It takes him an embarrassingly long time to think of it. He could blame Mr. Gold, or the curse, or all the pieces he's juggling here in in this tiny town filled with a whole world, but he's afraid the reality is something so much simpler: he didn't want to think of it. (For all he constantly reminds himself that Isabel is Regina's trick, he keeps finding himself forgetting it too.)

His limp is a bit heavier than usual when he comes up the steps of his porch to unlock his front door. There are two vials wrapped in folds of his pocket square, tucked away in his inside breast pocket. One will reveal the truth to him. The other will (in the event of the best-case scenario playing out, for once, in his life) help him keep what is his.

(He pointedly doesn't stop to consider when, exactly, Isabel became his.)

"Isabel?" Rumplestiltskin frowns to find his temporary wife sitting in the dark in the kitchen.

She blinks and looks up at him. He's never seen her dressed all in black before; the color does her no favors, but then, neither do the shadows under her eyes.

"Oh," she says. "Are you home already? Should I make you some dinner?"

"Dinner was hours ago," he says, as gently as a monster knows how. "How'd the funeral go?"

"It was a very nice affair," she says. "There was a fairly large turn-out."

"Who did you sit with?" he asks, and for the first time, he wonders who Isabel Gold spends her time with when she's not having tea with him.

"I came in late, so I just slipped into the back row. Dr. Hopper did a beautiful eulogy."

Though she seems to grow more aware, more self-composed, the longer she speaks, Rumplestiltskin recognizes the way Isabel clears her cold plate, fumbles with the washrag and dish soap. She's avoiding his eyes. Trying to distract them both.

"I didn't realize you and Sheriff Humbert were so close," he settles for saying.

"Oh, we're not. I mean…" She bites her lip. "We weren't. I only spoke to him a few times. But he was so young, and…and who…who could have known that it could all be over for him just like that?"

Rumplestiltskin thinks of this world, with no inherent magic, and the world they came from—the world from which he (and certainly Regina) brought through magic trapped in concrete form.

Magic like an enchanted heart.

And if Regina could do it to the Huntsman, she could have done it to whoever Isabel once was.

She could get rid of Isabel whenever she likes (whenever Isabel is no longer of value to her?).

"Well," he finally says, relying on Mr. Gold's instincts, "I'm sorry you had to go alone."

Isabel gives him a peculiar look, one he can't read. "No," she says slowly, "it's fine. I'm used to it."

Despite himself, Rumplestiltskin looks away. Of course she's used to it. The Evil Queen married her off to the Dark One, a pariah even in this new land. Isabel is hardly likely to receive a lot of invitations with a freely offered plus-one when that plus-one is sure to be her husband, now is she?

"Graham deserved a nice funeral," Isabel says a bit more firmly. "I'm just sorry you couldn't attend without certain people getting upset about it."

"Well, the Mayor and I have a complicated relationship." Rumplestiltskin forms a thin smile and then holds up his free hand. "Why don't you go change and then meet me in the library? I'll make the tea tonight."

She blinks at him. "Oh. Right. Thank you." As she passes him, one of her hands drifts, ever so lightly, across his sleeve, causing a shiver to run down his spine (he's too used to being alone, to having his own space; she throws him off, that's all it is).

Rumplestiltskin waits until he hears the shower start upstairs to begin preparing their tea. As the water's boiling, he pulls out the two vials from his pocket, one crimson red, the other sun yellow. He arranges their cups on the tray and makes certain that his cup is the one with the chip in it. Isabel rolls her eyes whenever he uses it; he can be sure she won't switch their cups accidentally. When the kettle whistles, it's simple enough to prepare each cup especial: his with the crimson potion, hers with the sun yellow.

Now all he has to do is find a way to listen for Isabel's heartbeat in her chest without terrifying or traumatizing her.

And, assuming he finds a heartbeat there (proof that her heart hasn't been taken by Regina; that this is a woman who sleeps beside him each night rather than a living doll), then he needs her to drink some of this sun yellow potion every day for two weeks to root her heart deep within her and make it nearly impossible to be stolen (Regina's plans are ever-changing, ever-predictable, and when she finds that he has his memories, she will want a contingency plan—if she hasn't already prepared it).

And if Isabel doesn't have her heart? Mr. Gold wonders, fearfully, his implanted memories of unconventional courtship and companionable marriage making him soft. Weak. (Everything Rumplestiltskin has vowed to never be again, no matter how pretty the face.)

If Isabel doesn't have her heart, Rumplestiltskin thinks, we never ever trust her. It would be like having Regina in the bed with him—and if that doesn't strike fear and revulsion into his heart, nothing will.

Isabel's soft steps on the stairs jolt Rumplestiltskin into movement. Carefully, he maneuvers the tray up onto his left hand, then moves back toward the library. He meets Isabel at the door, and despite himself (despite what may or may not be in her chest right now), he can't help the way his eyes widen.

She's robed in sky-blue, her hair wet and hanging over her shoulders, her face scrubbed free of both makeup and tears, her feet encased in tiny slippers. It's a far cry removed from the black-garbed woman weeping over another man in the kitchen.

"I'll get the door," Isabel offers. Her own eyes are wide as she sneaks looks at him, though Rumplestiltskin can't imagine why. He looks the same as he always does.

Together, they manage to get the tray stabilized on the small table that rests between the couch where Isabel likes to stretch out and the cushioned chair where Rumplestiltskin prefers to sit.

"I might have gone a bit heavy on the lemon, I apologize," he says as he hands over her cup. The extra lemon will, he hopes, cover any strange taste the Rooted Deep potion adds.

"No matter," she says. Her fingers brush against his as she takes the cup from him. She doesn't seem to notice, but Rumplestiltskin is frozen for a brief moment. To cover, he takes an extra large sip of his own tea. The Truth-Seer potion tastes like honey on his tongue but leaves an extra bitter aftertaste. Rumplestiltskin gulps down the rest of the cup, then sets it aside.

How is he possibly supposed to lay his head on her chest? Perhaps he should have swapped their tea for scotch.

Isabel sips her own cup more slowly. If she notices a difference, she doesn't show it. The potion will be useless if Regina already holds her heart. But if, for once in his life, the best-case scenario actually plays out rather than the worst-case…well then, in two weeks he can be a bit more sure that the woman entrenched in his house and his life will betray him only on her own volition rather than Regina's.

Rumplestiltskin is so busy running through the (lack of) plans he has to get close enough to be able to discern through the curse's layer whether Isabel has her heart that it takes him a moment to realize Isabel is crying again. It's the tiny, furtive movement she makes to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye that alerts him.

"Sweetheart?" The endearment escapes him before he can catch it back (more Mr. Gold slipping out into the open). "What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," she says. She takes another sip of her tea and doesn't look at him. "I'm fine."

Hesitating (gearing himself up), Rumplestiltskin moves from his chair to sit beside Isabel on the couch. He tries to ignore her sharp gasp of surprise. "You're not okay," he says. "You've hardly stopped crying. I thought you said you didn't know the Sheriff that well?"

"I don't. I didn't."

A terrible thought occurs to him.

"If…" Rumplestiltskin rubs his thumb against his finger and looks away. Some things slip through even a well-made curse. "If you and he were close…or if you once harbored hopes that you and he—"

"No!" Isabel's hand lights on Rumplestiltskin's, stilling his nervous tic. "No, that's not… I never even considered… I…" A hot flush steals over her cheeks, turning her skin rosy and almost golden in the warm light. Her hair is drying in tendrils and curls that brush her shoulders and smell of roses and springtime and home (well, home for Mr. Gold, anyway; only Bae smells of Rumplestiltskin's home).

"What is it?" Rumplestiltskin asks quietly. "How can I help?"

"I didn't get to the funeral late," she blurts, and now her tears are falling faster. "I got there in plenty of time and I still sat alone."

Rumplestiltskin studies her as he tries to parse through her words for something that makes sense.

Isabel lets out a bitter little laugh that he immediately hopes he never hears from her again. "No one wants to sit with me. No one talks to me. No one ever comes into the bookstore. Do you know that I can go an entire day without speaking a single word? And no one even notices!"

"You're…you're lonely."

The words don't even make sense. It's unfathomable to him. Isabel is bright, and kind, and beautiful, and she has a way about her of looking at someone and making them feel seen, understood, accepted, in a way that Rumplestiltskin has never seen matched in anyone else. Perhaps Regina married her off to him, but anyone in this town would surely beg for the chance to be her husband, to be loved and taken care of and soothed by her.

Which means there can only be one reason that she is ostracized and ignored and shunned.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry, Isabel."

When she takes his hand, weaving her fingers between his, Rumplestiltskin can't breathe. Her small, soft smile fixes him in place. "It's not your fault. I know you think it is, but, sweetheart…this is the way it was even before we were married. I'm just…I'm just odd, I guess. There's nothing special enough about me to make people take notice, and that…that's okay. I've made my peace with it. Most of the time." She chuckles self-deprecatingly. "I'm just feeling sorry for myself tonight."

"Isabel, that's…" Rumplestiltskin draws her hand, the one that's holding onto him without a single sign of revulsion, up to his chest. He clasps it in both of his, his index finger landing just so on her pulse point. "You are one of the two most special people I've ever met," he tells her honestly while some part of his mind, aided by the Truth-Seer potion, pierces past the curse and counts the flutter of her heart through the veins in her wrists. "If no one else can see how beautiful you truly are, then that's their loss. That shows how unspecial they are, that they can miss the most wonderful person right in their midst."

She's warm and vulnerable, her hair looks so soft his fingers tingle with wanting to weave through the strands, and she stares at him as if…as if she sees him. Understands him. Accepts him.

And none of it is for him. None of it is real. She has her heart (Regina left her intact and must laugh herself to tears every night to think of the old, twisted imp trying to contend with gentle kindness in his own bed) and she'll be safe so long as he continues giving her the potion to fix her heart in place, and…

And she's too close. She's drawing near, her eyes blue and soft, her lips drawing closer to him, and…and…and this isn't her. Not really.

Rumplestiltskin twitches his knee, just the slightest bit, making the cane leaning against it fall. On its descent, it knocks Isabel's empty cup from her free hand.

"Oh," he exclaims, "my apologies. I should have been more careful."

"No, no, it's okay." Isabel smiles at him, warmly, and picks up the cup. "At least this one didn't chip."

His answering smile is wobbly, because she's moved away, because she's not staring at him in that way anymore (and because he wishes she still were).

Under the excuse of clearing the tea things, Rumplestiltskin moves back to his own chair. It's best, he decides, that he keep a distance between them. Better for both of them if they each keep to their own respective spaces and lives.

But maybe…well, maybe he can talk to her in the evenings. Just a bit, over tea, to keep her from suspecting that he's lacing her tea with a potion. And if he holds her a little tighter when they're nestled together in bed, he is (technically speaking, for a little while longer, anyway) her husband and she's had a hard day and Rumplestiltskin does have a heart (it hasn't stopped pounding at a mile a minute since she started leaning into him on the couch).

And in the morning, if he lingers over Mr. Gold's coffee long enough to greet Isabel in the morning, to make sure she has a piece of toast and some jam, well, what's the harm? He has to live with the woman. He doesn't need her weeping and moody every day. A bit of conversation never harmed anyone.

And so what if he stops by her shop during his lunch break a couple days later? There's been a book he hasn't been able to stop thinking of, and she does run a bookstore. It's just a convenience. (And yes, okay, he forgot the book as soon as she greeted him with that wide, surprised smile of hers, but she found him a better one, so it doesn't even matter.)

He doesn't miss another teatime, which is just good strategy. Regina need not get herself concerned over Mr. Gold behaving like Rumplestiltskin, not when she seems to still be laboring under the (quite convenient) delusion that he is on her side. And he continues to sleep in the master bedroom with Isabel because if you're going to play a part, you might as well commit to it all the way.

When the two week mark passes, and Isabel has taken every dose of the potion, Rumplestiltskin keeps making their tea for them. He's gotten used to it (he likes the way Isabel always holds onto his arm to steady him as he carries it to the library, the way she brushes up against him as they both make their cups), and he is nothing if not a creature of habit.

But he doesn't trust her. Of course he doesn't. Why would he? Isabel Gold is no more real than a heartless husk would have been. And one day he will lose all of this, and whoever looks out at him from his (temporary) wife's eyes will be a stranger. And when that day comes, he wants to be able to walk away without a single look back.

(To his son. To his undoing. To the end of his own loneliness.)

It's strange. Isabel's been married to Mr. Gold for almost an entire year, but only now, after months of living and sleeping with him, does she feel that she doesn't know him at all. The Mr. Gold she married was sweet, in a strange sort of way, but aloof and dispassionate in a manner she could depend on even if she never did understand it. Yet she knew him. She knew that so long as he had coffee in the morning, his pawnshop and property investments during the day, tea in the evenings, and someone to remind him he's not wholly alone through the nights, he was perfectly content. As happy as anyone gets here in this town the rest of the world has forgotten.

But lately…she can't figure him out at all. He hardly touches his coffee in the mornings (and only stays to have any at all when she comes down for breakfast; if she stays upstairs too long, he leaves without ever once pulling down a mug). He still spends entirely too many hours at his pawnshop, still terrorizes the people in town who don't seem to understand the concept of recurring payments, but now he occasionally takes lunches (she used to be vaguely happy to have a customer, someone to talk to and break up the monotony of the day; now, it's a thrill to see him, not just because he's someone to talk to, but because it's him she gets to talk to, which is a distinction she's not sure she wants to think on too hard). He never stays at work late enough to miss teatime—and now he's always the one to make the tea.

The only thing that hasn't changed is the fact that he still sleeps beside her, holding onto her as if he may never get another chance. But then…before, he held on because he liked the idea of having someone there. Now…there's something a bit more desperate, almost…urgent…in the way he reaches for her and pulls her close. So, maybe the only thing that's remained the same is that if she makes a single move toward shifting or rolling away, he immediately lets her go (an odd trait, she thinks for the hundredth time, considering her husband is a man who takes what he wants, what he's owed, without thought for repercussion).

"Everything okay, Mrs. Gold?" Ruby asks when Isabel, on a whim, stops in to pick up two slices of peach pie. Since Graham's funeral, she's made an effort to talk to the people she sees out and about. It hasn't accomplished much besides earning her some side stares, but at least Ruby's warmed up to her a bit. "You look a little nervous."

"Everything's fine," Isabel says, handing over some money in exchange for the boxed and bagged pie.

Ruby purses her lips as if she doesn't believe her. Isabel's fairly sure she doesn't. Nearly a year and Storybrooke still hasn't gotten over the shock of Mr. Gold marrying.

"Thanks for the pie, Ruby."

"Hey." Ruby plays with the washrag in her hands. "You…you're not hiring at that bookstore of yours, are you?"

"No," Isabel says with a laugh she can't help. "I'd need customers first."

"Oh."

"Why?" She pauses, then sets down the pie and slides into a seat at the counter. "Are you looking for another job?"

Ruby almost looks as if she will answer (Isabel's heart beats fast to think that she might be someone other people actually choose to confide in), but then Granny pokes her head out of the kitchen. In a blink, Ruby stiffens, all confidences tucked away. "No reason," she says. "I hope you and Mr. Gold like the pie."

"Oh, it's not for…"

But Ruby's already gone, headed over to a table with a pitcher of water.

Isabel avoids Granny's stern glare (the old woman used to be nicer, before Isabel's wedding) and slides off the seat. With her pie, she heads home. She can't quite decide why she ordered two pieces, but Ruby's parting words have planted the idea in her head (or was it there already?). It actually makes her miss a step up the porch stairs to realize that she doesn't even know if her husband likes peach pie. Or any pie. Or sweets in general. Although, he does put enough sugar in his tea.

It shouldn't seem so much like bravery, to set out the pie on separate plates and carry it into the library while her husband's in the kitchen. "Do the brave thing," she tells herself, "and maybe you'll actually feel brave after a while."

It doesn't seem promising, at first, when she steps from the library to see Mr. Gold coming toward her with the tray and only feels the sudden, very real desire to run inside and hide the dessert.

"Would you get the door, Isabel?" he asks, a flicker darting through his eyes at her unusual stillness.

"Oh, right, of course. Sorry."

She's suddenly terrified that this will ruin everything. He'll disdain the pie, and look at her with that same judgmental look everyone gives her, and then he'll stop coming by on his infrequent lunches, start avoiding teatime, resume sleeping at his shop. She'll lose the one person in town who talks to her, and all she'll have left to her is his silly chipped cup and the stupid quest she placed on herself (it was Graham who hinted, so long ago, that there was something to look into at all, but she made her own choice and he's gone now anyway).

"What's this?" her husband asks. He stares at the plates, and she belatedly realizes that there's nowhere for him to put the tray now.

"It's peach pie," she says. She picks up the plates, one in each hand, and waits for him to set down the tray and pour their tea. If there's a quiver to her voice, she hopes he refrains from pointing it out. "It smelled so good at Granny's that I thought maybe you'd like a piece too."

His hands still, just for a second, over the lemon he's squeezing into her cup. Isabel's heart gets stuck in her throat. But then he turns and exchanges one of the plates for her cup.

"That's kind of you. Thank you, Isabel."

He always uses her name now. At first, she almost thought it was a pointed dig for her daring to ask him not to call her 'dear.' But now…there's something about the way his voice caresses the name that makes her think he uses it because he wants to.

(Though, once, just once, he called her 'sweetheart,' and she wonders if she might like that just as well.)

It's not until they're both sitting in their usual seats (were they always this far away?) that he speaks again. "You didn't have to think of me."

"Do you know," she muses, "that I didn't even know what kind of pie you like? What kind of wife doesn't know that about her husband?"

"More than you'd think," he mutters, a strange sort of bitterness coating the words.

It strikes Isabel then that her husband might have been married before. He's never mentioned it, but then, didn't he say something about a son a couple months ago?

"Well." Isabel decides to breeze past his cynical aside. "What is your favorite?"

"Peach pie," he says, and his expression is so guileless she can't believe him for a second.

"Be serious," she laughs. "If you had a choice between any pie in the world, all of them spread out right here in front of you, what would you go for?"

"A phone to call the police and then my cleaners to come clear the house before it all started going bad and drawing vermin."

Their seats are separate, but curled as she is against the arm of the couch, Isabel can reach out to swat his arm. "Come on. Just tell me. What pie is your weakness?"

He narrows his eyes at her, his mouth flattening. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

Rolling her eyes, she says, "That is why I asked."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why do you want to know?"

The playful mood has evaporated; she's not sure exactly when. It feels like she blinked to find herself in a different conversation entirely.

"You're the only person I ever talk to," she admits as she plays her fork through the remnants of peach filling. "Can't I least know you?"

The silence is weighted. For the first time in a couple weeks, Isabel's conscious of the tick-tock resounding through the house between all the weighted pauses.

But then Mr. Gold moves. He sets his empty plate aside next to his chipped cup, shifts to face her more fully, leans in until she finds herself mirroring him, breathless, and he whispers, "Peach."

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Peach."

"You don't believe me?" He presses a hand over his heart in an affected manner. "I promise you, Isabel. I do like most pies—except pumpkin, overrated if you ask me, and apple's far too common—but if you really want to know a weakness, it's brownies."

"Brownies."

"With vanilla ice cream."

Isabel can't help smiling at him. "I'll remember that."

He looks away. "We'll see."

Before he can get up and try to juggle everything with his cane, Isabel clears the dishes herself. He makes no comment, but he does follow her to the kitchen to wash the pie plates.

"And yours?"

She's not sure she even heard him over the rush of water, but when she turns, he's looking at her expectantly.

"I don't know," she says. "I think I like trying all the different types more than I do the idea of sticking with just one."

He frowns, then nods, as if agreeing with her assessment, and she very nearly rolls her eyes.

"So glad my answer meets with your approval," she teases.

The pie was such a hit (showed her so many more hints of her husband than she could have guessed) that Isabel shouldn't care she didn't get a chance to read any of her current book. But she is who she is, and she finds herself ducking into the library to snatch up the book on her way to the bedroom. Mr. Gold raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, and together, they ready for bed.

"Do you mind if I keep the lamp on?" she asks as she settles the covers over her lap and reaches for her book.

"Don't you always?" he replies.

Isabel finds herself staring at the page where her bookmark lies. Does she always leave the lamp on? She hadn't noticed, really, but then she thinks of another night, when he surprised her early at home and she was so afraid he knew that she'd thought it best to keep a light on (to keep her eye on the exit). And then the next night…well, he was crying in his study and she was alone in the bedroom and the dark was too much.

"Does it bother you?" she finally asks.

Her husband looks up from the pillow he's fluffing under his head. "Don't worry about it."

Which leaves her wondering if he does mind and allows it for her sake or if he doesn't want her thinking about why he's fine with a light left always on.

Isabel goes through the motions of reading, but her mind isn't on the story about the crocodile from the Peter Pan story. Instead, every ounce of her attention is fixed on the man lying at her side. In the cool room, he's the warmest thing, and though he's lying on his side, facing her, as if he means to sleep, she can feel the weight of his gaze on her. It makes her curiously self-conscious about every move she makes, even the way she breathes. His slightest shift has her nearly jolting, and it becomes almost a game of wills, daring herself not to look away from her book to see what other layers she might uncover in whatever his face shows.

"Why do you like to read so much?" he asks suddenly, startling her.

Almost relieved for the excuse, Isabel sets her book on the nightstand. "I don't know," she says (is it strange she's never considered this question before?). "I guess…I like seeing through other people's points of view, and books allow you windows into everyone's thoughts and viewpoints and perceptions. It lets you kind of peer beneath the veil to see how much might be going on out of sight, which is always a good thing to remember in real life too. I mean…" She shrugs a bit, feeling almost…vulnerable. Exposed. "I mean…you can't really know what's in a person's heart until you truly know them."

He's silent, but when she chances a look over at him, he looks merely thoughtful. Even contemplative.

Isabel doesn't want to go back to the quiet. She wants to know what he's thinking when he wears that look on his face. (She wants to know him.) So she slides down in the bed until she's on her side, facing him, her hands folded under her cheek, and she waits until his eyes lock onto hers.

"Why do you like to read so much?" she asks. "It's your library after all. All these books were already yours."

"Because," he nearly murmurs, "for a little while, it lets me forget."

"Forget what?"

"What I am." Like her, he seems to feel stripped bare by his own answer, so he pulls a face, hiding beneath that aloof, sinister air he carries around town like a cloak. "And just how many excuses people find not to pay me what they owe."

Isabel giggles at him, loving the startled look he gives her. "Yes, of course. I would never dare to think that you do anything for any reason but to keep your monstrous reputation."

His sneer vanishes. "I married you," he says quietly.

And that's the first time it actually occurs to Isabel exactly how out of character marrying her was. He admitted to wanting something, he compromised to get it, he put himself on the line, revealed a weakness to the town…and to her. She doubts, after having to pry his favorite pie out of him, that he wants anyone else to know even something as mundane as how he takes his tea. But for her…he took the chance.

Why? she wants to ask, but she's afraid that will give away too much (will make him wonder why she agreed to a marriage just as out of character for her).

"I'm glad," she says instead (and it's not entirely a lie even as it's not entirely the truth).

His lips twitch, and she chooses to interpret it as a smile.

Perhaps the whole town thinks of him as a monster, but she knows better, doesn't she? She knows that he has a sweet tooth, that he dislikes being alone, that he dresses nice to make himself seem more intimidating, that his favorite pie is peach—and that he cares for her (at least a little; at least enough to risk the dent to his reputation).

For all that she barely knows him at all, she knows him better than anyone else, and he is not who she thought he was.

Or so she thinks until two days later, the night she means to cast her vote for Emma Swan as the new sheriff, and learns that her husband is a criminal and an arsonist. She whips her head around to stare up at him where he sits at her side, to beg him to give her a reasonable explanation, but he doesn't even deign to spare her a glance.

Instead, he stands up, and he walks away. Alone.

And Isabel feels every eye in the auditorium turn to stare at her, who's also (without her husband) all alone.