A/N: Here we are with a sequel to 'A Good Life' - I don't think this story stands alone at all, so I recommend checking that one out first. And...season 2 AUs are apparently a LOT harder to write than season 1 AUs, especially when there's no wraith to split the characters up and drive along the action that happens canonically. I'm a little more nervous about the pacing and flow of this part of the 'Per Our Deal' series than the first, but since the focus here is on Rumbelle (and Bae), then hopefully it's enjoyable anyway! There should be 6 chapters in all (4 are written currently), and I hope to keep to weekly updates, depending on RL. If you've read this far, then thank you so much - and I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: As always, this show and these characters don't belong to me, only an enduring love for them, and so no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 1

For all that he'd built it up in his mind to the point of sneaking into town on foot under cover of darkness, Neal doesn't feel any different at all when he crosses into Storybrooke. It even takes him a while to realize he's officially within the town limits since he treks in through the woods, a backpack rucked high on his shoulders and a scarf wrapped around his neck to keep out the night chill.

Once he emerges from the woods to see the short, boxy streets that make up this transplanted piece of a world that was home what used to be a million years ago, Neal thinks he feels a tickle of familiarity at the back of his throat. A hint of magic. A touch of belonging. Like a sense-memory, impossible to hold onto but conjuring up abstract images of a life long gone.

But he's probably making that up. His nightmares are so full of Neverland (of an alley in Portland where he made the worst decision of his life) that he hasn't thought of his true childhood in longer than he was an actual innocent kid.

Neal swallows and turns away from sight of the town to plunge back into the treeline. His phone's GPS leads him unerringly to the coordinates he finally wrangled out of his co-conspirator. Of course, the sight of the dilapidated, nearly overgrown trailer doesn't exactly inspire much confidence.

The door shudders under the force of his pounding, but Neal's not going to take any chance of being ignored. He's come too far (is risking too much every minute he's here) to be turned away now.

"August, open up!" he yells. "I know you're in there."

When the door is wrenched open, he nearly falls backward at the sight of what greets him.

"Wow, you look terrible," he finally says with as sanguine a tone as he can muster. And then he shoulders his way past the wooden man blinking at him with eyes that look like they're made of marbles.

He hates magic.

"I didn't think you'd come," August says as he peers out into the woods while pulling the door securely closed (it looks like paranoia, and though Neal's used to August's melodrama, he's not prepared for the shiver that runs down his own spine).

Neal tosses his backpack onto the in-built table and sits down at the (barely) cushioned bench doubling as a chair for the dining area. It's certainly not the nicest place for a long stay, but he's had worse (even Emma was often surprised by the places Neal could fall asleep; but then, anything in this word is eons better than Neverland).

"Why wouldn't you think I'd come?" he asks, letting his own gaze drift back to the man that shouldn't even be alive. Wasn't that what August was so scared of? A man made entirely of wood and clever hinges can't be alive, not here. Not in the Land Without Magic. "It was our deal, after all, wasn't it? I let Emma free to find her family and in return you let me know the moment it's safe to come for her."

The specifics weren't laid out so clearly, but Neal can be tenacious when he wants to be, and for as many times as August's tried to give him the slip, Neal has never let him disappear entirely. He's not a coward (like his father), and he knows how to honor his deals.

Instead of answering, August avoids his eyes. His movements are stiff, and each footfall comes with a weight he can't hide. For a conman who's made a habit of running, he must feel as trapped as if he's been wrapped in a ball and chains. For a liar who's never had a good relationship with the truth, it must absolutely suck to have his sins spelled out so clearly over his entire body—to be made up entirely of his own failings.

Neal tries very hard not to feel bad for him. He's mad at him, after all. Furious.

"You didn't seem that enthusiastic when I told you I was headed here," August finally says.

"Yeah, well, that was when there was a curse still to break." Neal gives the trailer a once-over. There's not a lot there. He doesn't see the slightest sign of any food and forget about potable water. "How are you alive?" he asks bluntly.

That tickle at the back of his throat is growing stronger (as if, with every inhale, he sucks in more of his old world's air to tie him down to this place). He can't quite put his finger on it, on what the feeling is, but it makes him able (for the first time since a cave of wishful drawings) to see in his mind's eye a little hut, a bed covered in woolen blankets; to almost smell the stew bubbling over the fire; to hear the sound of a spinning wheel's constant revolutions singing his bedtime lullaby.

It makes him itch to start running (and this time, to never stop).

(But he already tried that, and the nightmares still haven't left him alone.)

"August," he says with a note of steel. "How are you alive? You said that if you fully transformed, you'd die here."

It's not that Neal knows August well, but he's interacted with him enough to expect a snarky evasion, an offended retort, a complete non-answer. What he doesn't expect is for August to slump over (or at least, so far as his wooden body allows) and cover his marble eyes with his gloved hands.

"I should have," he says. There's so much despair in his voice that Neal can't help but think of all the Lost Boys he once knew so well. "I deserved to, I know that! But…Emma broke the curse."

Neal rolls his eyes to hide the terror building up inside him. "I know. Got your postcard, remember? Interesting delivery system, by the way."

"It wasn't enough." August drops his hands and stares ahead blankly. It's the middle of the night, but Neal belatedly realizes that August is as bundled up as Neal himself, hiding as much of his wooden body as he can from even his own sight. It's a level of self-loathing that Neal is all too familiar with.

"August," he prompts, his voice not quite as harsh anymore.

"Breaking the curse wasn't enough. We're still here," August says.

"Well, of course we are." Neal frowns and plays with the end of his scarf. "If the whole point of this curse was to bring everyone here to this land…" His voice dries up. He can't finish that statement (he's not ready to face that; he's barely able to even think about facing Emma, let alone…anyone else).

"After Emma broke the curse, I thought…" August's whole body trembles. Maybe it's a shudder. Maybe he tries to swallow. Impossible to tell. All Neal knows is that the force of the movement rattles the trailer and jolts August into closing his eyes again. "I couldn't move. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. I…"

"You were wood," Neal says. He's mad at the guy, after all. A couple harsh truths don't even begin to make up for a certain snitching call to the police almost twelve years ago.

"Yeah." August lets out a scoff. "And then I could move again. I'm not sure I'm breathing, but I could think and move again."

Swallowing, Neal tries to ignore that indefinable tang making him want to cough, or sneeze, or do something. It's getting stronger the longer he's here. He wants to vomit. He wants to run. (He wants to stop and let the memories, so long shoved into a box, air out for just a moment.)

"I was alive. I was still…still me. So I got up and left."

"What happened?" Neal wants to know. Of course he does. He came all this way. He needs to know so he can figure out his next steps. But…but most of his mind is preoccupied with wondering what Emma must be thinking right now.

Magic's real, and she broke a curse, and she's probably reunited with her family right now. Like Moirraine, so long ago, saved from a battlefield to be reunited with her mourning parents. Like the Darlings, safe with the parents that love them and would do anything to protect them. Emma has everything she's ever wanted now.

(She probably hasn't even spared Neal a thought for nearly a decade.)

"Magic, Neal," August says for what sounds like might not be the first time. "Someone brought magic here to Storybrooke. And I think we both know the only person who could have done that."

Right. Because Emma's not the only one here from Neal's past. And if Neal walks out into the streets of Storybrooke to find Emma…he'll find Rumplestiltskin too.

He knows what that tickle is at the back of his throat now. Knows why it feels familiar and nostalgic and terrifying all at once. It's magic—the very same that destroyed his life oh so long ago.

"The Dark One," Neal makes himself say, and he doesn't need August's nod to confirm what he already knows.

Rumplestiltskin has come to the Land Without Magic—and he's brought his curse with him.

It's dark by the time they leave the cabin. Her husband (Rumplestiltskin) seems convinced that the townsfolk might have transferred their ire from Regina (the Evil Queen) to him by now, and he'd prefer to avoid any attention.

"Not yet," he says, not quite meeting her gaze. "Not until I have more of a grasp on magic here."

Belle thinks of the milling crowds, confused and lost and calling for loved ones, and thinks that everyone has bigger concerns than hunting down the powerful Dark One, but he takes her hand and so she says nothing, content to follow him (delighted that he implicitly invites her close).

"We can leave tomorrow," he tells her on the drive back home. Belle stares out the window at the passing town, struck all over again by both the familiarity (so startling to the lady she once wholly was) and the newness (a revelation despite the cursed persona grafted into her heart and soul). "There are a few things I need to retrieve from my shop."

"Could…" Belle reminds herself to be brave and looks away from the window to her husband. His profile is dear and just as welcome as it is a novelty. "Could we stay? Just for another day? I'd like to see my father. I want him to know I'm safe."

Since she is looking right at him, she sees it—the tightening around his eyes, the pursing of his lips. A grimace, really. She wonders if it is her or her father that he doesn't trust (knows it is probably both, and she can't entirely blame him after what happened during the curse).

"If you'd like," he says after a pause that stretches too long.

Belle can't resist reaching across the seat between them to clasp her hand over his on the wheel. And just like her husband (from before), his eyes latch onto that touch as if it is a wholly new concept for him (for the Dark One, she imagines it is). "Thank you," she says. "I won't keep you long. I know how desperately you must want to find your son. Just one day."

"One day," he repeats, sounding so dazed she wonders if he even knows what he's saying.

Once parked (once her hand has fallen away from his), Rumplestiltskin seems to reclaim his composure. He waits for her to climb out of the car, and together, they walk up the steps to the front door. It's unlocked. She wasn't entirely in her right mind (or rather, in one mind) when she left this morning.

"Tea?" she asks as soon as they're inside, and she thinks she hears a quiet sigh of relief from her husband.

"Yes," he says. "I'll meet you there."

Though it takes a great deal of self-control, Belle doesn't ask him what he means to do while she makes up a tray to take to the library. He's been the one to do this for so long that it isn't just her new memories that leave her a bit clumsy, fumbling through cabinets to find everything she needs. His chipped cup is missing, of course (she wonders if it's still in his pocket), but she grabs a different cup and heads to the library.

It's only been ten minutes, give or take, since she's seen him, but for some reason, when he looks over at her entrance and their eyes meet, she feels a frisson of excitement tingle down her spine. Her breath catches in her throat.

Their hands bump and nudge and jostle together as he helps her ready their tea, and then, both of them working on muscle memory and habit, she thinks, they take their normal seats. The couch where she curls against the arm closest to his chair, while he sits with his cane propped to the side and his teacup on the end-table between them.

To one part of her, this is comfortable, settling her nerves, reassuring her. To another, it all seems awkward, the silence too stilted.

She reaches for something to say but is saved from having to scrape words together when Rumplestiltskin actually yawns. A smile tugs at her lips at the sight of it—the Dark One, the immortal imp, wielder of more evil magic than any other being. And he's tired. Yawning into his teacup and rubbing his eyes with calloused fingers.

It makes something (selfish; possessive) inside her thrill to know that she is the only one who gets to see him like this.

(Though she wonders if instead of glorying in this moment, she should be terrified that the Dark One can get tired, here in this new land, with so many enemies lying in wait and her his most obvious vulnerability.)

"It's been a long day," she murmurs, uncurling from the couch. "Shall we leave this mess for tomorrow and go upstairs?"

His eyes widen and he stares as she sets her half-drunk tea aside and stands.

"Come on," she coaxes. When she bends and takes his hand, he rises and follows her.

"Belle," he manages when they make it upstairs. She says nothing, and he drifts in her wake until they reach their bedroom. "Belle," he says again, balking. "You don't have to… The terms of the deal between Mr. Gold and Isabel are no longer—"

"I choose you," she reminds him, and tugs at his hand until he follows her into the bedroom.

"You know who I am now."

Belle turns and smiles up at her husband. "You're Rumplestiltskin," she says easily. "And you asked me to stay."

"Yes," he breathes out. His eyes are so dark, swallowing up every bit of light until Belle feels as if he is a sun that has caught her in his orbit. Her hands itch to reach up, to pull him down to her, to wrap him close.

But.

She is Belle as well as Isabel, and he doesn't know her. (Not yet.)

He is the Dark One with magic at his fingertips now and a quest she doesn't entirely understand the scope of. (But is starting to.)

There will be time for that. There will be time for everything.

"Let's go to bed," she whispers. "Like we always do."

Something eases in the line of his shoulders, and Belle feels safe in dropping his hand and fleeing to the bathroom.

Once the door is closed between them, she stands there, her heart pounding, her blood roaring in her ears, unable to move. She meets her eyes in the mirror, and then cannot look away. It is Isabel Gold staring back at her—Isabel Gold in her dress, in her hairstyle, in her jewelry (in the ring on her left ring finger), but it is Belle that peers out through those eyes, like a prisoner confined to a cell too long to fully trust the open door and alluring sunlight.

Rumplestiltskin.

Her husband.

Both. Neither. He is her dearest friend and a complete stranger. He is everything she wants and so much that mystifies her. He is a mystery with layers to uncover but also the monster at the heart of all the darkest stories she read as she was growing up.

It is Isabel inside her that helps her change into her nightgown and see to the rest of her nighttime routine. But it is Belle who summons up the courage necessary to smile and step back into the bedroom. She finds Rumplestiltskin still standing where she left him, playing his cane through his hands and looking more nervous than anyone in their world would believe he could look.

"Shall I leave the lamp on?" she asks. She immediately regrets the question. The dark is an enemy (a nightmare that is a memory of long weeks spent alone and slowly starving), and she cannot sleep without a light to cut through it. By asking him, she's made it seem an option. She can't—

"As you like," he says with a wave of his hand before hiding himself away in the bathroom.

Belle bites her lip to hide a smile and busies herself crawling into bed. When Rumplestiltskin emerges, dressed in pajamas and still just as nervous as before his retreat, Belle lifts the covers invitingly.

"Belle," he tries to say, but she interrupts him.

"It's okay."

(If he balks…if he hesitates…she will lose her courage. And she wants to be brave. She wants to be the person he seems to see when he stares at her with so much awe and wonder in his eyes.)

His movements are as wary as a skittish animal's, but slowly, bit by bit, he drifts closer. Closer. Sits on the edge of the bed. Lies back, stiff and tense. By the warm glow of the lamp, she can see the exhaustion weighing him down. Whatever means he used to bring magic here, no matter that he's eased himself into it all day, it has worn at him.

Mr. Gold could only sleep well next to his wife.

She hopes Rumplestiltskin can still find rest next to her.

Drawing the covers up around them both, Belle shifts closer to his side. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but he stiffens still further.

"You don't have to prove yourself against the beast, dear," he grits. "You've been plenty brave already."

Stung, Belle draws back. "I'm not offering myself up like a sacrifice," she says. "I want this! Or I did before you said that."

This at least makes him finally meet her eyes, but only so he can regard her suspiciously (guardedly). "Why?" he finally asks. "You could be with your father right now. You could have a life outside these dark walls. You don't have to stay locked away with a monster."

"I'm not locked away," she retorts. "And I'll see my father tomorrow. You're not a monster. And this is my life. It's my choice where I spend it—and who with."

So close to him, she can hear the slight catch to his breathing. "Belle…" His eyes fall away from hers. "You think you know me because you know Mr. Gold. But there's more to me than the husband the Evil Queen's curse saddled you with."

"I know," she says as evenly as she can manage. "But…"

She thinks of a lonely bookstore and honey-golden bookcases. She thinks of a warm embrace during the night and a shy tour of his antiques and treasures. She thinks of everything she knows about him (and all she has yet to uncover) and she knows that for all her fear, for all the thorns waiting to prick her on this path, she doesn't want to lose him. (She doesn't want to be a stranger, dearie, held at arm's length and treated with only a performance rather than the real man beneath.)

"We should start as we mean to go on," she says, layering her voice with all her determination, and then she scoots closer, lays her head on his chest, and drapes her arm over his chest.

He's rigid, but she feels it—the tremor that shudders through his arm as he instinctively moves to cradle her close.

He doesn't want distance between them any more than she does, she thinks with overwhelming relief. And feels her eyes sting with tears when he does move to curl around her, his hands tight as always, his nose buried in her hair.

Belle closes her eyes and decides that if she can just have this, she will brave whatever surprises her husband still has in store for her.

With the lamp on and Rumplestiltskin's warmth seeping through to every inch of her, Belle falls quickly into sleep, and she doesn't stir all night. Rumplestiltskin does, though. He never lets her go, never pushes her away, but Belle wakes to the feel of tension threaded through his body, the tiniest little noise escaping his clenched jaw, and by the light of the early sun, she can see his eyes rolling beneath the lids.

It shouldn't surprise her that an immortal man suffering under a curse (a man with a son, whom he misses and loves and was willing to trade a whole world for) has nightmares, but it tugs at something deep and tender inside her.

"It's all right," she murmurs, smoothing her hand back over his brow and through his hair. His breath hitches until she repeats the motion, then he settles, relaxed once more.

Belle bites her lip to keep from smiling. (Awake, he may regard her half as if she is a stranger, but in his sleep, he trusts her.) It's still early, she thinks, and both parts of herself—the wife who's been missing her husband and the newly awakened lady who yearns to explore the mysteries of this beloved stranger—would prefer to stay here in bed with Rumplestiltskin rather than rouse them both and watch how many layers he uses to armor himself against her.

But she's hungry, too, and so after a few moments, she forces herself to separate from Rumplestiltskin. His arms fall away from her as easily as ever, but she doesn't imagine the new crease in his brow as he turns to burrow into the warm spot she leaves behind. Even sleeping, he looks exhausted. She should have asked him what he had to do to bring magic here, how long it will wear on him, if there's anything she can do to help him (she wants to ask him things like, do you really love me? Is this real? Did you foresee this happening? Why did I end up your wife?).

Smoothing his hair back once more, Belle doesn't resist the urge to press a kiss to his temple before she finds her robe and heads downstairs. She'll make tea and toast (with plenty of jam, the way he likes it) and bring it up on a tray for him. If he feels grateful enough to stay rather than flee her presence immediately, she certainly won't complain.

Unfortunately, before Belle can make it to the kitchen, there's a knocking at the door. Well, there's a regular knock, polite enough even if startling, and then, before Belle can calm her racing heartbeat, there's a pounding.

If they wake Rumplestiltskin… she thinks as she hurries to unlock and open the front door. And she doesn't mind the frown she's wearing when she finds herself facing two people Belle recognizes and one that Isabel does.

"Sheriff Swan," she says before her eyes flit away from the frowning sheriff to the shocked faces of her former rulers. "Your majesties."

Tellingly, though, she doesn't curtsy. She's in her nightgown and a robe and thin slippers, her husband is (hopefully) still sleeping upstairs, and this is her home they've invaded scarcely an hour past dawn. Regardless that it looks like they haven't slept at all, Belle doesn't think she's out of bounds for not inviting them inside.

"Belle!" Snow White exclaims. She lifts her arms, as if she means to try for a hug, before she pauses and falls back against David. "You…what are you doing here?"

"Mrs. Gold," Emma interjects much more sharply, "we need to speak to your husband."

"He's sleeping," Belle says shortly. She's small and barefoot, but that doesn't stop her from taking up as much room in the doorway as she can to prevent them from just barging past her. "And it's far too early to disturb him."

"Sleeping!?" Emma gapes. "Are you serious? That man almost got Henry killed and he just comes home and enjoys a bit of beauty sleep? Gold! Gold!" she begins yelling over Belle's shoulder.

Belle tries very hard not to get angry. In her experience, anger doesn't solve much, and often only invites further problems. But here, in her own home, ignored even while standing right in front of this woman her husband has done so much for, Belle feels her temper cracking.

"Be quiet!" she snaps, one hand coming up to carefully but firmly push Emma back a step. "I don't know what happened to Henry, but I do know that my husband has never harmed a child—and I know for a fact he's done nothing but help you since you've come to town. So if you have questions for him—or problems you want him to solve—then you're going to have to wait until he's ready to meet with you."

"Belle, please," Snow White says. She steps between her and Emma, a protective move that has Belle arching an eyebrow. "We're just trying to protect everyone in town. Regina may be locked up now, but she'll find a way out. You of all people know that."

A cold chill snakes its way down Belle's spine, making her hands ball into fists. "I of all people," she says softly, "know that the only reason Regina is still around to be a threat is because you refused to do the right thing when you had the chance."

Snow has the nerve to look hurt. As if it wasn't Belle who paid for her kindness, once and then again. As if she were the one who was used, and then exploited, and then forgotten.

"Belle," David says, his voice gentle and earnest and persistent. "Is this why you're here? Do you think he can protect you? Because he always demands a price, and it's always too high."

Belle tilts her chin up, refusing to show a moment of weakness (refusing to let them see the salt stinging the backs of her eyes). "He's my husband," she says firmly. "And incidentally, Ms. Blanchard, how are you enjoying your freedom? I don't remember Rumple asking for a price when he defended your innocence. And David, aren't you only a king, here with Snow, because Rumplestiltskin helped you along—several times? And you, Sheriff…" Belle narrows her eyes as she faces down the final member of this strange trio. "You may have broken the curse keeping us all trapped, but don't for a second think you could have done it without my husband's help. Seems to me, rather than pounding on the door making demands of him, you should be composing a thank you."

"A thank you?" Emma snaps. "I'd rather punch him in the face. This is all his doing."

"And you know this how?" Belle asks.

Emma blinks, speechless.

Belle turns back to the royal couple. "Thank you for coming by, but I left your service a long time ago and have no intention of returning to it. So, if you please, wait for normal business hours and look for Rumplestiltskin at his shop."

"We can help you!" Snow blurts. "Belle, please, we were friends once."

"Were we?" Belle asks. She doesn't remember that. Belle or Isabel, she doesn't remember ever having any friends. (All she remembers, from that other world, in that luxurious palace, left to languish in a set of rooms with a single bookcase, is the fact that no one came to visit her.)

"The curse is broken now," David says. "You don't have to stay with him anymore."

This seems to galvanize Emma, who places a hand over her badge as if to remind them all that she still wears it. "If you want to leave, we can protect you from him."

"I highly doubt that," Belle says. "But it doesn't matter. I'm exactly where I want to be."

"You heard her," a voice says from behind Belle, so soft, so matter-of-fact, that it drops the temperature by about twenty degrees. Belle's eyes fall closed as she reluctantly gives up her half-formed plans to surprise him with breakfast in bed (to coax as many intoxicating kisses from his lips as he'd allow), and leans back into the warmth of her husband's form when he joins her at the door. "You can find me at the shop."

With one hand, he pulls Belle back, and with the other, he slams the door closed on the three intruders.

When she turns, she finds her husband, fully dressed and put together, studying her with a puzzled expression.

"Hey," she offers, her smile a bit more shy than she intended. It's a heady feeling, having all his attention fixed on her, but she thinks she could easily grow addicted to it (maybe she already is, and that's why she feels like dancing, euphoric with the fact that he's still here, that he chose her rather than the useful pawns outside).

"It's not too late," he says, voice quiet, eyes darting from hers. "You could still throw your lot in with them. The hero types do seem to look out for each other."

"Not always," she says, her jaw clenching. "And anyway, I'm happier here. With you," she adds, in case the subtext is too cryptic for him.

"They scared you," he says after a moment, and Belle feels every muscle in her body tensing.

"What? No. No, they didn't."

Slowly, as hesitantly as if he expects to be rebuffed at any instant, Rumplestiltskin reaches out with his free hand toward hers. She meets him in the middle, twining their fingers together.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For what? I haven't even had a chance to make you breakfast."

"For protecting me," he says, and when his eyes lift to meet hers, Belle isn't just euphoric—she's ecstatic.

He may not have said the words back to her. He may be flighty and tentative and unsure. But that look in his eyes, the soft squeeze of her fingers…it says everything she needs it to.

He loves her.

"I choose you," she reminds him, and then, because she's been self-controlled long enough (because there is still a chill in her bones from buried memories brought too close to the surface), Belle throws her arms around Rumplestiltskin's neck. The tears stinging the backs of her eyes vanish the moment she feels him return the hug. With him this close, their hearts side by side, she is enveloped by him—his warmth and the smell of magic and metal and the feel of his embrace transitioning from that tentative softness to that desperate hope.

"You mentioned something about breakfast. Is that offer still open?" he asks eventually, and Belle laughs and holds on for just a moment longer.

As he adds lemon to Isabel's—Belle's—tea, Rumplestiltskin tries to calculate how long it's been since he's eaten breakfast—or any meal—with an uncursed woman who wants nothing from him other than his company. As he accepts both the plate of toast and the side of teasing about his sweet tooth that Belle offers him, he tries to pin down any time that he's ever been with anyone who didn't want something extraneous (something more, something other, something besides, just him). As he pretends he isn't just staring at Belle and drinking in every move, every expression, she makes, he tries not to get used to this.

It won't last.

Nothing this good ever does.

(There's only one other person who ever loved Rumplestiltskin just for himself, and he ruined that as he does everything. Even if he finds Bae and apologizes and begs for forgiveness, when he does, it won't change the fact that his own son can no longer love him unconditionally.)

"So," Belle finally says, her eyes locked on the teacup in her hands. "What are your plans for today?"

And here it is. The first test she will pose him (the first step toward losing her).

"I won't help them for free," he says as neutrally as he can manage. "That's not what I do. That doesn't change just because I'm leaving town."

"But you're still waiting?" She darts a sidelong glance his way. "You won't leave today?"

He frowns at her. "I promised you a day."

Her smile is so wide, so bright, that Rumplestiltskin can only blink in the face of it. "Oh, good. I thought…I thought maybe you'd want to leave right away to keep from getting embroiled in whatever's going on out there."

His stomach settles even as his heart gives a strange flip in his chest. "If you're referring to the Charmings, then you don't have to worry. I owe them nothing, and some of them owe me. But if it's Regina you're referring to, then yes, I do plan on paying her a visit."

"Why?" Her open curiosity, her lack of guile, is refreshing, and it makes Rumplestiltskin feel almost playful.

"After all we've been through, it wouldn't be right to leave without saying goodbye," he says with a twist of his lips and a flick of his fingers. He says nothing of the answers he wants from her (or the payback she deserves for playing such a trick as Isabel on him; for inflicting him on Belle).

Belle smiles. As if she gets the joke (though how can she? how, when he was so careful not to betray how much he manipulated to get his curse-caster?). As if she finds him funny rather than off-putting (he supposes there's a first time for everything).

"So we'll leave tomorrow?" she asks him. "In the morning?"

Even this sideways mention of his search for Bae has his playfulness vanishing beneath the heavy weight of his guilt. Or is it fear (like usual)? Either way, it's very nearly paralyzing.

His curse has come and gone.

He's here, in the Land Without Magic, after centuries of plotting and dealing and working.

Magic is crackling at his fingertips, simply waiting to be directed, to lead him to his son.

Bae is so close. Closer than he's been in so long that it suddenly, absurdly, seems like Rumplestiltskin's a new person entirely and this quest is the quest of someone who no longer even exists.

But he does exist. He's still here, the father (the crippled coward) still living in the heart of the Dark One beneath the faded remnants of Mr. Gold.

"Tomorrow," he grits. "In the morning. Pack whatever you think you'll need or want. I don't know how long we'll be gone."

There's a pause, long enough he has to look toward Belle (afraid she'll already be thinking better of her choice to accompany him). He finds her looking somewhat surprised. "We're coming back?" she asks him.

"Of course. If Bae wants to."

And he hopes he does. Out there in the world, Rumplestiltskin has little means to protect his son. Here, with magic, with a town who knows to fear him, his son would be safe.

"Oh." Belle's eyes light up. "Then I'll just have a quick visit with my father. He knows that I've always longed to go on adventures and see the world, so he surely won't begrudge me the opportunity here."

From what he knows of Moe French, Rumplestiltskin can only hope that Lord Maurice is a better man (for the man's sake, he'd better not touch one hair on his daughter's head). But that's secondary next to the realization that has him shifting in his seat to face Belle full-on. His knee nudges up against her hip, but she doesn't seem to mind, turning to meet him with an open expression.

"Wait. Are you saying you thought we were leaving forever?"

"It's a big world," she says. "It might take a while to find one boy."

"Magic will lead me straight to him," he says with a cursory gesture (with a desperate hope he doesn't dare examine too closely). "But…you still chose to come with me."

"I know."

"Even though you thought it would mean never coming back."

"I said I would go with you forever."

"But…"

"But what?" She leans in. Her eyes are so blue, attracting all the sunlight, refracting back bright hopes and dreams. She smells of roses and tea and jam, and her hand is warm, nearly hot, on his knee as she keeps her balance, tilted so close to him.

She can't be real. This is all too good to be true. And Regina chooses the worst times to employ patient subtlety.

Too quickly, he reaches out and places his hand over her chest. Her heart beats, strong and sure (it doesn't quicken at all in fear at his abrupt move), there beneath her ribcage. The feel of it is doubled when she lays her hand over his and his finger nudges up against the pulse in her throat.

Safe.

For now.

With a slight tug, Rumplestiltskin pulls his hand free and reaches for his cane. "I should go," he says. "The sooner we're packed, the sooner we can leave tomorrow."

"Okay." Belle watches him with something shading the brightness of her eyes. It almost looks like disappointment, but that doesn't make any sense. People aren't disappointed when he gives them distance and leaves them be. They're relieved.

But Belle chose him. And she stood between him and the heroes without backing down. And she hugged him as if she wouldn't prefer to be in any other man's arms. And she has already promised to help him find his son.

Magic is strange here, as he knew enough to expect, but it comes at his call anyway, smooth and easy in comparison to when he first tried—and failed—at it at the well the morning before. He gestures with his hand and a rose appears, crimson and glistening with dew.

"For you," he says with the suggestion of a bow for Belle, still in her seat. "If you'll have it."

It's impossible to misread the delight in her face as she accepts the rose. "Why, thank you," she says, genteelly, then giggles and lifts the blossom to her nose to smell it.

It's such a pretty picture (such an alluring temptation) that Rumplestiltskin very nearly pulls her up and into his arms and against his lips. He thinks that still, even now (with Belle looking out at him from Isabel's eyes), she would let him. She would kiss him back. She would follow him if he led her up to their bedroom.

But would she stay afterward? Would she still be happy with just him? Or would she want more? Would she be disappointed? Does she have more of Milah or of Cora in her? Or is she all Malcolm, biding her time and calculating when would be the wisest to trade him in for what she truly wants?

(He dares not think she might be like Bae, because he has never failed anyone as badly as he has his son.)

Rumplestiltskin clenches his hand tight on the handle of his cane and fashions a smile for her.

He made a vow, a long time ago, to love nothing else. To allow nothing to come between him and his son, no matter how tempting or how terrifying. And Belle is both those things, but he will not falter, not now, not so close to the finish line.

"Can we still keep our teatime tonight?" Belle asks before he can make it to the door.

He should say no. There's so much to be accomplished today, so many debtors to be reminded of their deals, so many magical items to be collected and packed, so many plans to make and maps to find.

But Belle makes him toast with jam like Isabel did, and hugs him like Isabel seemed to want to, and for all the tiny differences between them, he thinks there is more of Isabel in Belle than he ever dreamed there might be. So he opens his mouth (and he is weak) and says, "I'll try to make it back in time."

Belle smiles and rises to her feet to kiss him on the cheek (if this is a trap, a trick, a snare, Rumplestiltskin vows the entire town will burn for it) and sends him on his way.

When he emerges from the house into the cold street, he simultaneously feels like a prisoner granted a reprieve and a man banished from his beloved home.

Regina first, he thinks, and then… Well, then he'll make his plans from there.

There was a time when Rumplestiltskin expected a mob to come for him, hands still wet with Regina's blood, but seeing the streets filled with people who can't seem to find the motivation necessary to stop crying and start using a phonebook and common sense, he realizes he needn't have been so cautious with his plans. Ah, well, better safe than sorry.

Even nudging past knots of gossiping townspeople, it doesn't take more than ten minutes for Rumplestiltskin to drive from his house to the police station. Knowing Emma's lack of creativity (and how busy she's been the past couple days), he isn't surprised in the least to find Regina locked in a common jail cell, though he does wonder about the lack of guards.

"Magic is different here now, dearie," he says, not above smirking at Regina's pitiful efforts to get the lock of her cell open.

Her eyes narrow as she takes him in. He knows what she sees: Mr. Gold as he's always been. Perfectly put together, perfectly in control. While she? She languishes in a prison cell, her clothes wilted, her exhaustion smudged across her face for all to see. The tracks of tears are evident for any willing to look. Rumplestiltskin isn't.

He marvels at how similar this scene is to another in an old world: one of them in a cell, the other taunting from the outside. If one only lives long enough, one comes to play all the different parts in the same scene.

"This is all your doing," she spits, bristling like a cat who doesn't know when it's up against an enemy it can't beat.

"Most things are. But it's funny to hear you say that, when just a few hours ago, it was Miss Swan and her parents accusing me of the very same."

"Get to it, Rumple." Regina rolls her eyes (she's always been good at using bravado to mask uncertainty). "What do you want? Don't even pretend we were working for the same things, not anymore. So what? You're here to kill me? This was all a huge con to defeat me?"

Rumplestiltskin laughs. If it's a high, twittering laugh, well, who could blame him? It certainly freezes Regina in her place. "Defeat you? Why, dearie, I made you what you were. And you played your part beautifully. For that, you get to live."

She stares at him. For an instant, just one tiny second, Rumplestiltskin looks at her and wonders if things would be different if Cora hadn't lied, if he hadn't walked away from that calamitous battle without looking back, if Regina were his. He wonders what this scene might look like if they were father and daughter rather than…well, whatever they are today.

"You…you're letting me live." Suddenly, she is a blur of motion, pressing against the bars, straining for him. "Then let me out of here! We can be allies again. Help me get magic back and I—"

"You what?" Rumplestiltskin tilts his head to study her. His moment of weakness vanishes, and all he sees is the girl who let grief and rage and misdirected blame warp her in every way (she didn't even need a mystical dagger or a benefactor to become the monster of her own story). "What, exactly, do you think I need from you?"

"Well, I don't know." She smirks at him. "But you're here, aren't you? You must want something."

He hates that she knows that. (He hates even more that it's true.)

He walks past her cell, affecting unconcern. "It's true," he says, "that we are here, in this town, and that magic is back, because I wished it that way. But there's one thing here that is not my doing."

When Regina realizes (his ignorance, his ask, his lack), it is like she breathes in new life. "Isabel," she says. "Your little wife. The one I gave you. But you dealt for her, remember?"

"I dealt for a good life," he snarls. "You added her. Why?"

With wide eyes and spread hands, she is the picture of innocence—and one big mark of guilt. "I thought I was doing you a favor. You helped me, all those times. Giving you a girl to help pass the time, well, that was just the least I could do."

"I'm not like you," he says with a curl of his lips. "I don't need puppets in bed."

"And yet…you haven't sent her away, have you?"

His silence is answer enough.

Regina's smirk widens. "Well, make up your mind, Rumple—do you want her or don't you?"

"Why did you make her my wife? Why her? What is it about Belle of Avonlea that you chose her to put in my bed? A punishment? A trap?"

"Oh, Rumple." Regina laughs, and if he thought their roles reversed when he first entered from that last conversation in their old world, then this only cements it. The one behind bars, it seems, is always the one holding the trump card. "Belle and I go way back, you know. Why, at one point, it was like she was my only friend."

"You're lying," he says, but it's too quiet to be the snarl of defiance he meant it to be.

"Am I?" Regina asks with an arched brow (and that's the thing about Regina: she's a poor student ninety percent of the time, and then, when he least expects it, she is his prize pupil in all things).

"Tell me the truth," he leans into her space, glaring at her through the bars, "please."

The moment stretches, both of them expectant, but then it snaps and triumph gleams dark and bitter from Regina's eyes.

"Well, look at that," she says. "Seems your pleases have lost their punch."

He's the Dark One again, his dagger safely back in his possession (he retrieved it from its new hiding place even before making his way from the well to the cabin he expected to find empty), magic crackling once more in his veins…and still he is powerless. Beaten. A step behind.

"I hope you like this cell." Rumplestiltskin straightens and flicks his cuff straight again. "Without magic, you're going to be in here a good long time. But hey, at least you don't have to worry about Henry, right? He's safe and sound with his mother."

Regina inhales as sharply as if he gut-punched her. "I'm his mother!" she snaps.

"Really, dearie?" Rumplestiltskin finds his own cold dealer's smile now that her smirk has withered away. "I did try to warn you. Too bad you didn't listen to me."

"Wait! I'll tell you—about Belle. Just help me use magic again!"

"You think that'll win your boy's heart, do you?" Rumplestiltskin turns his back on her (she won't talk, seeing as the truth is her only bargaining chip, and even if she were to answer his questions, he couldn't trust that she'd choose truth). "No, I think our lessons are over. Time for the little bird to try to fly on her own."

"How did you get the magic to work?" she calls after him as he walks away. "Why won't it unlock for me?"

The doors close, one by one, between them, but Rumplestiltskin's mind is caught in the delicate snare of her final questions.

To be perfectly honest (something he never is), he assumed that after a bit of trial and error, Regina (and anyone else trying) would be able to access the magic, no matter the differences. But Regina's been caged for nearly a full day, and the first thing she would have done when confronted with the angry villagers on her porch would be to try for magic. If she still hasn't managed it…why was Rumplestiltskin able to reach it so quickly?

"Ah, but of course," he mutters to himself as he parks in front of his shop to see Emma waiting for him at the door. Her body fairly sizzles with her furious impatience—and with something more.

The product of True Love, he thinks. The very same True Love he used to bring magic to this town.

Which means that only True Love can establish a link between a person and the transplanted magic. Touching Emma, being around her, just feeling that spark that lights up the air around her, would do it eventually.

Or, if one should happen to have a True Love themselves, that might do the trick as well.

Rumplestiltskin nearly misses the step up to the curb as he thinks of the day before, when he gave in and kissed Belle and felt the curse inside him stir and shift.

Felt magic awaken?

But that would mean…

"Gold," Emma says with a wealth of frustration in the name.

He has no patience for her. Not now. Not with this tremor surging through his belly, this calcified hope spearing his heart. And not with only hours left to prepare everything he needs for his departure from town.

"Why, Miss Swan," he says anyway (no need to give away any weakness to a woman with all of the Charmings' stubbornness and few of their inhibitions). "What a pleasant surprise."

"I need to talk to you," she says as she follows him into the shop.

Rumplestiltskin ignores her. There's a set of suitcases already packed at the house, but here, he has a chest ready and waiting for the last of his potions. And maps. If he wants the tracking spells to work outside of Storybrooke, he'll need lots and lots of maps to soak up the seeking potions, anything to narrow his search down.

"Are you even listening to me, Gold?" Emma demands from behind him. "You know you could have gotten Henry killed. The least you can—"

"Really? And tell me, Miss Swan, how did you save your dear boy? What is it that saw you reunited with the very parents you've been searching for your whole life? And oh yes, isn't the curse broken? I really don't see the point to any of your complaints."

"Why are we still here?" she demands.

And this, he knows, is the crux of it. This is why she's lost her parents somewhere between his house and his shop, and why she looks almost hunted as she darts a glance over her shoulder toward the front door…and why, savior or not, she is still such a useful pawn.

"You don't want to go back, do you?" It's not a question, though. He can recognize the stench of terror. "And you can't exactly tell Father dear and Mother dearest that you have no intention of exchanging this world for that of your birthplace. So, tell me, Miss Swan, what exactly are you doing here?"

"I just…I want to make sure that Henry's safe. That we're all safe. Here, not in some fairy tale land where there are monsters and imps and evil witches behind every enchanted tree or troll-like rock. Henry shouldn't have to fight dragons just to survive another day."

Rumplestiltskin nods, careful and polite and aloof and everything Emma needs him to be (Mr. Gold rather than Rumplestiltskin; and he can't help but wonder if Belle wants the same thing). "So that's what you want. What I want is to be left alone. No mobs. No pesky little sheriffs and her parents questioning my every move. A non-interference guarantee."

In that moment, as Emma studies him so closely, Rumplestiltskin realizes that he really is leaving. He really is about to put all his most important belongings into his car and drive away out into an alien world. He's planned it, of course, anticipated it, but…but all along, there was always the niggling feeling at the back of his mind reminding him that he is a coward and that he's already let go of his son once.

But he's going to do it. Emma's staring at him, the Charmings are somewhere out there trying to stir up people into finding a way home—and Rumplestiltskin doesn't care. He doesn't want to be any part of it, feels no temptation to meddle and stir pots and tie strings to every available elbow. Instead, he's simply…tired.

In contrast, Emma looks desperate. And terrified. And so engaged in everything happening that it's impossible for him not to see her, this savior he's foreseen for so very long. She's been both the thorn in his side and the light at the end of his tunnel, but for nearly the first time, he looks at her as a person rather than a pawn.

"Fine," Emma says. "As long as you give me the same. We keep out of each other's way. You don't hurt anyone. And we stay here."

"Well, in this world anyway," Rumplestiltskin says, his mouth curving into a smile.

Emma shakes her head. "No. Here in Storybrooke. No one will be leaving after what happened at the town line."

The ground seems to shake beneath his feet. Rumplestiltskin's hand is literally on a map, a seeking potion just in the travel case behind it, and he cannot breathe.

Bae, he thinks. I'm coming. I promise.

"What?" he asks. "What happens if you cross the town line?"

"You lose your memories." Emma actually shrugs. Rumplestiltskin's entire world is collapsing, and she shrugs (he doesn't know why he's surprised; such has always been the way of things). "Or your real memories, anyway. All that's left is the Storybrooke personality."

No. No, this can't be happening. This can't be true.

All magic comes with a price, something whispers in his mind, and he sees again that cloud of magic expelled from the well, covering the town—locking them in place.

Once more, he's separated from his son (at his own doing).

"Gold!" Emma shouts. Somehow, she's directly in front of him, too close, her eyes thunderous. "You better not be trying to welch already! Tell me, why are we still here? Are we going to be sent to some strange place? What will happen to Henry?"

"No need to fret," he says. Or rather, Mr. Gold says. For the first time in a long time, it is the pawnbroker who can keep it together long enough for Rumplestiltskin's knowledge to assure the savior that nothing will take them back to their old world (away from Bae), that she doesn't have to worry about the curse wholly dissolving (not without Bae here), that she and her boy are safe (and together, like he and Bae will never get to be).

The savior is barely out of the shop, his little bell still ringing, when Rumplestiltskin shatters into a thousand pieces. Around him, glass shards rain down on the wooden floors, priceless treasures become worthless junk, seeking potions are thrown at the wall to drip down into the baseboards, and at the center of it all, Rumplestiltskin scrabbles for the slightest hold on his sanity.

His boy. His precious, brave, good boy, still alone, still abandoned, still thinking his papa doesn't love him.

It's his curse that saves Rumplestiltskin then. Holding the dagger makes the darkness rise to the surface, grounding him, reminding him that this is hardly the first obstacle they've faced. He'll get through this. He'll punch through the barrier between Storybrooke and the Land Without Magic if it takes the life-force of everyone trapped in this bubble with him. He will find his son.

Hours later, Rumplestiltskin finds himself at the town line, staring across at a world he cannot reach. Even more hours later, the rising moon brings him back to himself.

He's late for tea. So late that, really, he's missed it entirely.

Rumplestiltskin drags himself home (but how can it be home, how, when there is no Bae and won't be for who knows how long?) and upstairs to the bedroom lit by a single lamp.

And there, sitting up in bed, setting her book aside, looking worried and relieved all at once, she's there. Still here. Still waiting. (Safe and without any gashes in her brow from her oaf of a father.)

(Maybe she's a distraction. Maybe she's a betrayal waiting to happen. Or maybe…maybe she's exactly who she seems: too good to be true but real anyway.)

"Isabel," he rasps (because he needs her, that woman who let him lie in her lap, who petted his hair, who made him brownies, who never laughed or scorned him but always invited him close, who saw through him so that she knew the greatest gift she could give him was company, something to shatter his loneliness). "Isabel."

"Sweetheart," she says, instead of correcting him.

And she opens her arms.

And she reaches for him.

And Rumplestiltskin shatters all over again in the safety of her embrace.