A/N: Some dialogue taken from S1E19: The Return

Chapter Fifty-One

Neal had never been a fan of huge social gatherings. When he'd been a boy, Papa had avoided them. In Neverland, being in close quarters with the other Lost Ones generally meant being extra careful that nobody was going to try to stick a knife in your ribs. (Technically, of course, that was against the rules, unless Pan told you to do it. In practice, Pan generally didn't mind, so long as your intended victim wasn't somebody he cared about—and, apart from Felix, who Pan cared about could change from day to day or minute to minute. Bae had learned early never to let his guard down.) Even once he'd escaped Neverland, the lessons had stuck. When you were relying on con artistry and petty theft in order to eat, it helped if you had a clear path to the nearest exit at all times.

There were altogether too many people in Mary Margaret's loft. Neal didn't know more than half a dozen well enough to have a conversation after the usual pleasantries. So, he did what he usually did at these things: he grabbed a plate and headed for the buffet.

Over to one side, Henry was talking to August. Emma was talking to Mary Margaret. Whale was talking to anyone female who hadn't managed to find another conversation, and Ruby was speaking animatedly with a young man Neal recognized as one of the town mechanics.

He had two party sandwiches and a cheese skewer on his plate when Henry rose to present Mary Margaret with a card and gift.

"We're so glad you didn't kill Mrs. Nolan," Mary Margaret read the card aloud.

Neal winced and wondered how long he needed to stay before he could excuse himself without seeming rude.

Oh, to be ten again and not realize how… uncomfortable that message sounds! Henry was beaming as Mary Margaret read the card aloud, but Emma found herself wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her before Henry asked her to what she thought of the message he'd added to the card. Seeing her son beaming, she suddenly wanted to get him out of the loft before some well-intentioned busybody pulled him aside to gently (or worse, not so gently) explain to him that some sentiments didn't sound nearly as right on a card as they did in a person's head.

"Hey, Henry," she called to him, "we should get you home before your mom finds out you're here. That won't be pretty."

Suspecting nothing, her son nodded and let her lead him to the door. When Emma pulled it open, she was startled to find David Nolan on the other side of it. She cast a questioning glance over her shoulder to see Mary Margaret's face harden with disapproval. Emma's lips tightened. She couldn't blame her.

"Hey, Henry," David greeted him. "Leaving already?"

"Yeah," Henry nodded. "Got to get home and do homework."

David nodded back and started to step inside, but Emma moved to block him swiftly. "She's kind of tired," she told him. "I think if you just give it some time."

"I just wanted to—"

Emma pasted a smile on her face as she looked down at her son once more. "Hey, Henry," she said, "why don't you head home with David?"

David wasn't pleased at her suggestion, but he acquiesced a bit awkwardly. Emma heaved a sigh of relief and went back inside.

Rumpelstiltskin normally wouldn't have attended a social gathering such as this, but as Ms Blanchard's attorney, he thought it simple courtesy to put in an appearance. He would smile, help himself to a canape or two, offer his congratulations to the schoolteacher, and then withdraw.

Such had been his plan, right up until the moment when he'd made eye contact with August W. Booth across the room. After one frozen instant, the younger man had ducked his head and called a far too hearty greeting to the mechanic who seemed to be forever bantering with Ruby Lucas.

Rumple frowned. It might well be that Booth was embarrassed at having been caught in the back room of the shop earlier, but Rumple rather suspected that there was more to it than that. Particularly since Booth hadn't had a believable excuse for being in the back room in the first place. Rumple kept most of the shop's valuables either locked in display cases on the shop floor or locked in his safe. True, Booth might not have known that when he'd slipped inside, but what had he been searching for?

He winced. He was no detective. And with Booth now trying to avoid him, he wasn't going to glean as much as he'd like through quiet observation. On the other hand, Storybrooke's new sheriff was not merely a bail bondsperson, but also a private investigator. He looked about the room for her and spied her in the doorway sending young Henry off with… A faint smile flickered on his face. No, in light of his recent behavior, Rumple warranted that David Nolan was far from welcome here. He waited until Emma had closed the door once more before approaching her.

"Hard to let him go, isn't it?" he asked her. "Your son."

Emma winced. "Yeah. Pretty much the hardest thing. Speaking of something we weren't talking about, was it you?"

He wasn't surprised that she guessed the truth, but he'd never confirm it. By now, she wouldn't accept a direct answer from him in any case. So he bantered back, neither bolstering nor allaying her suspicions, but his mind wasn't in it. So, when she admitted that she didn't know his game, he shrugged. "Well," he said mildly, "you keep working on that one. My question's about something else – what do you know about him?" He jerked his chin in Booth's direction.

From the expression on the sheriff's face, he wasn't the only one wondering about the man. "Goes by August," she said after a moment. "He's a writer. Typewriter wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in stubble. Why?"

There was a time to play games and a time to be serious and this was one of the latter. He took a breath. "He was poking around my shop today," he told her quietly. "August Wayne Booth. Clearly a false name. There's one thing I know about – it's names."

Emma didn't seem fazed by his statement. "Writers go by pseudonyms," she shrugged. "What does it matter?"

In and of itself, she was quite right. Booth might have any number of reasons for not using his true name, but Rumpelstiltskin was only concerned with one—and he couldn't exactly share it with the likes of Ms Swan. Instead, he asked her simply, "You trust him?"

Her reply came at once. "Yeah. A lot more than I trust you."

He snorted at that and moved toward the punch bowl. When he glanced back in her direction, however, he noted that she was watching Booth a bit more closely, her expression a great deal more concerned than her glib response to him seemed to warrant.

"I could have walked Henry home," Neal said, when Emma informed him that he'd gone.

Emma raised an eyebrow. "He could have walked home on his own, too. It wasn't about getting Henry out of here, it was about David."

Understanding dawned. "Mary Margaret didn't want him here."

"He flat-out asked her if she murdered Kathryn," Emma said. "That's an ugly enough question when it comes from someone who doesn't matter to you, but when it's someone you trusted and thought you knew, it doesn't just sting. It's like getting knifed in the back by the person you most trust to have it."

Neal swallowed hard. "I hear you. It's just… rough. I mean, I know they had feelings for each other and I can't help thinking that maybe if they sat down and talked, they could move past this."

Emma frowned. "Not exactly our business, and I'm not so sure it's something we should be rooting for. I mean, if I found out that someone I cared about trusted me that little, it would almost be as bad as finding out that everything I thought I knew about them was a lie." She shook her head. "If Mary Margaret wants to give him a second chance, that's up to her, but if you ask me, she's better off without him." Her eyes fell on the refreshments table and lit up.

"Whoa. Ashley just brought a pumpkin pie. I'm going to grab a slice before it goes. You want anything?"

Neal shook his head. "No, I'm good," he said absently. "Enjoy. I'm just… gonna mingle." And try to figure out a way to tell you the truth before it's too late, but something tells me it already might be.

Rumpelstiltskin's heart was pounding in his chest and his hands were sweating. Once he'd ascertained that Booth was breakfasting downstairs in the diner, he'd made his way up to the young man's motel room and picked the lock on his door. This oughtn't take long. A man who came to town on a motorbike didn't have the wherewithal to carry much in the way of possessions, and Booth's were out on in plain view. He began rifling through the papers on the table, not really expecting to find much, but one never did know.

He looked at the next page and his blood ran cold as he realized that he was holding a sketch of an all-too-familiar dagger.

"Who are you, Booth?" he whispered.

But of course, he knew. There weren't many people about who knew about that blade, and most of those who did had forgotten its existence. But Booth hadn't been here for twenty-eight years. His memories were intact. And if Booth knew about the dagger, then he was on a very short list of people who did.

"Bae." The syllable was barely more than a puff of air on his lips. It couldn't be. How would Bae even know he was here, much less how to find him? But who else could he be? And if Booth was truly Bae, then why hadn't he come forward?

You coward! You promised! Don't break our dealllllllllllllllllllllllll!

Rumple swallowed. Was Bae here to reconcile? Or did he have a darker motivation? And was he so certain that Booth was indeed his long-lost boy? There were others who knew about the dagger, after all, and they hadn't all come over with the Dark Curse. If one of those had tracked him here, if Booth was in their employ…

If, if, IF! But how could he know?

He bit his lip. Then, he carefully replaced the paper where he'd found it. For now, he'd keep an eye on the young man. He'd note who he spoke to and he'd learn what he'd spoken about. Then, and only then, would he act.

But oh, how he hoped it was Bae!

One floor below, Sidney looked up as Emma slid into the seat across from him. "Hey," she greeted him.

Sidney returned the greeting with a friendly smile. "Things really worked out, didn't they?" he said. "For your friend?"

Emma's jaw set. "You told me you could help me with Mary Margaret, and I wanted to believe it was true. Even after you tried to make me think that Regina's playground plans were plans for a luxury house built with expropriated funds."

Sidney flinched. "That was an honest mistake."

"If it was, it was sloppy reporting," Emma informed him. "I thought at the time that you might just have been angry enough and drunk enough to jump to conclusions without fact-checking," she paused for a beat, "especially since you had just got fired from the paper. You told me Regina was behind it, but if the work you were turning in was as poorly vetted as the lead you handed me, it occurred to me that… maybe she didn't have as much to do with it as you thought. But then, there was this." She laid a small device on the table.

Sidney flinched again. "Is that a bug?" he asked too quickly.

"Oh, for God sakes, Sidney," Emma snapped, drop it. You tried to fool me, you spied on me, and you reported it all back to that sick, crazy woman. I can't even imagine what she has on you, but it must be something huge."

Sidney shook his head. "She's a good Mayor," he protested.

"She tried to get Mary Margaret convicted of a murder that didn't even happen!" Emma exclaimed. "You're in a lot of trouble. There is a DNA trail in a basement of some house out there, and I'm going to find it. And she's going to go away."

"Maybe," Sidney allowed. "But, I wouldn't bet against her. She's an amazing woman."

Emma frowned in disbelief. "Do you… Are you in love with her?" When Sidney didn't reply, she exhaled angrily. "Fine. Whatever. Here's the thing – before you know it, I will have that evidence. And you need to think long and hard. You can either help me and help yourself, or you're going to go down with her, too."

"We'll see," Sidney said, picking up his coffee cup once more and taking a long sip. "We'll see."

Some thirty minutes later, Rumpelstiltskin watched from the safety of his Cadillac, as August Booth stepped out of the diner onto the main street, climbed onto his motorcycle, and drove away. Rumple waited a moment before turning his own key in his ignition and following.

It wasn't difficult. Booth's transportation made a fair amount of noise and, while Rumple turned onto a side street every now and again, it wasn't as though the young man was trying to evade him. He didn't seem to notice that he was being tailed, but then again, why would he?

Rumple's eyes narrowed as he saw Booth turn onto St. Meissa Way. The convent? What business would Booth have there? A moment later, his eyes opened wider. Booth wouldn't…

…but Bae might!

Neal had been debating a visit to the convent since the day he'd recognized the Reul Ghorm as Mother Superior. Even if she didn't know who he was—or know herself, for that matter—she might still be able to give him good advice about how to proceed. So when Marco told him that they were going to repaint the refectory, Neal thought that he might have his chance.

He was laying down drop cloths when Marco groaned. "The paint," he said. "The Mother Superior, she ordered the glossy finish, not the matte. That's fine for the door and woodwork, but it's gonna show every imperfection on these old walls. Go tell her and ask what she wants us to do."

Neal nodded. They couldn't start with the trim. If they did the walls later, then inevitably, some paint would drip onto the baseboards. Best case scenario, the convent could order the right paint and they'd come back another day to do the job. But if they couldn't exchange the paint and didn't have the budget to buy more, if the Reul Ghorm insisted on using the paint they had regardless of its suitability, then he and Marco needed to know that now, before they started on the job.

He was just outside the mother superior's office when he heard voices coming from inside.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret blinked. Then her lips curved in a welcoming smile and she stepped aside to let her friend enter. "This is a surprise."

"Yeah," Emma said, stepping into the loft. "I know. Yesterday was a celebration, but today I… wanted to see how you were doing. I mean… Well, after everything you've been through in the last little while, maybe you're finding it a little harder to just… pick up where you left off."

Mary Margaret sighed. "I'm all right."

"Yeah?"

She hesitated. "No! I just sent David packing and I know it was the right thing to do. Not because of Kathryn," she added at a rush. "Because he thought I could have killed… And yes, he's sorry he accused me and he's right, it was a good setup. I mean, if it hadn't been, you wouldn't have arrested me and I wouldn't have been arraigned and on my way to county when Kathryn turned up, so I do understand but even though I do, he still should have trusted me, right?" She winced. "Or at least, kept his suspicions to himself. Or… oh, maybe I'm better off this way, knowing that he thought I could have… But I mean, everyone—almost everyone—thought the same thing and…" She exhaled. "How can you know you did the right thing and still second guess yourself?"

Emma hesitated. "If we're going to have this conversation, I don't mind, but… do you still have that whiskey?"

Mary Margaret snorted. "Oh, hell, yes. And right now? It actually sounds good."

"I don't know," Neal heard a familiar voice say. "It's been so many years since I've seen him. I don't know if it's fair to disrupt his life. And if it turns out to go not like I've been dreaming… If he's managed to forget me…"

"A father can't forget his son," a gentle voice chided him.

"Not normally, no. But he might have wanted to. When I left… it was messy. There was a lot that should have been resolved and wasn't. I-I want to reconcile with him, but I don't know if I can risk getting hurt again if… if it's going to be the same as it was before."

There was a long pause. Then, "Only you can make that decision, child. But if you give in to your fears, you may find that you've closed a door that that won't open again later."

"That's my biggest fear," the other person said. "I-I mean, I love him. I do. But trusting that things will work out after all this time. I don't know. It's funny. I've spent so much time fantasizing about a reunion, but it's been so long. It feels like a big ask."

"If your heart is in your dream," the Reul Ghorm quoted softly, "no request is too extreme. And Fate is kind."

"Not in my experience," the first voice sighed. "But maybe you're right. I'll think about it anyway. Thank you, Reverend Mother."

The doorknob started to turn and Neal quickly darted into a wall recess behind a white plaster statue. From there, he got a full view of August Booth exiting the office and making for the stairs to the front door. Poor guy. He must have found his father here. That had to be rough on him: seeing a parent, and knowing they'd forgotten you'd ever existed. Neal winced. It was also rough seeing a parent and knowing that they hadn't. Interesting that August was dealing with the same kind of thing he was. For just a moment, he contemplated running after him and telling him he understood. But that would have meant admitting he'd been eavesdropping. And Marco still needed to know what to do about the incorrect paint.

He slid out from behind the plaster saint and knocked lightly on the mother superior's office door.

He was falling again, down through the portal, the winds whipping at his hair and clothes. He couldn't see the ground or the sky or anything at all but the swirling green vortex, but he knew. Papa wasn't with him. "You coward! You promised! Don't break our dealllllllllllllllllllllllll!" He shrieked the words, but there was nobody to hear them, not Papa, not Morraine, not the Reul Ghorm… He couldn't even hear himself over the howling winds and lightning lashings of magi—

"Neal? Neal! Hey…"

Suddenly, he wasn't fighting the vortex winds; he was tangled up in his bedsheets and Emma was lying beside him and shaking him awake. "Emma?" he groaned.

"You okay?" she asked. "You haven't had one this bad in a while."

"In a while?" he repeated. "When… when was the last one?"

Emma shrugged. "Maybe a week ago? But you weren't screaming that time, just thrashing around like usual."

Neal propped himself up on one elbow and turned to face her. "How… usual?" he asked, not certain whether he really wanted an answer.

Emma hesitated. "You used to get them almost every night before Arizona," she said. "Then, it went down to maybe… I dunno… once every other month or so? It's been worse since you came here, though. I guess… probably three or four times a week, but usually, like I said, you toss and turn for a bit and then you settle down." She paused. "First time I've heard you scream like that in years."

"Sorry."

Emma shook her head. "It's not your fault. Uh… you want to talk about it?"

Neal shook his head. "I think I need some air. What time is it, anyway?" His eyes fell on the red digital display on the alarm clock. It was a quarter past ten. Right. He'd turned in just after supper, exhausted after a long day's work on top of three late nights and early mornings. "Would it be really bizarre if I drove off to the wilderness park at this hour? There's just… something about nature at night that's sort of relaxing."

"Hey, if it'll help you calm down," Emma said. "This isn't Boston. Even out in the boonies, Storybrooke's usually pretty safe at night. Especially now that we know that Kathryn's okay and there never was any knife-wielding serial killer…"

Yeah, but I think I'd better steer clear of Jefferson's house, all the same. Neal hesitated. "You don't mind? Maybe it really would clear my head."

Emma shook her head, already settling back down on her pillow. "Go for it. But text me if you're not back for breakfast."

He didn't need the flashlight on his phone. He hadn't had a flashlight in Neverland and he'd learned quickly that torches could help someone hunting you pinpoint your location all the more easily. And while jungles were usually too humid to burn, when the weather was controlled by a youth who thought rainy days boring, the trees could indeed get dry enough to fall prey to a flaming spark and a good breeze. Thankfully, Hook's navigation lessons had helped him find his way in the dark, even on land.

The constellations were different here, but the techniques were the same. Neal made his way carefully along the trail, trusting to the moonlight to help him avoid exposed tree roots, depressions in the soil, and other potential pitfalls. And he did need to think. If he left things too long, Papa would find out who he was. It was inevitable. Neal's best chance was to try to take control of the situation now, come clean at a time of his choosing, instead of waiting and dreading the moment. But he had to plan the where and when of it all and he had to do it soon. Before—

"You were right, Bae." Neal froze when he heard the familiar voice in the trees, not more than five yards away from him. "You were always right. I was a coward, and I never should've let you go. I know it's little consolation, but… I just want you to know, that ever since you left, ever since you crossed the barriers of time and space, in every waking moment… I've been looking for you. And now that I've finally found you… I know I can't make up for the past, for the lost time. All I can do is to ask you to do what you've always done. And that's to be the bigger man… And forgive me. I'm so sorry, son. I'm so sorry, Bae."

There was a thickness to Papa's voice and Neal felt tears stinging his own eyes, as he heard the rustle of dead leaves and the faint snap of a twig. Papa knew. Papa knew! And if Papa truly meant what he was saying—and he sounded like he did—then it was going to be okay. He just needed a minute to compose himself, or at least to wipe away his tears, so that he wasn't so blinded by them that he got shredded by black locust or some other thorny plant. It was okay. Papa knew where he was. It was—

"Oh, my boy. My beautiful boy. Can you truly, truly forgive me?"

Neal swallowed hard. Yes, he thought he could trust his voice now. He opened his mouth to respond, just as he heard someone else speak.

"I forgive you, Papa."

Stunned into speechlessness, the words he'd been about to say died on his lips. And as shock yielded to fury, a question burned white-hot in his mind.

What the hell?"