blue eyes staring at him.

"I—" he cut himself off before he could say something that he would truly regret, something about emotions and things that monsters did not feel. Rumplestiltskin giggled to cover up his uncertainty. "Good help is hard to find these days."

"Not that hard," Belle retorted, giving him what Rumplestiltskin privately thought of as The Look. It was her way of glaring at him in exasperation that told him she wasn't afraid of him, that she knew he was posturing even though he would never admit that she knew. Rumplestiltskin tried another high-pitched giggle, because they always covered up his actual thoughts and feelings better than anything else, but the sound became a cough, and pain rolled over him. He staggered, and had Belle not caught him, he would have fallen.

How embarrassing.

"Let's get you home," she said softly, her voice suddenly as gentle as the hands on his arm. How long had it been since someone had touched him so gently? Rumplestiltskin did not know, but suddenly he burned for more of it.

Even Cora had not touched him gently. Cora had been all fire and passion, and there was no room for softness in her ambition. Rumplestiltskin barely remembered a gentle touch, and suddenly found himself craving it so badly that it burned.

"Can you teleport us, or—" Belle started to ask, but her concerned look was replaced by hurt when he jerked away. Her hands fell to her sides, grasping briefly at empty air, and beautiful blue eyes filled with confusion.

He couldn't get attached. Couldn't want this. She was only grateful, and no matter what his curse wanted, he would not take advantage of that. I am not that kind of monster.

A snap of his fingers brought them back to the Dark Castle, landing Dark One and servant back in the great hall. He'd deal with the town sheriff later, find out if the fool had known that the 'menace' he had dealt with the Dark One to remove had been loup-garou. If he had, Rumplestiltskin would string him up by his own entrails, would indulge the curse whatever violence and misery it demanded, so long as it stopped demanding that he defile Belle. Even looking at her was growing dangerous, because he wanted what the curse wanted…only, Rumplestiltskin did not want it how the curse did. He wanted something he knew he could never have, a feeling he did not dare put a label to lest the wanting utterly destroy him.

The Basement.

Every lead dried up the moment Emma spoke those two words. Killian had been more help than anyone else, but even he hadn't given her the information she was looking for. Emma could read people well enough to know that pressing the marina owner would make him clam up faster than waiting for him to volunteer more information, so she'd quit while she was ahead. But no one else in the town seemed willing or able to answer any of her questions. Most people hadn't even heard of the Basement, but those that had seemed to quickly find somewhere else to be when the sheriff asked about it. Everyone seemed afraid to talk; even though Emma had expected some people to be willing to brag about their experiences there (in her experience exclusivity came with egos to match), no one was talking. Even Regina just shook her head and shrugged, saying that she knew nothing that could be helpful.

That left her with one choice, one place to go. There was one man whom everyone in Storybrooke seemed to fear, with the possible exception of Cora. And even the mayor seemed wary of Mr. Gold, if not outright intimidated by him. If there was anyone in town who knew something about a supposedly vile brothel hidden underneath Very Merry Escorts (what was it with this town and secret basement lockups?), it would be Gold. And frankly, Emma was out of options. Mary Margaret had warned her against going to Gold, because the man always demanded payment of one sort or another, and he obviously didn't need money. That meant he'd want something else, perhaps something costly, but Emma was willing to take that risk.

So, she walked into Gold's shop on the afternoon of January 18th, glad to find that the pawnshop was empty of everyone but the proprietor. Emma had only run into Lacey French inside the shop twice, but having the former librarian there would have only complicated things, particularly if her daughter was along. Emma still wasn't quite sure what was going on between those two, but Lacey seemed perfectly content with the arrangement, which, in Emma's opinion, went a long way. Gold might be a sly and devious bastard, but the sheriff didn't think that Lacey had moved in with him without knowing that. Hell, maybe I should have gone to her for help. She did manage to talk him into buying out Mary Margaret's loan to Merryweather, and that probably took some doing. Emma still was resolutely avoiding thinking about how Lacey must have managed that, however, so she cleared her throat and waited for the pawnbroker to notice her.

He took his time looking up from the medallion he was polishing, and when he finally did, the slender man wore a smirk that Emma burned to slap right off of his face. "Can I help you, Sheriff?"

"I need some information, and you're the only one in the town who might actually answer me," Emma told him bluntly, wishing that his expression would change even an iota.

The bastard didn't even twitch. "Oh?"

"What do you know about the Basement?" she asked, deciding to take the bull by the horns and just ask. Finally, however, her straightforward approach made Gold blink.

"The what?" he asked, but the slight twitch in his face betrayed the fact that he'd heard her just fine.

"The Basement. You know, that super-secret anything goes brothel that belongs to 'Madam' Merryweather," Emma clarified, leaning against the counter to look Gold in the eye. He barely blinked, obviously now back on balance, and merely quirked a curious eyebrow at her, waiting for Emma to continue. She did, saying: "I want to know what you know about it. Everyone else in this town is terrified to talk. They act like they're afraid that someone they love will get sucked into that hellhole if they speak up."

"And you came to me because I have nothing to lose," Gold replied, and was that amusement in his eyes, or something else?

"I came to you because I don't think there's anyone in this town that can bully you," she said honestly, and watched the pawnbroker snort. Definitely amusement, now.

He cocked his head curiously, not even looking worried about the consequences of spilling secrets that terrified everyone else so much. "And yet you also know that nothing is free, dear, so what are you offering in exchange for this information that you want so very much?"

"I hear you like deals," Emma replied, barely holding back a smirk of her own.

"I have been known to make one or two," he allowed, and damn the man was smooth. But this time Emma had come prepared.

"Well, since I don't have any belief to offer, and I'm not exactly keen on giving you another favor, I thought I'd trade some information."

"Such as?"

"Oh, no," Emma laughed. "You don't get it for free. You agree to tell me what you know about the Basement, and I'll tell you what I know. Otherwise, no deal."

"You're learning, Miss Swan." Was that admiration in his eyes, or just Gold being enigmatic? Either way, Emma wasn't in the mood to screw around, even if she was rather pleased with herself for beating him at his own game. Gold was obviously playing for time, trying to decide if her offer was worthwhile or not, But Emma needed this information, and if Gold wasn't about to pony up, she had better things to do with her afternoon.

"Do we have a deal?" she pressed.

Gold studied her for a moment, his brown eyes unreadable and his face absolutely still. But then he nodded, just once. "Indeed we do. You first."

Emma wasn't fool enough to doubt his word; everyone in Storybrooke knew that Gold meticulously—some would say obsessively—kept his promises. The fact that he never broke a deal was more dependable than some religions, and Emma had no doubt that he'd keep to the letter of this one. That was why she had been so careful in her phrasing. Had she been careless enough to say something along the lines of Gold telling her 'what he knew' and leaving out exactly what she wanted to know, Emma had no doubts that she'd wind up with a monologue about the virtues of different silver polishes or something. But she felt that she'd hemmed him in rather well, which meant she was safe divulging what she knew first.

Besides, she felt that a bit of a warning on this front was the least she could do for Lacey French, who seemed perfectly content with her situation.

"Moe French is trying to press charges against you on behalf of his daughter," she told Gold. "He visited the district attorney about it this morning."

"Oh is he?" Gold all but purred, sounding unsurprised and almost a little amused. "Strange how his daughter is an adult and perfectly capable of doing so on her own behalf, should any charges be warranted."

"He's claiming exigent circumstances," Emma added. "Says that you've either coerced or intimidated Lacey into silence, and that she's in too much danger to stand up to you."

Now Gold's snort was anything but amused. In fact, there seemed to be a hardness in his eyes that Emma had not expected. Was it anger over what he was sure to be blamed for doing, or anger over something else? "And what exactly is he accusing me of?"

"Sexual exploitation, mostly, with a side of debt bondage added on for kicks."

"Really?" Gold's sneer was truly impressive, and Emma found herself in rare agreement with the coldblooded man.

She shrugged. "The D.A. told him to pound sand, but the man's worried about his daughter. He's not going to quit."

"If Mr. French is so worried about his daughter, he shouldn't have kicked her out in the first place," Gold retorted with rather more heat than Emma speculate.

"Something touching a nerve?" she asked, thinking back to her earlier speculation regarding Renee's paternity. Could Gold possibly be the girl's father? Lacey seemed perfectly happy with him, after all, and…

"Of course not," he snapped. "Unless you count completely bogus charges possibly being laid against me. Then, yes, I'm afraid something strikes a bit of a nerve."

Emma wouldn't have bet money against there being more to his sudden flare of anger, but she wasn't there to investigate Gold's relationship with Lacey French. As she'd repeatedly told the still-angry florist, there was no evidence of any wrongdoing on Gold's part, and Lacey had not said a voiced of complaint. Until one or the other of those circumstances took place, Emma's hands were tied—and she was here in the shop for an entirely different purpose today.

"Well, that's your business," she said pointedly, and then crossed her arms. "And I've fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now it's your turn."

"Indeed it is." Just like that, Gold regained his composure, folding his hands on the countertop and studying Emma impassively. "I do have to warn you, Miss Swan, that you may not like what I have to tell you."

Now he was sounding like Killian, and Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I have a strong stomach."

"That I do not doubt." Mild amusement was back, although there was something in his eyes that actually made her heed his previous warning.

"Spit it out, Gold."

"Very well." A shrug. "The Basement is a supposedly 'exclusive' establishment where the patrons' more…eccentric habits are catered to without exception. By which, of course, I mean whatever unusual sexual predilections they may have are indulged by young women who probably have no choice in the matter, and no recourse if they dare to say 'no'. I do know that no one who goes to 'work' down there is permitted to leave; they are housed in a dormitory of some sort, and locked in at night. But I doubt you'll be able to prove that. I know it by heresy alone, and no—before you ask—I have never been there."

"Really? I find that hard to believe." But Emma's lie detector wasn't going off, which she found odd.

"You should not. My habits, such as they are, are—"

"Taken care of by Lacey French?" she interjected before she could stop herself, and then watched that blow slide home. Gold's nostrils flared, ever so slightly, and she saw fury rip through his eyes before he schooled his expression back to the same superior-but-bland look.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response, Sheriff," he replied stiffly. "Now, is there any more information you were seeking? I'm afraid that I have no proof to offer you, only assumptions."

"Okay, then, let's assume you know the answer to this," Emma said immediately, willing to ignore what might be going on in that huge pink mansion if she could get information. "What happens if they say no? Or try to leave?"

"Nothing pretty, I would think." Gold shrugged again, his composure implacable. "From what I have heard—and this is pure conjecture—the punishments for either are rather…dire."

"Are you serious?" Emma asked, easily able to read between the lines on that statement.

"I am not exactly known for my sense of humor." Was that disgust in his eyes? Emma hadn't thought Gold had any morals whatsoever, but perhaps the man did have some after all. That probably boded well for Lacey French, at least, but it also made a plan start to form in the back of Emma's mind. Although she knew she'd end up owing him a lot more than a favor (or 'belief', but who asked for that?) if she could convince Gold to do this, she plunged forward, anyway. "Can you get into that place?"

"Can I? Certainly. I have a standing invitation," Gold said smoothly, but continued before she could ask more. "But I have no intention of doing so, not even at your request."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I am not a fool." His eyes met hers, and they were cold once more. "I choose my battles carefully, and I suggest you do the same. You're not going to uncover anyone who will turn evidence against the Basement—or Madam Merryweather—unless you first bring about major changes in Storybrooke. As matters stand now, it is, frankly, impossible."

Was it just Emma, or was Gold sounding ever so slightly like Regina? She frowned at him. "What kind of changes are you talking about?"

He just shrugged. "I'm sure you can think of something."

And that was that, apparently. Gold gave her nothing else useful—although he'd at least confirmed what Killian had told her, and added some detail to it, besides. Still, Emma wound up leaving every bit as angry as she'd arrived, albeit for different reasons. Gold might not be able to prove what was going on there, but he clearly knew enough about it. Enough to turn my stomach, Emma thought to herself. And that takes some doing. Typically, Gold wasn't going to help her, but he hadn't said he'd move against her, either, which she figured counted for something. Besides, she wasn't angry at him. She was angry at this 'Madam Merryweather' (who had a name like that, anyway?) who was abusing young women and allowing others to do the same. And yet Emma's real rage was reserved for Cora Mills, who had wanted to send Mary Margaret to that place…and obviously knew exactly what kind of cancer was eating at her town.

Knowing Cora, she was rather pleased by that, too. Every day that passed taught Emma exactly what kind of cold-blooded and vicious woman Storybrooke's mayor was, and she was really starting to think that maybe Gold was right. Maybe some sort of major change was exactly what was needed. In fact—

"Emma! Wait up!" a voice intruded on her thoughts as she walked away from the pawnshop, her hands shoved deep in her pockets. Emma almost didn't hear him over the rising wind; it looked like another winter storm was coming, and wouldn't that just make everything wonderful?

"I'm busy, August," she told the author as he jogged up. Somehow, August had become something of a normal fixture in Storybrooke. He'd arrived a few weeks ago and just stayed. Even worse, he accosted Emma at least once a week about this curse, because somehow Henry had sold him on the theory, too. He didn't seem to like Regina, but he was singing the same song she was, which was just plain weird. At the moment, however, Emma just wanted to focus on reality.

"Maybe I can help," August replied, shivering in the wind. "I'm self-employed, after all, and—"

"How rich are you?" Emma cut him off, the same idea still swirling around in her mind. Killian was pretty well off with the marina, and he'd been invited down to the Basement. August was new in town, but…

"Well, that's kind of a forward question for the first date," he grinned.

"We're not dating," she retorted, annoyed and thinking of however many young women—including Victoria Scadlock, Emma suddenly remembered, thinking of Sidney's tip—didn't have a choice in what men they were with.

"It was a joke. Take it easy, okay?"

"Right." Emma shook herself. "Look, maybe you can help. If you've got the money to get noticed, anyway."

August gave her a contemplative look. "I do well enough to get by," he said with a shrug. "Pretty well, I guess. My travel books are popular."

"Perfect." This plan would be much better. Using Gold had been a spur of the moment idea, but August would be as offended by this as she was, and maybe it would even shut him up about Henry's curse. August seemed like a good man, and he was an outsider. He wouldn't be terrified by the things that people from Storybrooke always shied away from, and maybe Emma could use that to help some people.

4 Years, 5 months Before the Curse

He'd saved her.

Belle wasn't sure what to make of that. One moment, she'd been buying potions supplies, just like Rumplestiltskin had told her to, and the next moment she'd been cornered by two wolves. Belatedly, she'd realized that they weren't actual wolves; the creatures that Rumplestiltskin had come to that town to eradicate were werewolves, or loup-garou, horribly cursed humans who let the animals inside them rule. Why they'd come after her, Belle didn't know, but she'd been properly terrified before Rumplestiltskin showed up. And then he'd saved her. He hadn't just destroyed the wolves—Belle understood that he'd agreed to do just that in a deal with the sheriff—but he'd actually stepped between her and two of them when they tried to attack her. Frankly, Belle wasn't sure what to make of that.

She wasn't sure what to make of him. They'd slowly started talking more, and ever he'd 'missed' with that arrow that he'd shot at Robin Hood, Belle had thought she'd detected something different in him. Despite what Rumplestiltskin said, he wasn't as dark as he wanted her to believe; he'd chosen to show mercy then, and today he had actually stepped right between her and danger. He had told her so many times that he was a monster—and Belle knew that he believed that—but today she had seen differently. And this was not something she would ever forget.

"Thank you," she said quietly, trying to get a good look his shoulder and neck. Most of the wounds were hidden by the high-necked coat he wore, but Belle could see blood staining his golden silk shirt. A lot of blood. He must have healed himself by now, as she'd seen him do a dozen times before, but the silly man had forgotten to clean himself up.

Rumplestiltskin twisted to look at her, seeming surprised. And a little dizzy, though Belle could see him trying to hide that. "For what?"

"For saving my life," she told him, stepping forward tentatively. He'd jerked away the last time she'd tried to touch him, just a few minutes earlier, but Belle was ready to try again.

"I told you, dearie. Good help is hard to find." There was that word again. 'Dearie.' The one he used when he was trying to put distance between them, and hearing it made Belle frown. Still, if he was trying to sound nasty, he'd failed; Rumplestiltskin just sounded tired.

"Of course it is," she replied as noncommittally as she could, reaching out to take his coat off. "Let me help you with this."

"What—what are you doing?" he twisted again as she tried to tug the coat free, staring at her in confusion. His golden-flecked eyes were huge and bewildered, and Belle found herself wondering how long had passed since someone had actually tried to help him.

No wonder why you call yourself a monster, if everyone treats you like one, she didn't say, but she wanted to. Instead, she just gave him a smile that was much more confident than she felt. "Helping you."

Finally, she managed to pry the coat off of him. Rumplestiltskin hissed in pain and staggered, and suddenly Belle realized that he hadn't healed himself. The bite marks on his neck, right shoulder, and arm were still fresh and oozing, inflamed and an angry red where not covered in blood. He seemed to be trying to ignore the wounds, and even as Belle watched, Rumplestiltskin nodded gruffly to her and headed towards the spiral staircase that led towards the tower he liked to do magic in.

"Where are you going?" The words blurted out before she could stop them.

Rumplestiltskin threw her an odd look. "To my tower. Go…clean something. Or read. Or something."

He waved a hand airily at her, or tried to. Obviously without thinking, he'd used his right hand to do so, and the gesture ended in a soft yelp of pain and a grimace. But being Rumplestiltskin, he just turned and marched towards the stairs, keeping his right arm close to his side and walking a little unsteadily. Belle hesitated for a moment, and then jogged to catch up to him, leaving the dragonhide coat lying on the floor to the great hall. She'd pick it up later; for now, there were more important things to deal with. After all, he'd told her to do something, and Belle chose to help him. She wasn't even disobeying his orders…not that doing so would have bothered her overmuch.

"What are you doing?" he asked when they were halfway up the stairs, pausing to glare at her.

"Following you," she replied as cheerfully as she could, her eyes on his shoulder. It was still oozing blood and something else; although Belle was a little relieved to notice that Rumplestiltskin's blood was as red as anyone else's. She hadn't ever really seen him bleed before. The few times she'd seen him hurt, he'd always healed the wounds before she could really get a good look at him. Now, however, she got quite an eyeful, and Belle might have felt sick to her stomach if she hadn't been so determined to help.

"Why?" the Dark One demanded, but it sounded almost like a confused whine.

"Because someone has to help you," she shot back, and he snorted, resuming his climb.

"I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself, dearie."

"That's why you're bleeding on the stairs, of course," Belle snapped. It was only a small spot of blood, but some had splashed down his sleeve and landed on the steps. She'd have to scrub that off later, and Belle wasn't particularly grateful for that.

"I have to give you something to do other than read," Rumplestiltskin retorted, rather predictably, she thought. But because she'd expected the answer, Belle was able to shrug it off. After all, he'd given her a library, and they both knew that it wasn't so that she'd dust his books.

"Is that why you're not healing yourself?" she asked curiously.

Rumplestiltskin didn't answer, instead stomping into the tower with her on his heels, immediately heading for his work table. But he stumbled partway there, and Belle barely managed to dart forward and catch his left arm before he fell. The contact made him flinch, but Belle was fairly sure that was from shyness and not pain, because huge eyes turned on her with such surprise that it broke her heart.

"Let me help you," she whispered, not sure what to make of the broken and wanting expression on his face.

"I'm fine."

"No, you aren't!" She had had enough of his stupid stubbornness, and if being nice wasn't going to make him behave, Belle certainly had no problem shouting at him. "Now, sit down and take your shirt off."

"I'm—"

"Now, Rumplestiltskin."

He stared at her like he'd never seen her before. She glared back. After a moment, he caved, sinking into a nearby chair as if his legs would not have supported him a moment longer. Belle just crossed her arms and waited, giving him a look that said she wasn't going to give in, and finally he got the message. Slowly, he started trying to unbutton his vest and shirt, but his right hand clearly didn't want to work correctly, so Belle stepped forward to help. Her touch made him flinch, but she didn't stop. She just made sure to be as gentle as she could, working each button free on the ornate maroon vest and carefully slipping it off, trying not to notice how torn and stained it was in the vicinity of his right shoulder. Rumplestiltskin's hands fell to his sides after a moment of hanging uselessly in the air, and he just watched her with owlish and dizzy eyes.

"Can you not heal these?" she asked, starting on his shirt. She didn't know much about the loup-garou, but Belle knew that Rumplestiltskin would not sit there bleeding and hurting if he didn't have to.

"No." He grimaced, but seemed glad for something concrete to focus on. "There's a potion I need to brew…until it's done, the wounds won't heal. Part of the curse of the loup-garou."

Well. That told her something. "How long does the potion take to brew?"

"A week or so. Sometimes longer." Another grimace, and a hiss of pain as he tried to shrug with one shoulder.

Belle cringed, finally getting his shirt off and looking at the extremely deep wounds there. His arm was halfway mangled; how had he managed to use it at all? His golden scale-like skin was torn and creased, disfigured even where it had not been ripped open by sharp teeth, and just looking at it made her want to hug him and make everything all right. Not that he'd let me, Belle thought, resolutely not noticing how very human his body looked if one discounted the odd skin. Human and hesitant; the expression on his face was as far from monstrous as Belle could imagine anyone being. Rumplestiltskin still looked confused, even though he was obviously trying to think about magic and potions.

"Will you turn into a werewolf?" she wondered, figuring that it might help him distract himself from the pain.

"No. Of course not." His voice was a little tight, and he tried to wave the question aside, but the fool attempted to use his right hand again. "Ow!"

"Well, don't do that. Of course it hurts. Your arm and shoulder are torn open."

That got her another glare, but Belle knew he didn't mean it, particularly when no nasty words followed. So, she just gestured at a box in the western corner of the tower. It was one of the few items in the tower she'd ever been permitted to touch; everything else was either too magical or too unpredictable, and 'didn't need cleaning', to quote the irritable sorcerer who was now watching her so warily.

"Are the bandages in there safe to use on you?" she asked.

Rumplestiltskin blinked. "Why…why would you care about that?"

"Because I'm going to clean your wounds and bandage them, of course." What did he think she wanted to do, decorate the tower in bandages? But Rumplestiltskin was still staring at Belle like she'd spoken another language.

"But why would you do that?" he asked almost too softly for her to hear.

"Well, I'm not going to let you run around the castle with it bleeding for a week or longer," Belle replied sensibly, heading over to the chest and opening it. Sure enough, it was still full of what appeared to be spotless bandages, but where could she find something to clean his wounds with? And how was she going to convince him to let her do it? Rumplestiltskin still looked so confused, but… But what if he's just not used to someone helping him? I can cite logic all day long, and yet he's never going to understand, is he? Belle thought suddenly, feeling her heart clench painfully.

"Of course," Rumplestiltskin whispered before she could say more, his eyes flicking off to stare out the window to her left. "Wouldn't want you to have to scrub blood off the floor, of course."

He'd never quite managed to hide his loneliness from her, but looking at him now made it clearer than ever. Turning to face the so-called demon who had become her employer—and somehow, her friend—Belle tried to explain it in a way he might understand. Or maybe in a way I might understand. She'd been fighting feelings for Rumplestiltskin ever since he'd given her that library, ever since she'd realized that he was far more complicated—and kinder!—than he wanted people to believe he was.

"It's not about the blood on the floor," she said softly. "You saved my life. Can't I at least help you in return?"

Again, the spooked and confused look crossed his face, so Belle walked back over to him and took his left hand in her own, crouching in front of the chair he was sitting in.

"How long has it been since someone volunteered to help you?"

He jumped when she squeezed his fingers. "I don't remember."

"Oh, Rumplestiltskin…" Belle didn't know what to say to that; she only squeezed his hand again and noticed how his eyes closed briefly, obviously shutting away memories of some sort or another. Belle burned to ask, but stopped herself; that could wait. She had time to get to know him, to pry the man she knew existed out from under the monster. For now, she needed to help him, and he needed to understand that she always would. "Well, I'll help you," she promised. "Whenever you need it."

He didn't seem to know what to say to that, and the Dark One just nodded shakily, ducking his head so that his hair obscured his features. Belle wanted so badly to reach up and brush the disorganized curls away from his features, but she wasn't sure such a touch would be welcome…and part of her was afraid that it would be.

"There's a disinfectant potion in the rack on the end of the table," he said after a moment, his voice sounding rough. Belle nodded. "The green one."

"I'll get it." She squeezed his hand one more time before rising to fetch the small bottle, pausing to investigate the vibrant green contents. "This one?"

Rumplestiltskin barely glanced her way, but when he turned his head, he winced in pain. "Yes."

"I just pour it on and then bandage the wounds?" she asked, just to be sure.

"That'll do," he replied tiredly, and the deeper tone of his voice suddenly registered. Rumplestiltskin didn't sound like the monster now, and hadn't for the bulk of this emotion-heavy conversation. He sounded almost human, with a pleasant and slightly accented voice. It was nothing like the high-pitched tones she was used to, and the manic giggle was gone. Now he just sounded…human.

"All right, then."

Belle squared her shoulders bravely, gathered some bandages, and made her way back to Rumplestiltskin's side, pulling over another chair so that she could sit next to him while she worked. She started with his shoulder, pouring the green liquid onto a cloth before pressing it to the wound. The potion smelled sharp, rather like the healing ointments she remembered clerics using in her childhood, but far more potent. Rumplestiltskin flinched when she touched the cloth to the deepest wound on his neck; that one was ragged and seemed to go straight to the bone. He hissed, twisting away from her to glare, and the confused and almost-human face vanished beneath the monster.

"Ow! What are you doing?" he snarled.

"Just what you told me to," she snapped back, annoyed to have spilled some of the nasty green potion on her dress. What a stupid question. "Now hold still!"

Rumplestiltskin glared again, but when Belle moved the cloth back towards his neck, he braced himself and didn't move, gritting his teeth against what was obviously a great deal of pain. He didn't look at her as Belle slowly cleaned out each and every wound, keeping his eyes fixed blankly on the wall in front of him. Finished with his neck and shoulder, Belle shifted to pull his right arm gently into her lap, and that finally made Rumplestiltskin glance at her once more. Again, his eyes were wide and confused, but also swimming with pain, and Belle carefully squeezed his fingers before starting again. Her compassionate gesture made his gaze snap away from hers once more, but Belle didn't say anything. Instead, she just concentrated on cleaning out the plethora of teeth marks on his forearm.

Finally done cleaning out the wounds, Belle slowly wrapped them all as best she could, bandaging Rumplestiltskin's neck, shoulder, and arm. He shuddered as she did so, biting back short gasps of pain, but Belle finished as quickly as she could. Then she smiled at him. "There. All done."

"Why did you do that?" Rumplestiltskin asked instead of thanking her like she had expected. He still wasn't looking at her.

"Because someone had to," Belle said without thinking, and watched his oddly vulnerable expression close off. "Because I wanted to help you," she added. "Because I didn't want to see you hurting."

He shrugged, the motion one-shouldered and awkward. "Why not? Isn't it nice to know that the monster can bleed?"

But his voice hadn't gone high-pitched and nasty; he just sounded broken.

"You're not a monster," Belle said, squeezing his hand once more. That made him turn to stare at her, his eyes wide and lost.

"I am."

"A monster wouldn't have thrown himself in the path of werewolves to save me," she replied, smiling softly. "But a friend would."

That made him blink and look away again, and Belle's heart sank. Small steps, she told herself. She didn't fully understand why Rumplestiltskin was so closed off, but she was determined to pry him out of his shell. Until today, he'd just been a challenge, and getting to know him passed the time in the huge and lonely castle. But now…now he'd done something extraordinary for her, and Belle realized that she wanted to understand him. A good man was buried beneath the beast, and she was going to find him.

"Rumple," he said softly, and Belle jumped.

"What?"

"Rumple. It's…what my friends call me." His voice was barely a whisper, but it made Belle grin so hard her face hurt.

"Rumple it is, then," she replied, leaning in to hug him gently, keeping away from his right side while she did so. As usual, he didn't seem to know how to respond to that, but Belle did it, anyway.

Someday, he'd accept her embrace, just as he'd finally accepted her friendship today.

Business was apparently booming, although none of them seemed to want to buy anything. Not that it bothered Rumplestiltskin; he didn't open the shop so that he could sell things. He didn't need the money. His currency was influence, and influence aplenty had been found between these walls. Of course, he doubted that Cora had intended to grant him quite so much power as she'd wound up doing, but in this case, her lack of understanding of the Land Without Magic had served him well. Cora had inserted her desires for his comfort and riches into the curse, and in turn the curse had adapted those requirements to fit this world. Of course, the mayor still had her caveats, and could control him in that limited manner, but Rumplestiltskin still had more power than she wanted. With one stroke of his pen, he could thwart her, and had done so when he saved Mary Margaret from the Basement.

Judging from the look on Cora's face when she stepped into the shop that afternoon, she was still angry.

"Mayor Mills," Rumplestiltskin said with Gold's cool smile. "What a pleasant surprise."

Neither of them bothered to pretend to believe he was pleased to see her; Cora just glared at him for several moments before speaking.

"I wanted a word with you," she snapped, and then regained control of herself with an obvious effort."

"Did you now?" he asked calmly, not allowing the fact that his heart rate was increasing to show on his face. He hated this woman as much as he'd once loved her—probably more—and he feared her, too, even if he didn't want to. No matter how many times Rumplestiltskin told himself that soon enough the curse would be broken, and with it Cora's control over him, he could not erase the sheer terror she was able to awaken in him. It's only the pain, he told himself for the thousandth time, knowing it was a partial truth at best.

He'd trusted her, once. But no longer.

"I did." Cora approached the counter, and then sidestepped around the end of it, crossing into the territory that none of his other customers would have dared breach. She approached him slowly, smiling a predator's smile, and he contemplated moving away from her before quashing the foolish notion. Rumplestiltskin might have been a mess, but he still had his pride, and his pride would not allow him to show his fear by running.

He had been enough of a coward before becoming the Dark One. He would not act like it now, even if that same weak man still lived inside of him, quivering with fear and wanting to shake. Rumplestiltskin only swallowed, allowing her to walk up to him and trying to pretend that it didn't bother him. He lacked courage of his own, but he could feign it well enough, and someday, he would have his vengeance for every hurt she'd visited upon him.

Still, he wished that she wouldn't touch him, burned to push her hand away when Cora reached up to stroke the expensive fabric of his jacket like an old friend. Or lover. She enjoyed this little fiction, loved the small gestures of affection that could so quickly turn to pain. Cora knew exactly what she was doing to him, but Rumplestiltskin also now had armor around his heart that she could no longer understand. He'd tried so long and so hard to keep his family safe, but now that they were with him, he could draw strength from Belle's presence, could use her love and genuine affection as a counterweight to the horrors Cora forced him to endure. Had the Evil Queen noticed the difference in his reactions? Probably not. The real difference was internal, anyway.

"I'm still angry at you, dear," Cora said when Rumplestiltskin remained silent, simply waiting for her to speak. Her flashing eyes gave a lie to her calm tone, however, and he just said:

"That grieves me greatly to hear."

Cora's hand tightened ominously. "I'm sure it does." Now her eyes narrowed. "It has, however, occurred to me how I can solve the problem of your…defiance."

"That's a rather strong word, dearie," Rumplestiltskin interjected before she could say more, not liking the left turn this conversation had taken. His heart had clenched already, and although he wasn't certain what was coming, he knew he wouldn't like it.

"It's exactly the word I meant to use," she replied, her fingers running roughly over the fabric again. Soon enough, her other hand lifted to touch his face, and now Rumplestiltskin could not stop himself from jerking a few inches away, flinching away from the hand that had hurt him so often. "Stay still, now."

The soft whisper took all pretense of choice away from him, and Rumplestiltskin felt the tendrils of the curse wrap around his body and force him to freeze. An involuntary hiss of fury came out from behind clenched teeth as Cora's fingers ran up his cheek, tracing his jawline and then slipping into his hair.

"You shouldn't have helped Mary Margaret Blanchard, you know," the mayor said softly. "No matter how much business sense your reasons made, you knew it would anger me, didn't you?"

"So many things anger you that it's hard to keep track of them all," he said before he could stop himself.

For a moment, Cora smiled, her white teeth flashing and her eyes dancing. But then the hand in his hair tightened, just enough to cause a slight amount of pain: a warning. "Then you should pay more attention," she hissed.

"I shall keep that in mind for next time," Rumplestiltskin said, very consciously not promising to avoid angering her. He wasn't fond of lying, after all, and there was no need to do so when he could twist words with such skill.

"Oh, you will," she said, the gleam in her eyes turning vicious. "Your little maid is quite beautiful."

Rumplestiltskin forced himself to blink slowly, ignoring the paralyzing fear that gripped his heart. "What does Miss French have to do with anything?"

"Everything. She matters to you—don't deny it, Gold. We both know that she's the one you turn to for comfort, that you shelter her and her brat because you care for her. I wasn't sure you were capable of it, but apparently you've grown quite attached to her." Cora's smile was slow, and Rumplestiltskin felt a cold chill rip up his spine. "It would be a shame for something to happen to her because you've been defiant."

"I keep telling you that it isn't defiance," he tried to sound reasonable, but it was hard. His voice wanted to shake. "I made a business decision. If you hadn't wanted me to act, you should have said so."

"Well, now I am. And I trust you understand me, Mr. Gold?" Cora looked him straight in the eye.

"Oh, I understand you just fine, dear," Rumplestiltskin bit out, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

Kill her! Kill her now, take control of the curse and be done with this game! The curse raged, and for a moment, Rumplestiltskin was in full agreement with it. But no. He had planned things out for a reason, and he would not deviate from that master plan when it was working so well. Rip her innards out and force her to eat them, the demon inside him insisted. Force her to watch as you kill those she cares about. That last demand, however, almost made Rumplestiltskin laugh out loud, and the very irony inherent in his curse's demand served to throw ice water on his own rage. Cora might think that she cared about her daughter, but she would never truly worry for Regina's safety, or at least not any more than Rumplestiltskin might be concerned for some possession of his or another. His curse didn't quite understand that, but Rumplestiltskin did, and he knew that was what made Cora so damn dangerous.

"Do you?" Cora countered, yanking on his hair and making Rumplestiltskin hiss out an angry noise of pain. "I don't think you do, but I'll give you a chance to be fully and completely honest with me. Tell me what your relationship with Lacey French is, and I'll be…kind."

"You wouldn't know kindness if someone put the dictionary definition of it in front of you," he snorted, and it was so very much the wrong thing to say.

"Very well, then. I'll make a call, and Madam Merryweather's assistant will pick your dear maid up. You can keep her brat, but Miss French will be living in the Basement from now on."

Rumplestiltskin's heart almost stopped. Despite how vague he'd been with Emma, he knew what kinds of things happened down there. He knew because Cora practiced the same vile entertainments on him, and he would not allow that to happen to Belle. A part of Rumplestiltskin, the human whispering from deep inside the curse's shell, thought that he would not wish that fate on anyone, no matter how much he hated them, but that didn't matter. Belle was his wife, his True Love, and he would protect her at all costs.

"I don't think so," he snarled, yanking away from Cora. Either his anger and his love had lent him strength, or her caveat had expired; the 'now' command was always short-lived. Either way, he was able to pull away from her, able to turn his head to meet Cora's eyes with a burningly furious gaze. Now, the mildly dangerous Mr. Gold no longer hid the Dark One. Now his teeth were out, his claws were sharp, and he was prepared to fight with every weapon he had.

Cora laughed. "And how are you going to stop me?" she demanded with a smile that screamed victory.

"It's quite simple, dear," Rumplestiltskin said slowly. "You're going to leave Lacey French alone. You won't harm her—or allow any of your flunkies or your associates to do so, or even hint that they might—in any way. In fact, if you know about anyone who wants to harm her, or even suspect it might happen, you'll stop it. The same goes for her daughter."

"And why in the world would I do that?"

"You're going to do it because I ask it of you," Rumplestiltskin replied, his teeth flashing in a vicious imitation of a smile. "Please."

A/N: Again, I apologize for the delay—the new job is keeping me very busy. On the bright side, this chapter is extra long (almost 10k!) to make up for the delay.

Up next, Chapter 43: "Cards on the Table", in which Cora realizes Rumplestiltskin is awake, Emma lets Hook talk her into a date, Henry plays matchmaker, and Sidney faces Cora's wrath. Back in the past, Snow has some wonderful news for Charming.

Also, check out "True Love Wins Out", my newest story! It's a collection of outtakes from the FOTS universe, featuring Gold, Lacey, and Renee.