A/N: While this chapter is mostly dealing with S1E12 (Skin Deep), I've borrowed and tweaked snippets from S1E13 (What Happened to Frederick?) and S1E19 (The Return), too.

Chapter 38

"How's it going?" Henry called softly, and Neal gave a start.

"Aren't you supposed to be standing lookout?" he demanded in a loud whisper. He glanced up to see that his son was, indeed, still standing several yards away, his gaze fixed on the street.

"The coast is clear," Henry reported. "I just wanted to know how much longer?'

"It's coming," Neal said. "It's all about the tumblers. You just have to know how to work them."

"Cool!" Henry exclaimed, walking over. "Can you teach me?"

Neal sighed. "Sure. Some time when you aren't supposed to be standing lookout." He grinned at the guilty expression on his son's face. "Relax," he said, as the lock clicked open. "We're done. I should tell you, though," he added, "this lock's been on for some time and I don't think anyone's tried opening it recently. Unless there's another way in, I don't think anybody's inside."

Henry absorbed that. "The clock tower's still the highest place in town," he said. "From there, we might be able to tell if there's another tower in the woods. Hey," he went on, sounding more excited, "maybe that's why this place is locked up! Because the Evil Queen doesn't want anybody seeing where the other tower is!" And then, sounding only slightly more subdued, he added, "or else, there is another way in. Like a secret passage leading underground from the town hall to here. That could be it, too!"

Neal shook his head, but he was smiling. "Guess there's one way to find out," he said, pulling the door open and motioning to Henry to follow. In for a penny, in for a pound…

Emma's day had been on a downhill slide since breakfast. (Actually, it had been on a downhill slide since the smoke alarm had got her up this morning, with a small uptick for breakfast with Neal over Granny's pancakes.) The call that had pulled her away from the table and out of the diner had come from Gold's security company. They'd received notification that his burglar alarm had gone off.

When she'd reached his address, she'd found the door ajar and the lock broken. She'd raised her eyebrows at the sight of a piece of green wire in the keyhole. Evidently, the burglar had tried to pick the lock first, before taking a heavier tool and smashing the mechanism. There was an electrical wire flush with the door jamb that had been neatly snipped in two. That probably explained why the alarm wasn't sounding now, though it had been activated long enough to alert its installer. She'd moved inside cautiously, well aware that the burglar might not yet have left.

It had been only a few minutes before Gold had returned, and there's been a tense moment where they'd each been holding a gun on the other. (Emma mentally filed away for future reference the knowledge that Gold carried.) He hadn't seemed nervous or frightened. Rather, his reaction to the burglary had been one of cold fury. For the first time, Emma had thought she understood why everyone else in town seemed to be terrified of him; she'd known he was tricky, but until now, she hadn't thought that he might be dangerous. Still, he'd directed her toward the man he suspected and she'd recovered almost everything taken.

Gold hadn't been impressed. He'd brushed aside the vast pile of property that she'd recovered and focused on her failure to apprehend the culprit and the one item that hadn't been in the stash. He hadn't told her what it was, but if it was as valuable as Gold was implying, then Moe French probably had it on his person and once Emma caught up with him, she'd catch up with it.

Meanwhile, she'd been driving around town for the last few hours, missing her dinner date with Neal, and hoping to catch a break. Gold had strongly insinuated that he was about ready to take matters into his own hands, and going by the way he'd been acting, Emma had a feeling she'd better find French first. She was willing to bet that there'd be less paperwork to deal with for a burglary than for a murder, and Gold did have that gun...

As soon as the door closed behind them, Neal pulled out his phone. "I've got a flashlight app on here," he muttered. He blew air out from between his teeth. "Battery's at sixty percent," he said. "Hopefully we won't need long to search; it's less than an hour to sunset now and these boarded windows aren't letting in a whole lot of light."

Henry was looking around at the library. "I wonder if the Dark Curse brought any spell books over. If they're in here, maybe that's why it's been locked up!"

"You could be onto something," Neal said, striding over to a shelf. "On the other hand…" He pulled out a hardback volume with a jacket-protected cover. "Unless the curse gave these new identities, too, I don't think Encyclopedia Brown Saves the Day is going to give you any potion recipes." He held it out to Henry. "Good read, though, if you're interested."

Henry took it. "Thanks. Oh, and," he pulled an LED flashlight out of his backpack, "you don't have to worry about your phone."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "You always bring a flashlight to school with you?"

"Operation Cobra is always prepared," Henry smiled. Then, he added quickly, "Also, I sort of forgot to take it out of my bag from when I went into the mine. Uh, you know about that, right?"

"Your mother told me," Neal said. "Okay. Well, I know we're here because it makes sense to look for Rapunzel in a tower, but since we're really looking for Belle, I mean… we are in a library. Maybe we ought to take a look at this floor first."

Henry's eyes opened wide. "That's brilliant!" he exclaimed.

"Thanks," Neal said with a smile. "Of course, for practical reasons, we need to check this floor out anyway. If Belle's not here, we need to find a way upstairs. Be on the lookout. If we can't find her, we've got to find a stairway or an elevator or something."

"Okay," Henry said, "but just in case…" He walked over to an old-fashioned card catalogue chest of drawers and pulled one out.

"What are you looking up?" Neal asked in confusion. "And by the way, I'm sort of impressed you know what that thing is."

"My school library's got one," Henry said. "I'm checking to see if there are any books here on curses. Maybe we can get a hint about how Emma's supposed to break this one…"

They found the elevator at the opposite end of the floor. It was one of those old-fashioned jobs that needed a lever to operate. Neal had come across one on Kingston Street in Boston's Chinatown a few years ago. Then, there had been a uniformed man who'd worked the lever. Neal frowned. "I… guess it's pretty straightforward," he said slowly. "Huh. There's a basement level in this place, too."

"We can check that after," Henry said. "If Belle's Rapunzel, she's in the tower."

"Towers have lower levels," Neal reminded him.

"Well, yeah. But if there's another tower in the woods, we should be able to see it from upstairs, so if she's not here, it'll help point us toward where to look next."

"Always assuming that Belle really is Rapunzel. And that the curse didn't stick her in some cellar."

Henry shrugged. "We gotta start somewhere. And there aren't a lot of places in Storybrooke she could be, not if the Evil Queen wants to keep Rumpelstiltskin from finding her."

Neal snorted. "Well, in that case, putting the shop right across the street from the clock tower wasn't the best move."

Henry's eyes opened very wide. "Wait. You think Mr. Gold… is Rumpelstiltskin?"

Neal froze. "Uh… yeah. Sure. It fits, right?"

Henry considered. A slow smile spread across his face. "Yeah. It does! I've been trying to figure out who he was and I thought he could be, but… You really think so?"

"Yeah…?" Neal mumbled. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, I do. I-I mean if there's someone else you think it could be, you've read your book more times than I have, so…"

"No," Henry cut him off. "No, it fits. Mr. Gold is Rumpelstiltskin. So once we find Belle, we know exactly where to bring her! Come on!"

The boy practically flew into the elevator. After a second, Neal followed. And as he pulled the lever to take them higher, he couldn't help but feel that he was also getting in deeper.

Neal wasn't sure what to expect when the elevator doors opened, but the uppermost level of the clock tower proved to be a vast empty space. Very little light filtered in through the translucent clock face. The walls were dark wooden beams and the ceiling seemed to be at least two stories up. There was a musty smell to the place, the air was stale, and a layer of dust covered everything.

He and Henry were the only two people standing there.

"I thought…" Henry's face fell. Then, he took a few steps forward. "Hello?" he called. "HELLO?" When no response was forthcoming, he shouted, "CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?"

The acoustics didn't seem to be suited for echoes, Neal noted dispassionately. Sighing, he walked over to Henry and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry," he said. "It did seem like a good idea. We can check the basement."

Henry nodded sadly. "Yeah. Wait. You said that we could open the clock face and see if we could spot another tower in the woods."

"I did, didn't I?" Neal nodded, smiling a bit at the hope in his son's voice. Striding over to the massive round glass, he pulled open the inner door and groaned. "I really did think that there was a chance it was just the inner glass that was opaque," he said, gesturing to the frosted disc, "but it doesn't look like we'll be able to see anything through this."

Henry swallowed hard. "Let's take the stairs down," he said. "Maybe there's a-a cell or something we'll pass on the way."

Neal shrugged and motioned to Henry to follow him. The wooden steps seemed solid enough, though just as dusty as the space they'd just left. He was glad that Henry's flashlight was holding up, because he didn't see a light switch and with the windows boarded up, he wasn't sure he'd have wanted to risk the descent. They were about halfway down, when Neal put out a hand to halt their progress.

"What?" Henry asked.

"Look," Neal replied, pointing at a patch of light on the floor. "A couple of the boards must've fallen off the window. This might not be as good as the view we'd have had at the top, but…" He pressed his eye to the gap between the boards and peered out.

"Well?" Henry asked excitedly. "Can I look?"

All at once, Neal spun away from the window, his expression furious.

"What is it?" Henry exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Neal didn't answer him. His phone was in his hand, and he practically stabbed his finger down on the touch screen to unlock it. He had to call Emma… No. No, he had to snap a photo of what was going on in the alley below and text it to her. He angled the phone as best he could to get the most unobstructed shot—and the best light—possible. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on…"

Emma's search for Moe French wasn't bearing any fruit and she wanted nothing more than to call it off and head home. She didn't though. Partly, she was still smarting under Gold's derisive, "So, job well half-done, then," but mostly, it was because she'd seen the look in his eyes when she'd promised him she'd find the man. "Not if I find him first." The look in his eyes when he'd that statement had sent a cold chill down her spine. She didn't know what Gold might do with the man were he to 'find him first,' but something told Emma she didn't want to find out.

She was heading back toward the Game of Thorns florist shop, hoping that French might risk a quick visit to... pick up supplies or... something. She'd already checked his house and he hadn't been there. As she passed the Rabbit Hole bar, she saw Ashley heading inside and for a moment, contemplated joining the girls' night out after all. It would serve her right, if Moe was holed up inside getting plastered and she didn't check it out. "After I pass by the shop," she muttered. "And if I am going to call it a night, I'll probably want a stiff drink right about then."

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was likely Gold, calling to check on her progress. She didn't want to deal with him now, and she almost didn't pick up, but the traffic light changed to red in front of her and she didn't want him to think that she was avoiding him. She pulled out the phone. It wasn't Gold. It was a text from Neal.

Emma took one look at the photo he'd sent—an overhead shot of a guy with a shaved head and a solid build wrestling a bound and gagged middle-aged man into the trunk of a Cadillac, while Gold looked on impassively—and let loose a sharp epithet.

A moment later, another text appeared on her screen. Gold's behind the wheel. Heading down Main toward the woods. I think.

The light changed to green, but there was nobody behind her, so she took a second to let Neal know she'd received the message. Then, she made a U-turn back toward Main Street.

Neal took Henry home; it was getting close to dinnertime, and he didn't relish explaining to the mayor what he was doing with her son (legally, anyway) in a building that wasn't open to the public. "We'll check out the lower level another day," he promised, and Henry might have been disappointed, but he hadn't protested much.

"I wish you'd tell me what you saw outside the window," Henry said.

"Another time," Neal managed, forcing himself to smile. He didn't want to have a conversation with his son about what Emma would do when she caught up with his father.

Actually, he was trying not to think about it. Yes, he'd done the right thing by reporting it. Yes, his secret was still safe—at least, unless Papa had mentioned his existence to Regina back in the Enchanted Forest at some point. So long as he hadn't done that, while the mayor might suspect he had a shady past, there was no way that she could guess who he really was. At least, he didn't think so. And the more he considered the matter the more certain he became. Papa wouldn't have mentioned him. That would have meant opening up and opening up meant allowing oneself to become vulnerable. No matter how much Papa might have changed over the last couple of centuries, Neal didn't think Papa would have let himself become vulnerable again. No, Neal thought: his secret was probably safe from her for now.

Emma wasn't back when Neal got home. But the burned pancakes in the frying pan washed out well enough after having been soaked in soapy water all day, and it wasn't long before he had the mushrooms scrubbed, and the bacon in the pan for chicken chasseur. He was just adding the chopped-up chicken breasts when Emma got in.

"That smells amazing," she sighed, sinking into a chair. "There enough for two?"

"And leftovers for tomorrow, probably," Neal admitted. "I found the recipe online and it's supposed to serve four, but I'm pretty hungry, so maybe not."

"Same," Emma admitted, watching as Neal tipped the chicken in. "Need any help?"

"Nah, I got this. I'd offer you some coffee, but this comes together pretty quickly," he said, stirring the chicken. "And after this morning, I don't want to get distracted."

"It's okay," Emma said. "Thanks for the text."

Neal turned back to the stove with a grunt. The chicken only needed four minutes to change color, but for once, he didn't feel like filling that time with more conversation. It wasn't until he'd turned the heat up and added the mushrooms that he could bring himself to ask, "You caught him?"

"Them," Emma corrected. "Moe French and Gold."

"Moe… French?" Neal repeated, and Emma sighed.

"That's right, I couldn't tell you earlier. He broke into Gold's house this morning. I've been chasing after him all day."

Neal focused on stirring the mushrooms, as though it might still the maelstrom of emotions swirling within. His first thought was fury that this… person… had dared to invade Papa's home—not just the shop, but his home. Papa had to feel so… violated. Vulnerable. At once, his fury yielded to fear. Once Papa had become the Dark One, he'd been quick to lash out at anything or anyone that could make him feel that way. It was something Neal had come to appreciate more after months living on the streets of Victorian London: if you suspected that someone was going to hurt you, you hurt them first and you hurt them hard. And if they managed to hurt you before you suspected them, you hurt them back and you hurt them harder. Swallowing, he asked, "Are they okay?"

Emma sighed heavily. "I think French will live. I got there in time for that, but he's was on his way to the hospital in an ambulance last I saw him. Gold's in a holding cell," she added. "I know you were asking me earlier what the next step is when the charge is more serious than a drunk and disorderly. Looks like we're both going to find out."

The oil in the pan sizzled, demanding Neal's attention, and he quickly added a tablespoon of flour. The meat was sticking to the pan, and he grabbed a cup, ran cold water into it from the sink, and added a few splashes to the pan. Once the sizzling sound dissipated, he spun back to Emma. "You arrested m-Mr. Gold?" He'd almost ended that question with 'my father' instead of 'Mr. Gold'. Careful, he warned himself. Remember. She doesn't know that part. Nobody does. Keep it that way.

Emma blinked. "Uh, yeah. He was bludgeoning French with his cane when I got there, ranting about someone being… gone forever. How French had hurt 'her'. When I asked him about it—Gold, I mean—he told me I must've heard wrong, but I know I didn't."

"I believe you," Neal said. But if Papa was talking about Belle, I think I just found Duke Maurice. "And I guess you had to. Assault."

"Aggravated assault," Emma said. "A-and kidnapping, forcible confinement… hell, probably obstruction of justice. He's looking at serious jail time, I bet."

Neal wished she didn't sound so satisfied about it.

Emma's phone rang then, and she picked up. "Hello." Her expression changed from complacency to concern. "W-wait. Slow down, Mary Margaret. What? Oh… Oh, sheesh. Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right over. Hang on."

She ended the call, just as Neal finished tipping a can of diced tomatoes into the pan. "Save me some of that, will ya?" she asked. "I gotta go out again."

"Everything okay?"

Emma sighed. "Well, it's not sheriff business, even if a crime has been committed, from the sound of it."

"What?"

Emma shook her head. "Not in the legal sense, sorry. But she's hurting and she needs a friend and," she shook her head, "weirdly enough, she's picked me over everyone else in town." She walked up to him and kissed his cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can be."

"Sure." It would give him a chance to process the rest of what she'd been telling him. "Drive safe."

"Always. Love you."

"Love you, too."

All in all, Henry thought, it had been an interesting evening. They hadn't found Belle, but they had got into the library and the clock tower. Henry didn't think anyone in town had ever been up there, except maybe his mo—Regina, he thought to himself firmly. Emma was his mother and Regina was the Evil Queen, and even if he'd loved her before he realized who she truly was, even if he still loved her deep down, she wasn't his mother. His mother was Good, his grandparents were Heroes, and Henry knew that if he was going to be a Hero, too, one day, then he couldn't stay with anyone Evil for a second longer than he had to. As soon as Emma—Mom, Emma was his mom—broke the curse, he'd never have to live with the Evil Queen again. And they'd probably go back to the Enchanted Forest and he'd get to live in a real castle. His grandparents' castle. Maybe right now, he had no choice but to live with the Evil Queen, but he didn't have to like it. Even if, most of the time, it really wasn't all that bad… she was. Anyway, it was just a matter of time until he was back with his real mom and dad, and he just had to hang on until then.

All the same, Henry wondered why the idea of soon never having to see the Evil Queen again didn't fill him with joy, or relief, or anything but a heavy sort of ache. He didn't want to dwell on that, so he turned his mind back to the events of this evening. He had to hand it to Dad, Henry thought with a smile. Of course, Mr. Gold was Rumpelstiltskin! Henry wondered why he hadn't seen that all along. He'd read the storybook cover to cover, backwards and forwards and skipping around to the parts he liked best for weeks. Dad read the book once, and he'd figured out a connection Henry had missed. It was amazing! His dad was amazing!

A new idea made his heart start to pound. All this time, he'd been fixed on his mom being the savior. He knew that it meant that Emma was the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. But he'd never even thought about who his dad was. Maybe Emma wasn't the only one to escape the curse, Henry thought to himself. Maybe his dad had too! Or maybe his dad just found believing easier. After all, without a magic bean, that wardrobe Gepetto had carved was the only way to get from that world to this one, and Baelfire had taken the last magic bean centuries earlier.

"Maybe he's from another land," Henry whispered. "One where there still are magic beans. Or maybe he had one from a long time ago, that nobody else knew about." His jaw dropped. Unless his dad was Baelfire!

"I'm sorry I made you drive out here," Mary Margaret greeted Emma at the door of her loft. "Really, I'm all right."

Emma rolled her eyes. "You called me less than ten minutes ago, and I would've been here sooner, if the weather wasn't turning cold enough for me to need to grab a jacket before going out at night. What's up?"

"It's," Mary Margaret moved aside to let Emma enter, "it's really silly. And it's my own fault." She sighed. "Tea?"

"No thanks," Emma said, half-wishing that her friend would offer her something more substantial, and half-hoping she wouldn't, so the dinner Neal had been almost done preparing wouldn't be wasted. "I'm good." She settled down in one of the kitchen chairs. "What's up?"

Mary Margaret poured herself a cup of tea and set it down on the table. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she got the scotch out of the cupboard and poured a shot of that. "I've been an idiot," she groaned, sinking into the chair across from Emma's and setting the scotch down next to the teacup.

"Hey," Emma said. "Talk to me. When you phoned, you said you hadn't had anything to drink at the Rabbit Hole but if you had to be alone much longer that..." Her voice trailed off as she eyed the shot glass pointedly. "What happened afterwards?"

Mary Margaret took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. "Well, remember when you told me to stay away from David and I agreed?" Emma nodded. "I didn't," she confessed.

"Not exactly news," Emma drawled.

Instead of chuckling, Mary Margaret's eyes widened in horror. "You… know?"

"Your seven-fifteen breakfast… not-dates? New perfume? Plunging necklines? If that's your idea of sneaking around, you… kind of suck at it."

"Plunging necklines?" Mary Margaret repeated, sounding faintly horrified.

Emma gestured toward the turquoise evening dress Mary Margaret was still wearing, with its square neck and spaghetti straps. "When I met you, you were a top button kind of girl."

"And you never said anything?"

Emma shrugged. "Not exactly my business, and I'm not your mother."

"Well, according to Henry, I'm yours," Mary Margaret pointed out with a thin smile.

Emma smiled back. "I guess, I figured you'd say something if you wanted me to know. So…?"

Mary Margaret sighed. "He was waiting for me after girls' night. With a valentine."

"Nice."

"Addressed to Kathryn."

Emma winced. "I take it back. That sucks."

"He had one for me, too. He just got them mixed up." Mary Margaret's voice was level, but looked like she might be one moment away from a crying jag. Instead, she tossed back the shot of scotch, made a face, and took a gulp of tea. "How do people drink that stuff?" she gasped.

"Acquired taste," Emma said dryly. "So, what happens now?"

"I told him we shouldn't see each other anymore," Mary Margaret groaned. "I mean, I do want to see him. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. But I don't want to see him behind Kathryn's back. He chose her once. If he's changed his mind, then…" She exhaled. "Then I'll have to decide. But he's trying to choose both of us, and he can't do that. At least, I won't let him. At least…" She pushed her chair back, got up and walked halfway to the counter, where the scotch waited. Then she groaned again, spun back, returned to her chair and took another gulp of tea. "What am I going to do?"

Emma shook her head. "Sounds to me like you're doing the right thing,"

"Am I?" Mary Margaret asked, sounding even more like she was about to cry. "Of course I am," she said quickly. "I know I am. But why does doing the right thing feel so… wrong?"

It was nearly two hours later that Emma returned home. Neal had long since taken the pan off the stove or dinner would have been ruined, but he heated it up as soon as she stepped in. Evidently, she had a lot on her mind, because she didn't notice that Neal wasn't as talkative as usual that evening.

Once again, it took him a long time to fall asleep, but when he did, his decision had been made. No matter what Papa had done and how wrong he'd been to do it, Neal had to make sure that he was all right. He could still hear the Reul Ghorm's words from that long-ago night: Oh. I can't make him the man he was before, but I can send him someplace where he won't be able to use his powers.

And he heard his own reply. Not a jail. I want to be with him. Like it used to be.

Now, Papa was someplace where he couldn't use his powers, but that place was a jail. And even if it was because he'd assaulted another man, if that man was who Neal now believed he was, then Neal could understand why. He just couldn't explain it to Emma. And, of course, if Papa was still 'asleep', then his theory went out the window. He had to know, but he couldn't ask. Maybe, though, if he could see Papa, talk to him… Papa could be cagey, but Neal thought he still knew how to get an answer he could properly understand out of him.

It was with those thoughts in his mind that he stopped by the sheriff station the following morning.

A familiar voice reached his ears as he stepped through the door, but it wasn't Emma's. Peering through the main office doorway, Neal noted at once that Emma wasn't there. Nor was she working in the glass-walled inner office. But sitting on the arm of the sofa by the holding cells, facing the barred wall was Mayor Mills. Had Emma seriously left her alone with Pa—with a prisoner? Well, Neal reminded himself, Emma didn't have a deputy, so if something came up, she sort of did have to go and investigate, but you'd think she'd have locked up the station before she left if there was someone in a cell.

Neal took another step closer, moving as quietly as he could. Thus far, neither Papa nor Mayor Mills had noticed him, but from where he was standing, he could now better make out what the two were saying.

"We used to know each other so well, Mr. Gold," the mayor said, almost pleasantly. "Has it really come down to this?"

"It seems it has, yeah," Papa replied, not sounding at all distressed about his situation. "But you know what I want; what is it you want?"

"I want you, to answer one question," the mayor replied. "And answer it simply. What's your name?"

Neal managed not to gasp only by clapping his hand to his mouth. So she suspected the same thing he did.

"It's Mr. Gold," Papa said, sounding a bit puzzled.

"Your real name," the mayor pressed.

"Every moment I've spent on this earth," Papa said, "that's been my name." Neal couldn't quite tell if the note of confusion was feigned, but he had noticed the turn of phrase.

"But what about moments spent elsewhere?" And evidently, the mayor had too.

"What are you asking me?" Papa asked, shaking his head a bit, but now there was just the slightest note of danger in his tone.

The mayor smiled. "I think you know. If you want me to return what's yours – tell me your name."

For a moment, there was no response. Then, Papa chuckled. His voice dropped several decibels when he spoke again. "Rumpelstiltskin." He rose from his cot and lunged for the bars. "Now give me what I want."

Neal spun on his heel and all but ran out of the station. Outside, he leaned against the wall, taking deep slow breaths until he felt his heart stop pounding. So, now he knew. Papa was awake. And presumably, he remembered everything. And Neal was still no closer to deciding what to do now.