A/N: This is a very radical AU in that its change from canon starts INCREDIBLY far back in the timeline, but I've always wondered what might have happened if Rumplestiltskin hadn't let go of Baelfire's hand. But, that said, this means some of the characters might be different than we saw them in-show. I always endeavor to keep everyone as in-character as possible, but this kind of story does strain that at times, so I hope you'll all be willing to give me a bit of leeway. Also, I know there are a ton of head-canons out there about Pan and Neverland and the timeline, and I will never be able to satisfy everyone, but I hope even the purists can find something here to enjoy. :) Thank you for reading, and don't be afraid to leave a comment! Oh, and I've outlined eleven chapters in this story and plan to, if all goes well, post once a week.

Disclaimer: Episodes, plot-lines, characters, and some dialogue, as well as several anachronisms, are taken from the show, which was written by others and doesn't belong to me; no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 1: A Hope

The receiving hall isn't especially grand or particularly ornate, which only goes to show just how far down the line of nobility Baelfire has come in his relentless quest. The mirror hung over some kind of table—for hats? just for decoration? in his hour of waiting here, Bae still hasn't figured out its purpose—regardless, it's the mirror that's just insult on top of injury. Against his will, yet again, Bae's eye drift up from that mysterious table to his reflection.

He doesn't even recognize himself anymore.

It's a man who's looking back at him. Not ancient, like Bae feels down to his very bones; young but older than Bae knew he could be. Just…ordinary. There's scruff on his face because no one's here—anymore—to teach him how to shave. His hair is tousled and too long, and his eyes… Well, Baelfire flinches away from his reflection and tries not to think about the years that have flown by since he's returned to a place where time works as it's supposed to.

He can't count them anyway. No need to torture himself trying.

"Spinner's son? Lord Maurice will see you now. He's granting you thirty minutes to present your request."

"Glad he's not putting himself out on my account," Bae mutters.

As he follows the herald into a room that seems confused whether it's a throne-room or a council-room, Bae tries to tally up just how many kings, queens, dukes, regents, and minor nobility he's talked, threatened, snuck, and bribed his way into seeing. All of them a complete waste of time. All of them as useless as this Maurice will doubtless end up being.

But then, what else can Bae do? Giving up means defeat. It means losing this game. It means that everything he's survived, everything he's endured—everything that has happened and is happening back where he came from—will have been for nothing.

"You've come a long way to see me," Maurice greets him. Tall and broad, the man looks uncomfortable in his own fine robe and thin crown. Bae chooses to be grateful that Maurice stands to meet him rather than looks down on him from his throne, tucked strangely away in the corner. "I've been informed that the Marchlands have hardly been your first stop."

Bitter words jumble in Bae's throat. He swallows them all down. Just because none of these audiences have worked before doesn't mean this one won't.

Think of it like a game, he reminds himself. Play your part and do it better than anyone else. And win. Above all, you must win.

The price if he doesn't is too high for him to dare contemplate.

"I am in the midst of a great quest," he announces boldly, "and have traveled far and wide seeking someone worthy of a vast treasure, the knowledge of which has been obtained at great risk. It waits in a far realm for he who is brave enough and heroic enough to seek it and claim it for his own."

This is what his desperate, rambling cries for mercy, for aid, for any help at all, have been boiled down to after all these years: a basic appeal to man's core lust for power. It shreds at Bae's heart to speak of treasure when he knows the real stakes of this game, but at least phrasing it this way means he might actually get to finish out his thirty minutes.

Or not.

Maurice huffs and turns aside to lean on the table taking up the center of the room. Books are stacked on every corner, and lay open over the map spread beneath, as if a council was adjourned mid-meeting. "The ogres are on our very doorstep, boy. I have no time for talk of treasures when the gold already in my coffers can't save any of my people."

"But this treasure isn't gold or silver," Bae says after a deep breath to keep in his full-body recoil at being called boy. He faced the danger of ogres long before this beleaguered lord's grandfather was a thought in his great-grandfather's mind. "It is a magical element that can grant wishes, bring dreams to life, and bestow on a man any number of otherworldly gifts. The treasure, my lord, is pixie dust."

And from his pocket, he draws out the only thing he managed to take with him from Neverland: a pinch of dust that glows with an eerie light. It wasn't what he wanted to escape with, but it's all that he was allowed. He's rationed it out as well as he can, but between his long travels, his frequent need to obtain audiences with individuals far above his means, and the samples he shows every royal—not to mention the samples that were stolen from him before he grew smarter about how he hid his supply—he's running out.

He only has a few pinches left. Only that…and the carefully apportioned amount that will allow him entry back into Neverland.

Bae isn't afraid of a lot, but he is afraid of when the day comes that he must choose to decide how to spend that last bit of pixie dust.

He doesn't know if he's brave enough to do the right thing.

"Make a wish, my lord," Bae says with a healthy dose of bitterness, and then, with a flourishing gesture that reminds him of his papa, he tosses the dust up, up, up into the air. Sparkles cast refracted light over the room as the dust hangs, suspended, before it falls, picking up speed, spinning, tumbling over itself to land, like a glowing ember, atop a tiny inch of the map.

"It didn't do anything," Maurice says impatiently.

"Wait." Bae leans forward to read the name of the place picked out in glowing magic. "Avonlea. You should be receiving a message from them any moment now."

On cue, the doors groan under heavy banging before bursting open to admit the blustering herald jogging up behind a man dressed in a tattered military uniform.

"My lord!" the messenger calls. "News from Avonlea, my lord! The ogres have fallen back!"

"What?! How?" Maurice jerks forward as if he means to shake the answers out of the man.

"They've been struck deaf, my lord. They can't hear us coming and are completely disoriented. Lord Gaston is leading a charge against them."

Bae frowns before he can smooth the expression away. Anyone leading a charge away from a city's walls would have to be an idiot. But then, he did hire this man to play the part of messenger because he knows the players here better than Bae does.

"Foolish man," Maurice mutters, without a hint of disbelief. "He doesn't even know if it's a ploy, or if all the ogres are affected."

"They aren't," Bae interrupts. He gestures to the map with another flourish to highlight the pixie dust that has now turned gray and lifeless. "That was only enough magic to affect a tiny portion in a single place. But if you were to mount an armed expedition to harvest more of this pixie dust, just imagine how easily the ogres would fall back before you."

It starts out so promising. But then, it always does. The benefits are obvious, even if Bae has to hurry news along, and no one would deny wanting magical solutions to all their problems. But so few are willing to risk anything to obtain them. Some keep him present for weeks or months as they question him and make plans, only to eventually decide against doing anything. George came the closest, actually assembling an army led by his own son, but trouble with giants or some such killed James before they could set off, and in the end, the King had no heart for more conquest.

Maurice doesn't get anywhere near as far as that. The hope in his eyes dies nearly as soon as it's birthed.

"My men are already laying down their lives to protect their homes and their families," he declares. "I will not ask them to risk death for some fool's mission in a far realm."

Bae does as he's grown used to—he tempts, he bribes, he begs. At the end of it, despite his willingness to kiss a boot in fealty should he only be granted a small force of elite soldiers, he is firmly escorted from the throne-room with a staunch refusal as his only answer. And now he has one pinch less of pixie dust.

"Stupid!" he hisses at himself.

"I agree," a woman says from behind him. He spins, the knife tucked away in his sleeve sliding easily down into his hand, and comes face to face with a woman—short, beautiful and holding a book clutched in front of her as she closes the door to what appears to be a spyhole into the throne-room. "If he'd stopped to think for even a second, Papa would have known that there's no way news from Avonlea could have reached him so quickly."

"Look," Bae says, "I may have preempted the message by a few hours, but I don't lie. The pixie dust really does work, the ogres really were struck deaf because I wished it so, and no, I don't have any more on me, so it's no use trying to steal it from me."

Unusually blue eyes study him curiously. "I don't want to steal from you," she says in the Marchlands accent. "I want to help you."

The woman leads him farther into the hold, shushing him furiously when a guard walks by and pulling him quickly into what turns out to be a small sitting room before a passing servant can spot them.

"I get the feeling you don't want anyone to know we're talking," Bae says dryly. And quietly. This woman, after all, called the lord of the castle Papa, and even as the word stings, it also inspires a fresh burst of hope. "Are you allowed to grant me aid?"

"I do all of Papa's paperwork," the woman says, gesturing him to a seat. She takes the one opposite him. "Which means that when he thinks he's directing the troops straight into the thick of battle, I tell them to circle around and ambush the enemy."

"Resourceful," Bae comments. He's trying not to eye the tray of tea and cookies set up on a nearby table like it's the only water in a desert. How long has it been since he's last eaten?

The woman pauses, then says, quite graciously, "Tea? Perhaps a few biscuits?"

"Thank you," he says, the sincerest words he's spoken in days.

As soon as she's poured him tea, dumped half the cup of sugar in it, and made him a plate with all but two of the cookies, Bae snatches up the food and forgets everything he once knew, long ago, about table manners.

"I'm Belle," the woman says while he eats. "I think Papa dismissed you too early. He didn't ask all the questions he should have. Like where this pixie dust is. How much of it there might be. How many soldiers you would need. And exactly how you plan on getting yourself and a phalanx of soldiers to a far realm—by which I can only assume you mean a different world."

Bae wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and reevaluates the woman sitting so primly across from him, sipping genteelly from a silver teacup. Only George and a Fifth Lady named Cora have ever asked so many questions, and neither of them did it so gently or so bluntly.

"Have you ever heard tell of Neverland?" he asks.

Every once in a while, he meets a man who starts at the sound of the name, who says, almost wistfully, that it sounds familiar. Maybe, they say, they dreamed of it, once upon a time. He's never met a woman who recognized the name, though, and still hasn't because Belle shakes her head.

"I have read of it, though," she adds. "Isn't it a dreamworld?"

"Maybe it used to be, but it's real enough now." Bae takes a deep breath to disguise his shudder. He means to only take a sip of his tea, but he's thirstier than he thought and soon finds the tiny cup empty. Without a word, Belle pours him some more. "Anyway, pixie dust grows in Neverland. At the top of the trees. It's the pollen of some flower native to the main island."

"I thought Neverland was more aptly known for its dreamshade plant. I'm sure I read that in a seaman's journal I came across once."

"Oh, there's dreamshade all right." Bae laughs without smiling. "That grows on the ground, though, like it's fed by all the worst offal of the pixie dust. Magic always has a price, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Belle says calmly. "I've done my very best to avoid it."

A lump nearly chokes Bae, and he blinks and stares down to the cup, which looks absurdly small and out of place in his too-big, too-rough hands. "Yeah, well…I tried too. It didn't turn out too well for anyone."

"I think," Belle says, "that you should tell me your story."

"Why?" Bae demands. He looks up and meets her gaze defiantly. He's so much older than this minor lady from a backwards province. So much wiser to the ways of magic and Neverland and betrayal. So much more alone and with nothing to take back with him to help.

How many times has he done this? How many years has he wasted? And for what?

Nothing.

Belle might very well be his last hope. He only has a tiny amount of pixie dust left. He hasn't slept in weeks, hasn't eaten more than a bite here and there in days, and hasn't been whole in nearly a decade.

What exactly does he have to lose?

"I don't think you care about the pixie dust," Belle says, her voice so soft he has to lean forward to hear it. "I think you have your own reasons for wanting to go to Neverland. And if I knew what those were, maybe I could help you. I could find a way to get you exactly what you need."

"Like magic?" he asks hoarsely.

She smiles at him, a smile so bright it lights up the whole room. "No," she says. "Like a friend. If you want."

Bae's smart, and quick, and remembers what he learns. So he knows that a friend is only a traitor waiting to be made. An ally is nothing but an enemy at its origin point.

But he remembers a different girl. Wendy. Her name is like a talisman in a carefully hidden corner of his mind. She was his friend. She helped him. She looked at him with eyes just as kind as Belle's now are.

And maybe she couldn't save him, but then, Bae's not a boy anymore and has resources of his own.

And he has nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to.

He cannot let this all be for nothing.

"Tell me your story," Belle says again.

Baelfire takes a sip of his tea. Sets down the cup. Fixes his mind on what he left back in Neverland. And he begins to talk.

It all began, he says, with a bean…

They land in the woods. Bae feels the collision in every bone of his body save those in his left hand, which is still wrapped tightly inside his papa's. The green glow that had sucked them inside a swirling vortex fades and vanishes until darkness envelops them.

"Papa, we made it!" Bae exclaims as he leaps to his feet. His hand feels nearly bruised, but that doesn't stop him from tugging his papa up with him. Or trying to.

Papa lets out a terrible groan and keels over onto the cold forest floor.

"Papa!" Kneeling at his side, Bae peers through the darkness, desperate to find out what's making his father whimper. "Papa, what is it? Did you land on something? Are you hurt?"

"Bae," his papa whispers. "Bae."

"I'm here, Papa," he says, and he impossibly tightens his grip on his papa's hand. "We're both here."

There's a sound then, like Papa groans. Or sobs.

Bae feels panic rise. "What's wrong?"

"It's gone," Papa keens. "I can't feel it anymore."

"Can't feel what?"

"The curse."

A grin spreads wide over Bae's face, nearly bright enough to shatter the darkness. "That's amazing, Papa! It worked! We made it to the Land Without Magic."

"Oh, Bae…" Papa's breathing is stuttered and sharp, but his voice…his voice sounds clear and familiar for the first time in months. "Bae, I…I hurt you so much. You were afraid of me. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Papa," Bae says quickly. He doesn't like the tears waiting there behind his apology. Or the fact that it's impossible to see anything in this black night that seems extra black without the glow of magic coating the plants. Or the dry air that scrapes over his throat, unflavored by the sheen of magic that Bae never once imagined not being there. "I'm all right, see? Everything's going to be okay now. We're going to be happy."

"I'm a monster," Papa cries. "The curse—it changed me. I killed…so many people!"

"It's okay. Papa, it's okay, really, I promise. The Blue Fairy promised that we'd be happy here."

"Did she?" Papa's grip on his hand tightens painfully until he seems to catch himself and lets go. Bae wishes he hadn't. Without his papa's grip, without the magic that should be all around them, he feels as if he might just float away. "Is that exactly what she said? When it comes to magic, the precise words always matter."

"She said I'd get you back," Bae says defiantly. But then remembers that his papa's here. Despite the terror that had shredded his voice at the sight of the portal, despite the way he'd hesitated and negotiated, despite that terrifying moment when he'd drawn the dagger as if he meant to plant it in the earth and never let go, his papa is here with him. He came. He kept his deal.

Bae takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and imagines a different forest, a different night, and a tiny blue flying lady in front of him. "She said," he says slowly, "that I could trust her because she had good magic. She said she couldn't get rid of the curse to make you like before, but she could send us to a place where you could escape the curse's effects. A Land Without Magic. She said that your love for me was what kept you from giving into the darkness, and that if we followed where the bean took us, we'd be saved."

"Saved from what?" Rumplestiltskin asks, his voice high and shaky.

Bae nearly stamps his foot. "From the curse, Papa! You know that! It's all I wanted and now you're back and we're here."

"We're here." Papa takes a deep breath and fumbles in the dark until Bae feels his hand land on his shoulder. "Help me up, son. We need to get somewhere warm."

"Okay." Bae grabs his papa's hand and tugs, then lets go immediately when Rumplestiltskin yelps and falls back to the ground. "I'm sorry! What is it?"

"My ankle," Papa says tightly. "It…"

"It's hurt again?" A sharp burst of remorse crashes through Bae. He shouldn't be yelling at Papa, not when he kept his end of their deal and he's hurting and he's scared. "Did you land wrong? I thought you healed it."

"There's no magic here," Rumplestiltskin pants. "Look, Bae, don't wander far, but see if you can find something I can use as a staff."

As Bae scours the forest floor on his hands and knees, he tries his very hardest to think of this as an adventure. He's always wanted to be a hero, and maybe the frontlines of the Ogre's War were too much, but a new forest in a new world should be exciting enough. He only wishes that there were more light. Or that they were already in a town. Or that Papa wasn't hurt again.

Eventually, he finds a stick nearly as tall as he is, and between that and Bae's shoulder, Rumplestiltskin manages to stand. Together, they limp toward the vague aura of light that shines ahead of them until they come to a road. It feels strange beneath Bae's feet, and him and Papa try walking on it only for a couple minutes before they're nearly ran over by carriages barreling through.

"Well," Papa says in that tone he uses when he's trying not to let Bae know there's anything's wrong, "at least it appears we're heading in the right direction."

Bae makes himself smile for his papa's sake, and trudges along. He keeps his eyes glued to the forest floor, because it's hard for his papa to walk through the underbrush and he wants to avoid anything that might trip him. But with their slow gait and the carriages that nearly swipe them on their way past, it takes them nearly two hours to reach the city that spills out in every direction ahead of them.

"Quite the place," Rumplestiltskin manages. His eyes are as wide as Baelfire's as they look from one marvel to the next. It's so different from their own world. Everything is made with stone or brick or marble, and there are buildings stretching high to the sky, and even though it's not yet dawn, there are so many people out and about, the streets lit with tall lanterns tended to by men with long poles that feed them oil. The roads are cobblestoned, perhaps, most definitely not just packed dirt, and there's no sign of magic anywhere.

"Papa," Bae says in his bravest voice. "Did…did you bring any money?"

"I have gold thread," he replies.

The knot in Bae's stomach eases. "Good," he says with a sigh of relief. "Should I ask someone for directions to an inn?"

Papa hesitates, his eyes flitting from his long cloak to the coats the strangers all wear, from Bae's trousers and hand-stitched boots to the strange fabrics that make up the outfits around them. "Yes," he finally says. "But try not to draw too much attention."

"I promise," Bae says. After making sure Papa's steady enough on his own, Bae drifts toward the brighter lit streets, looks for someone who's not alone, someone not in a group too large, and chooses a couple walking close together.

"Excuse me?" He makes as respectable a bow as he can manage, and says, "Please, could you direct my father and me to an inn? We've come an awfully long way and need a place to sleep."

The couple both stare. The woman twitches her skirts away from him. The man puts his arm around her and half steps between her and Bae.

Bae shrinks in on himself. "Please," he says in a small voice.

"There should be a hotel three blocks down that way," the man finally says. "If you and…your father…just follow along that street, you might find a decent establishment."

"Thank you!" Bae exclaims. He bows again and nearly kneels, he's so grateful—both that they apparently speak the same language and that he's been helped. "Thank you so much! I'm in your debt!"

He nearly skips back to Papa, who watches him come with worry plain in every line on his face. His unscaled face, Bae can't help but notice now that they're in the light. It's his papa again, free of the Dark One. He's so grateful and so pleased that he grabs his father's hand and blurts out, "They gave me directions, Papa, and they were so nice, and I could understand them even if they do have a strange accent, and oh, Papa, we really made it."

His papa's smile is forced and unsure. "All right, Bae. Let's head to the inn."

"They called it a hotel," Bae says. Now that they have a place to go, he's filled with energy again. He makes himself taller as his papa's hand lands on his shoulder, and refuses to show a hint of strain. "Do you think everything here has different names?"

"I just hope they still need spinners," Papa says quietly with another darted glance to the shawl a passing lady wears.

Bae quiets as he also starts taking notice of the clothing. Aside from fashion and style, they do look quite a bit different than what he's used to. "Everyone always needs spinners," he says confidently. "And you're the best, Papa. It'll be fine, trust me."

Papa smiles that tight smile again but says nothing, and moments later, Bae's own confidence takes a severe beating when none of the inns—the hotels—will take the gold thread as payment.

"A trick," they declare it before wrinkling their noses and firmly hinting that Rumplestiltskin and Bae should leave.

"This isn't fair!" Bae declares hotly after the fourth inn they try. He and Papa are wearing their new clothes, the ones Papa fashioned for them—his with magic and Bae's with his own two hands—after the dagger came into their lives. It's the highest quality of fabric, and they're not worn or tattered at all. They no longer smell of sheep or lye, and no one knows Rumplestiltskin as the man who ran. "They can't treat us this way!"

"They can treat us however they like," Rumplestiltskin says in that quiet voice he used to use all the time. The one that kept him from drawing attention. The one that gives away how tired and beaten he feels. Bae had forgotten how much he hates that voice. "It's their business, and they don't have to give us rooms if they don't want to."

"If they'd just look at the thread—"

"There's no magic here!" Rumplestiltskin says shortly. "There's no such thing as golden thread."

And Bae's voice dries up in his throat.

Rumplestiltskin winces and pulls Bae into his side. "I'm sorry, son, I shouldn't have snapped. What we need is a lender. Someone with a shop to buy and sell used goods, who can examine the thread closely and see what it's worth. They won't give us full price for the gold, but it'll be a start. We'll see about a spinning wheel and some wool after we find a place to stay."

Only, no one gives more than a second look at the thread, not until they enter something called a haberdashery. The owner tells them he can embroider hats with the thread and gives them a few coins. It's just enough to buy them food and a couple cups of water. Bae devours all of his before he realizes that his papa's eating only a couple bites of his portion and then stowing the rest in his pocket.

"Papa?" he asks. He hates how young he sounds.

Papa gives him that same tight, worried smile. "We'll be okay, Bae," he says.

But they're not.

"Things didn't get better?" Belle asks.

Bae peers down into the dregs of his fourth cup of tea. It's been ages and ages since he's thought back to those early days. Now that they're dragged out into the open, he's glad he hasn't caught sight of the Blue Fairy since he's back in their old world. He thinks he'd probably have a few choice things to say to her.

"Bae?" Belle asks. Her hand alights atop his wrist, such a small, delicate touch that Bae shudders. It's been so long since he's last felt kindness in tactile form.

"No," he says, and then has to clear his throat. "No, they got worse."

The alleyway they've been taking shelter in for the last three days is cold. Tall buildings on either side means the sunlight never reaches its depths, and since that's the only place that's safe from the soldiers—no, the Bobbies—who routinely sweep the streets near the store avenues to keep the riffraff out, they're stuck shivering more often than not.

"Papa?" Bae creeps back into the shadows, alert for any sign that they're not alone. This would hardly be the first time other homeless beggars—or worse—have showed up to pirate their place.

"I'm here, Bae," his papa says, and then coughs, harshly, into his elbow. He leans back against the wall, propped up on an arm, under the cover of a stained bit of fabric Bae pulled out of a trashbin and tried to set up as a bit of shelter. It barely deserves the title, but it's all they have. Papa's robe is dirty, the hem fraying, the cuffs pulled down low over hands that constantly shake. But he still smiles at the sight of Bae. "You're okay," he says with relief.

"I found a bit of something," Bae says. It took over a week before his papa let him go off on his own hunting for food, and Bae wishes he could say he was better at it. But this is a strange place with strange customs, and it's taken him days just to figure out where the food is thrown out. He still always gets there after all the other beggars, meaning he's left to pick up what no one else wanted.

Rumplestiltskin takes the apple core as if Bae is handing him treasure. "Thank you, Bae," he says. And then he sits there, just looking at the shameful morsel.

"I'm sorry it's not more," Bae mutters.

"No, no, it's not that." Rumplestiltskin pulls Bae close so they're tucked in side by side, their backs against the wall—Papa taught him that, said it's best never to take your eyes off where anyone can come from—and wraps his arm around his shoulders. Bae cuddles close and tries not to cry at the feel of his papa's ribs and bony shoulder, or the growling in his own stomach.

"You know," Papa says after a moment, "I think you should eat this."

"No," Bae says. He stares at his hands, clenched tightly between his knees. "It's for you, Papa. You haven't eaten in days."

"I…" Papa shivers and coughs again. "You're the one doing all the work, Bae. I've just been laying here like a lazy lamb. You eat this, and then…then I think I should go down to the docks and take a contract."

"No! No, Papa, please!" Bae clings as tightly as he can, pulling his papa off-balance and into his side. "Please don't leave me!"

"No, Bae, shh, son, that's…I'll never leave you. I would never ever let you go, you're everything to me. But…the ships don't care if you can walk as long as you can handle an oar."

"It's suicide, Papa. You heard what that sailor said. Please, don't go! I didn't bring us here so we'd be separated. We're supposed to stay together. The whole point of the bean was so that we could stay together!"

"Oh, Bae…I know. I know. I won't leave you. Okay. We'll…we'll think of something else."

His papa's good at being sneaky when he feels the need for it, so Bae doesn't really let go. He doesn't think any of the gangpresses would take his papa anyway, but he can't risk it. He didn't leave his world and everyone in it just to lose his papa now. Although…he can't help but think that they'd probably accept him.

But then Papa would be all alone. Who would take care of him then?

"Yes," Bae says with all the determination he can muster. "We'll think of something."

But it's hard to think when his papa shakes and shivers and coughs until he retches up bile. Bae ends up eating the apple core, pretending it doesn't make him want to throw up himself, and he takes one more trip out before nightfall to get them some water. Sometimes, if he can get them enough water, they can fool themselves into thinking they're not hungry until the morning. His papa has made a game of it, every sip naming some other fruit or dessert the water could taste like. Elixir, he calls it, and Bae humors him because it makes him feel better when his papa's doing anything besides quietly dying.

And he is dying. Bae's only fourteen but he's seen more death than any child should. He knows the signs of it well enough. He was sick too, the first week they were, when Papa was still well enough to trade a few hours of hard work for a bed in a hayloft. But Bae got better and Papa…hasn't. He just keeps getting worse, bit by bit, no matter how much water Bae dribbles into his mouth or how close he wraps himself around Papa's shivering body in the dark.

Truthfully, Bae's not sure it's the sickness that's killing him. Since they got here, Rumplestiltskin's been smaller, somehow, shrunken and withered into himself. Every once in a while, Bae catches him staring at the dagger, tracing a finger over his name. Bae averts his eyes and gives his father privacy because he doesn't want to admit that he can tell the letters spelling out Papa's name are growing fainter every day.

Soon, there'll be nothing left.

Bae wishes his father would look at him, just once, with all the blame he must feel for him. This is all his fault, after all. He's the one who called on the Blue Star. He's the one who trusted her even though he never did quite get an answer as to why he should. He's the one who dragged his papa to this world that's slowly killing him.

Maybe that's why when he sees the open window, curtains fluttering like a hand beckoning him into the warm interior where an entire feast is laid out over a groaning table, Bae doesn't let himself think better of slipping inside the house and becoming a thief.

At the sudden knock, Bae drops Belle's teacup. It bounces against the carpet under his feet, and his cheeks flush hot when he picks it up and sees a chip in its rim.

"Ah, thank you." Belle smiles at the servant who brings a tray of food into the small sitting room and helps him arrange the food on a small table pulled up between her and Bae.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Bae says as soon as the servant is gone. Though he just reminded himself that he's older than this lady, he feels like nothing more than a clumsy boy when he shows her the broken teacup. "I didn't mean to. It just…it's chipped."

Belle's smile is kind as she takes the cup from him and replaces it with a plate. "You can hardly see it," she says. "Why don't you try some food? Telling tales always makes me hungry."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bae looks down at the table, now covered in dishes. He frowns at the dinner even though he can't help but breathe in deep of the delicious smells. His story is making him remember the true pangs of hunger, but it also reminds him that he doesn't deserve to be here, accepting Belle's kind invitation and piling his plate high with food.

Not that this stops him from eating as much as he can force into his neglected stomach.

"So," Belle says when his plate has been emptied twice. She sits on the edge of her seat, the chipped teacup cradled in her hands as if she's forgotten she's holding it, and Bae doesn't think he's imagining the excited gleam in her eyes. She's invested in his story for some reason. He's not entirely sure why. Storytelling has always been Pan's forte rather than his, and words more his papa's thing than Bae's. Besides, for all he's revealing, Bae is careful with what he chooses to leave out—like the true curse his papa suffered under, or anything about the dagger.

"So…" he says, slowly. A test.

She falls for it. "So," she says eagerly, "what happened next? What was inside the house?"

His mouth twists into a grimace. "A family," he says. "One who invited me to become part of them."

"You have to, Bae," Papa says. "Please, son, this is for the best."

"No, Papa, I'm not leaving you."

Papa's hands clamp down on his wrists. "Yes, you are," he says, and it's the strongest he's sounded since magic left him. "This is an opportunity for you, son. No, it's salvation."

"But they only want me," Bae cries in a broken voice that hurts his throat.

"Of course they do," Papa says. He lays his hand over the side of Bae's face and stares at him, as if memorizing every tiny detail of him. As if he doesn't think he'll ever see him again. "Who wouldn't love you, my strong Baelfire?"

"They could love you too," Bae tries, though he's old enough to know the difference between a homeless child and an aged cripple. Not that he thinks of his papa that way, but he knows it's the way Papa thinks of himself.

"You deserve this," Papa says. "You deserve better than an alleyway and starvation. Don't you see, Bae? This is how you can be happy."

"We're both supposed to be happy," he says sullenly, not able to help the pangs of betrayal that squeeze his heart. The Blue Fairy lied. Even the prison cell he thought she meant would have been better than this. At least in prison, they have to feed the prisoners.

"They have food," Papa tells him, as if Bae's stomach isn't full. He brought Papa a hunk of bread and a few wedges of cheese, but so far, his father's managed to swallow only a few bites of the bread. "And a warm house. And a bed for you. And children to play with. And…a mother to tell you stories and tuck you in. A…a father—"

"I have a father!" Bae says hotly. "I don't need another one."

"But you need a home." Rumplestiltskin sounds nearly reverent as he says that word, and Bae can't help but treasure the word himself.

Home. For so long, home was a hut—until magic made it watertight and warm and full of things. Then home was in the past, wrapped up in his memories of a papa who hugged him close and mended his hurts with kisses rather than spells. Now, Bae has no home, not with Papa so weak and frail and faded.

But if Bae goes back to the Darlings…if he lets them take him in…then maybe he can save Papa.

"Okay, Papa," he says slowly. "I'll go—if you stay here, in this alleyway, where I can find you. And I'll come, I promise. Every day, I'll come, and I'll bring you food. And maybe, if I can earn some coins doing jobs for them, I'll be able to get you new clothes and a warm coat and some medicine. And you'll get better and find a job with wool or sheep or something, and then, when you find a house, I'm going to live with you again. Okay?"

"That's a fine plan, son," Rumplestiltskin says. His eyes are soft and wet and he's still looking at Bae as if he thinks it's the last time.

"Papa." Bae grabs his hand, holds it to his heart, fixes his gaze on Rumplestiltskin's. "I'm not leaving you. This isn't me leaving you. This is me saving you. Right?"

"Right."

But Papa's always been good at lying if he thinks the occasion calls for it. He's good at making plans within plans if the cause is good enough.

So he doesn't seem surprised when Bae's daily visits are cut down to thrice-weekly—there's just so many things to do and people to see, clothes to be fitted for and games to play and Bae doesn't always notice the day slipping away until it's nighttime and it's too late to sneak away to the alley.

He doesn't ever seem anything but happy to see Bae, even when Bae's only able to hide away some bread, some meat wrapped in a napkin, and none of the desserts he wants so badly for his papa to get to try—it's just that the servants have eagle eyes, and Mrs. Darling is so kind, and Wendy always has some new diversion for them to try as soon as dinner's over and food spoils so much more quickly than Bae ever realized.

Papa doesn't seem upset by the fact that Bae has no money to give him for medicine or clothes, that no one will hire a sickly man who has no useful skills to offer in this world, that the most he can manage is to earn some food every once in a while by doing menial labor for others too lazy to do for themselves.

Bae tries to keep to his side of the deal. Really, he does. He wakes up from nightmares, sometimes, where he slips away to the alley and finds nothing but a dry, moldering skeleton, the bones of his papa left behind to rot while Bae is full and warm and healthy. Each time, the next day, he lies to everyone he's grown to love, sneaks away no matter the cost, steals whatever he can reach without thought to who he's stealing from, and he runs to the alley.

And always, every time, his papa's there. His eyes always light up to see Bae. His hand, cold and chapped and trembling, always rises to trace the new, fuller, older countenance of his son. And every time, when Bae has to go back, when he says, "Papa, I'm going to save you, I promise. You believe me, right?" Rumplestiltskin only smiles and says, "Are you happy, Bae? That's what will save me—if you're happy. That's what I want."

So Bae tells him the half-truth that he is, and he goes back, and he tries and tries and tries to think of a way to make his papa a home.

But none of it matters. Not one little bit of it. Because one night, Wendy tells him of a shadow that comes to play with them and whispers of magic. Bae flies to his father the next morning, heart in his throat, but there's no magic, no scales, no gleeful laugh, and the dagger is still only a knife and his papa is still too skinny, too pale, too weak.

"What's wrong, son?" Rumplestiltskin asks, but how can Bae tell him there's magic here? How, when the only reason Rumplestiltskin came here is because Bae asked him to give up magic?

"Nothing," he says.

But then, another night, Wendy flies back into the room from the window, tears drying on her cheeks, and tells him of a monster who's coming for her brothers.

Bae has stolen and lied and cheated this family who's done nothing but love him. He's failed his papa in every way possible and doesn't see a way to change it. But this…this is something he can do.

"Papa," he says the next day, when he comes for a visit and lays his head down in his papa's dirty lap and feels Rumplestiltskin's quivering fingers carding through his hair the way he used to do to the wool of their sheep. "Do you really think I'm strong?"

"You're the strongest person I know," Papa says, "and the bravest. I'm so proud of you, Bae."

"Even though I haven't saved you?"

Papa bends over him, and he stinks and his breath is rancid and his hair is greasy and there are probably bugs, but Bae doesn't care. He lets his papa fill the whole of his vision, and he soaks it in when Rumplestiltskin tells him, "Bae, you have saved me. The moment I heard that I was going to be a father, the very instant I knew about you…I was saved. My whole life has been a waste—until you. You are everything that is good, and you are my reason for living. You're my happy ending, Bae."

"I love you, Papa," Bae says, and just like always, he makes sure to promise, "And I'm going to save you. I'm not leaving you."

"I know, son." But for the first time, just for an instant, Rumplestiltskin's hands spasm over him when Bae tries to get up. He covers it immediately, pretends it away, looks down to hide the reluctance spelled over his face, but it's the first time Bae's glimpsed past his mask of complicity to see just how hard it is for Papa to let go of him.

It's almost enough to make him change his mind about fighting the shadow. But he saved Papa from the curse, and he'll save him from the elements, one day, any day now, and he can save his new family too. He's a hero. Papa said so.

Belle tactfully retreats to the window as Bae covers his face with his hands. His shoulders shake but there are no tears. He cried them all out a long time ago. It never takes Pan long to condition boys into realizing that crying does no good.

"I'm sorry," Belle says. Her voice is so soft, her form little more than a silhouette against the window, edged in the gleam of firelight reaching toward her from the hearth.

Slowly, Bae gathers himself.

"It didn't matter," he makes himself say. "None of it mattered at all. I was no hero. I've never been a hero. The shadow still came and he still took a boy."

"You?"

"Yes. He went for Michael, and I just…I dove between them."

"That sounds like a hero to me," she says.

Bae glares up in her direction. "If I were a hero, I would have let go as soon as we cleared the window. I would have made sure that I wasn't still in the shadow's clutches when Papa saw me. I would have done whatever I had to do to make sure that he didn't throw his crutch away, climb up the side of a building, and throw himself at me."

"Are you saying…" Belle draws closer, and this time, she sits right next to him. Instinctively, Bae flinches at her hand on his. But she doesn't grip too tight. Doesn't restrain. Doesn't hurt him. She just leaves it lying there on his, a tactile connection that reassures him. For the first time in so long, he's not alone.

"Papa came too," Bae admits finally. It's a secret that's been bottled up for years, and it's like a burden falling off his shoulders to finally speak it aloud. He turns toward Belle, twists his hand up and grabs hold of hers. "Papa's still there. Pan has him prisoner, and I still haven't saved him. But I promised him, Belle, I promised him that I was coming back. That I wasn't leaving him. That I was only going so that I could save him."

Belle doesn't wince away. Instead, she holds on. "That's why you want to go back to Neverland. You want to save your father?"

"I have to save my father," Bae says. "Please…please, Belle, will you help me?"