A/N: Sorry for the long wait! My sister was unexpectedly in the hospital with a grim outlook before a miraculous recovery, so between the hospital and my new puppy, I had no time to write. But here's an extra long chapter to make up for it, and I'll try my best to get the next chapter ready much quicker! Thanks for your patience!

The sight of Belle standing in front of his shop brought Gold up short. He blinked, not sure if he was still dreaming, then blinked again when he heard her cooing softly to something above her head.

"Belle?" he asked. Quietly. If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up just yet.

Belle startled and spun toward him, her skirt flaring above her knees—and a smile appearing on her face.

Inside his chest, his heart clenched tightly.

His own son could scarcely bear to look at him for more than a moment anymore before fleeing out the door, but Belle smiled at the sight of him. Even the unexpected sight of him. She couldn't be faking that, could she?

"Rumple!" she beamed, then looked around to make sure no one was close enough to have heard her. He could have told her that everyone avoided the bit of sidewalk in front of his shop, but he didn't bother, not when she was skipping forward so lightly and taking his hand in both of hers. "I think the baby birds are about to fly. They're bigger than their parents."

"Birds?"

Birds. Of course. The bluejays. The catalyst for their first kiss. Their first moment together as more than friends. Their first date invitation.

Gold looked up toward the nest and saw some unspecified movement he didn't have the patience to resolve into beaks, feathers, and wings. Instead, he looked back to Belle, so pretty with the morning sunlight gilding her hair copper and bronze.

"You come check on them a lot?"

Her cheeks pinkened. "Most mornings. I worry about them," she added a bit defensively. "The world can be a hard place. They deserve all the help they can get."

If there was a hidden meaning to her words, he missed it in favor of soaking in the way she leaned her shoulder into his. The feel of her hair tickling against his cheek. The warmth of her so close—and of her own volition. He didn't have to wait for her to have nightmares and scream for help before getting to turn and pull her into a tight embrace.

"Rumple?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and Gold nearly dissolved at the feel of her hand stroking through his hair. She was so soft. So gentle. So willing. It was hard to believe this wasn't a dream he'd conjured up for himself. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yes." Swallowing hard, he made himself let go of her and pull his shop keys out of his pocket. "I just thought I should come open the shop. Check on some things. Maybe do some paperwork."

Belle's eyes were a little too knowing as she followed him inside the dark shop, motes of dust floating in the beams of sunlight that managed to shoulder their way between the blinds. "Where's Bae?" she asked.

Gold looked away. "He's been spending his days with Emma and her friend August. Or so he tells me."

Indeed, it was all he told Gold. Breakfast was a rushed affair over the sink or counter, Bae's words a hurried mess when Gold tried to press him—but carefully, so carefully, he couldn't bear to drive him fully away—and where there had so recently been talk of sharing books and moments, now there was only the sight of his son constantly fleeing from him, always off in a hurry to other, more interesting, more deserving people.

People who hadn't gotten him kidnapped, abused, and lost for years.

"Isn't that good?" Belle asked. "It means he's adjusting, right? He has friends. Pursuits. Maybe hobbies."

"I think he likes cars," Gold said, a bit slowly, thinking of the endless facts he now knew about Volkswagen Beetles.

"I guess it's hard," she said with a questioning lilt to her voice. "Especially since he hasn't explained anything."

Gold looked at her—all bright eyes and dark hair and kind voice, so pretty and so close—and felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Yes," he said faintly. "But I'll get used to it. At least he's alive. He's here."

"With you," she said, and for all that her fond tone meant he probably repeated these sentiments to a nauseating degree, he couldn't help but relax just a bit at the reminder.

"With me," he said.

Belle's smile grew. "And right this second, you're here. I'm here. We're here together."

His mouth moved, but he couldn't get a single word to escape from his suddenly tight throat. The force of his wanting nearly bowled him over, a rushing tidal wave that enveloped him before he even knew there was water nearby.

She was only wearing a brown cardigan over her darker blouse, hugging her slender shape. He could envelop her completely in his arms. She was smaller than him, and any reminder of that fact always made something protective and overpowering stir inside him.

"Rumple," Belle murmured as she stepped close, slotting her feet in between his, her hand lighting on his shoulder. "Are you going to kiss me good morning?"

"Is that something we do now?" he asked.

Biting her lip, Belle let her fingertips dance over the exposed line of his throat. "I think we should start," she said.

He agreed so wholeheartedly that she actually giggled at how quickly he swept his arms around her and bent his mouth to hers. The laughter against his lips sent a thrill of effervescence through his veins that lasted even after her giggles disappeared in favor of her lips opening between his. Gold pressed his advantage, tasting the tea and sugar on her breath and thinking, oddly, of that chipped cup still sitting on his counter, dropped between them and bearing the mark of it as reminder that this was all real.

Then Belle's arms looped around his waist, she hugged him close, and the kiss was impacted by a low flash of pain.

A small grunt escaped Gold, and even though the ache was easily pushed aside, Belle pulled her mouth from his and stared up at him, her beautiful eyes wide and worried. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, and kissed her again. She indulged him for a moment. Gold could feel her questions brimming, though, and redoubled his efforts to distract her. Nipping at her lower lip with his crooked teeth, he slid his hand up to the nape of Belle's neck and lightly massaged there. Belle's knees weakened—thankfully, Gold had known to expect it, and had braced his cane already—that tiny sound in the back of her throat sending tingles down his spine until he couldn't help but press her back against the wall just beside the curtain leading to his backroom.

Belle went up on her tiptoes, changing the angle between them, and at Gold's gasp, she turned them so that it was his back against the wall. Pressed this close together, she couldn't miss the way his whole body flinched away from the feeling of something poking directly against the bruise on his back.

"Okay," she said, stepping away and crossing her arms. "What is it? You're hurt."

"I'm not."

"Rumple." She leveled a flat glare at him. An expression he'd seen so rarely on her face that he couldn't help but feel a pit open in his stomach.

She was unhappy with him.

His eyes dropped and he fiddled with the head of his cane in lieu of reaching out to her. She wouldn't want him touching her. Not when he'd upset her.

"Rumple." Her voice was so soft that he couldn't help but look up at her. Her hand fell over his and gently—so much gentler than he deserved—she tugged him over to the cot tucked away in the corner of his shop. "Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't…I don't want to hurt you. Can't you understand that?"

"It's nothing," he said. "Just a…a few bruises."

Her eyes and mouth tightened, and he shrank in on himself.

"Show me?" she asked.

He couldn't. He couldn't. Doing so would require doffing his jacket and waistcoat. Unbuttoning his shirt. Removing his cufflinks. Lifting up his undershirt. It would mean stripping himself of his layers of protection as if there were anything under them to keep Belle from leaving him behind as everyone else had.

Of course…she'd already seen him stripped down, small and unworthy, hadn't she? Months ago, when he'd come to the library and huddled near her light. Followed her up to her apartment. Let her care for him so that he could hide from the bullet that glowed molten in his mind, calling his name, singing to him, promising him relief.

She'd seen it all…and she was still here. Still looking at him with those warm blue eyes. Still waiting.

Gold forcibly silenced the memory of Milah's caustic voice, Cora's casual disdain, and removed his layers, one by one. His hands shook noticeably, but Belle was kind and didn't draw attention to it. He fumbled over the last few buttons on his shirt, then sucked in a sharp breath when Belle took over for him.

"Is this okay?" she asked.

"It's really not that bad," he told her even as his hands fell away to give her room to work. She peeled the shirt off of him and then laid her hands flat over his chest with only his thin undershirt between her palms and his skin. This close, this bare, her heat all but scorched him.

"If you're hurt, then it's important," she said. She met his eyes, and something in her expression made it impossible for him to look away. "Wouldn't you care if I was hurt?"

"Yes, but you're…you're Belle," he breathed.

"And you're Rumple," she replied, and lifted his shirt in one smooth motion.

The gasp she couldn't hold back had him flinching and curling in on himself. He could only imagine what she must be thinking, staring at him in all his thin and wasted glory. But before he could tug his shirt back down and reach for his fabric armor, Belle ran her fingertips, light as drifting snowflakes made of molten gold, over the bruises that littered his torso.

"What happened?" she asked. Her voice trembled, and it took Gold far too long to realize she was angry.

Engrained fear trembled through him, and he felt his learned walls slamming down between them.

He pulled back from her sharply and smoothed the shirt back over his chest. "Just accidents," he said crisply. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

"Rumple." Belle caught his hand as he reached for his silk shirt. "Please. Who did this to you?"

And as easily as that, she toppled all his walls—because it wasn't him she was angry with. It was whoever hurt him. As if…as if she wanted to protect him. As if she thought him worth protecting.

Gold let his eyes drop to their clasped hands. "Bae has nightmares," he murmured.

Belle stared at him. Even without looking up at her, he could feel the force of her shock.

"Your son does this to you?"

"He doesn't mean to!" he snapped. "He gets scared. He doesn't always know where he is. What am I supposed to do—just let him scream alone all night?"

"No. No, I just…" Belle took a deep breath. "You can't be his punching bag, Rumple. That's not fair to either of you. Have you even told him he does this to you?"

Gold flinched. "He… If I told him, he might lock his door at night. That's the only time he lets me feel like his father. It's the only time I can help him. I'm not going to risk him shutting me out."

"But, Rumple…" When he turned, she reached out and ran her hand down his arm, her chin falling on his arm near her shoulder as she pressed herself against his back. "Rumple, I'm worried about you, okay? This isn't healthy. He needs help. You both do."

"I've told him to go see Hopper, but he's an adult now, Belle. I can't force him to go if he doesn't want to."

"You mean you're afraid to," she said, and this time, Gold was fairly certain the anger in her voice was directed at him. "Rumple, you can't keep walking on eggshells around him all the time. A relationship takes two to work. He has to be willing to work with you too. And you really think telling him he's hurting you isn't going to affect him? I think he'll want to know. He loves you. He wouldn't want—"

"It doesn't even matter," Gold interrupted peevishly. "Bae hasn't slept at the house for almost a week. Are you happy?"

The hurt that bloomed over her face made his heart clench, but she was right: a relationship took two, and she'd been hurting him for minutes now. He wasn't allowed to speak in his turn?

"No," she said through gritted teeth. "Of course I'm not."

"Well, wherever he's sleeping—he claims at August Booth's house, but Marco says otherwise—he's letting them deal with his nightmares. These bruises will soon disappear and it'll be like it never happened. You won't have to worry about him hurting me again."

Belle's eyes narrowed. "That's not what this is about and you know it. You asked me to help you with your list—you think I don't know what the reason behind that list is? Self-harm is only a step away from—"

Panic flared bright in his veins. He couldn't let her finish that sentence. He couldn't hear that word out loud. Not now, with his house so empty and Bae so far away and hurt he'd caused liquid in Belle's eyes.

"I'm not your pet project!" he snarled. "I'm a grown man. You don't have to coddle me just to try to make yourself feel useful!"

Belle stared at him, her eyes so blue, so wet, that he had to turn himself into stone to keep from crumpling at her feet and begging forgiveness. Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and marched for the door.

Before Gold's hand could do more than clench over the head of his cane—preparation for the damage he was ready to inflict with it on his surroundings the moment she was gone—she whirled back around and strode directly in front of him.

"This isn't about me," she told him, so resolute and unflinching that Gold was reminded all over again how little he deserved her. "This is about you and your unwillingness to believe that anyone could love you without an ulterior purpose."

Despite himself, his eyes widened. Love. But no, she was talking about Bae, not herself.

"Pushing me away isn't going to help you feel brave," Belle said. Her lips wobbled before she raised her chin defiantly. "The only one that can do that is yourself. You have to decide what's most important to you—and how much you're willing to work on the relationships that matter to you."

"So much for this being a two-way street, then, huh?" he asked, feeling broken and numb.

Belle narrowed her eyes and said, "No, it is. But I'm smart enough not to just stay here and be your emotional punching bag."

And she walked away from him. The bell over his shop door rang, the door slammed, and Gold was left alone.

He stood there in a shaft of sunlight that spotlighted him, casting everything around him into shadow while simultaneously illuminating all his shortcomings—all the reasons he should have known better than to think happiness could ever be his—and he couldn't move. Not even to wreak havoc on his surroundings, or try to take out his own pain on the innocent furniture around him. Not even to pull his armor back on and use his layers to stitch himself upright in the facsimile of a man.

Not even to open his phone at its text notification and see the olive branch Belle—too kind for her own good—sent his way:

To be clear, Rumple, this is an argument, not a break-up.

Despite the temptation, Gold couldn't quite make himself stay at the shop overnight. There was still a chance, however miniscule, that Bae would come home tonight, and Gold wouldn't leave him wondering where his papa was. He made the short drive to the house, unlocked the door, and stepped into the entryway. The walls echoed with emptiness.

Gold's eyes zeroed in, immediately, on the cabinet. The drawer. His hand tingled with the missing weight of something solid and practical.

Methodically, a step at a time, he made himself walk past the cabinet, back to the kitchen, where he pulled out a premade meal and set it in the microwave. He poured himself a glass of water, then stared blankly at it until only the dry prickling in his throat recalled him to the reason he was holding the cup. On a whim he couldn't explain, Gold poured the water into that chipped teacup, and somehow, that made it easier for him to lift it and gulp it thirstily down. He made himself eat a few bites of the meal his housekeeper had prepared, but it was tasteless, like dust in his mouth. He left most of it in the fridge, wrapped in plastic, in case his son grew hungry and needed extra food.

On autopilot, he limped upstairs and tapped at Bae's door. There was no answer. Perhaps he should feel guilty for infringing on his son's privacy, but Gold felt nothing at all as he pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

It looked scarcely any different at all from the times he'd come in here to air out the room in fading hope that his son would come back to him. The same dried out paints next to the same dusty desk, with the same yellowing books stacked on the bookcase near the same empty bed. The only differences now were the dirty laundry spilling out around the hamper, the mussed covers, and the library book lying half-read on the nightstand.

Slowly, as if his joints were creaking, Gold sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the book. A mouse stared back at him, holding a silver sword aloft and looking defiant.

"Brave mouse," he whispered. Not like him at all, a scared mouse—ha!—of a man, too afraid to reach for what he wanted lest it crumble in his hands. No. Lest he crush it in his hands and mar it with his unworthy heart. "My love is a cage," he reminded himself.

Hadn't his papa always told him so? Nothing but a parasite, an unwanted thing that came along and ruined bigger, better plans, forced his mother to abandon them both.

Hadn't Milah taught him so? A shell of a man, spineless and easy to push around, even easier to leave behind.

Hadn't Cora discovered it so? Better in theory than in practice, disappointing and not worth the time or investment to build something lasting.

Hadn't everyone in this town proved it so? A bogeyman they ignored more than feared, more fearsome in reputation than action, good only for reviling and shunning.

Wasn't Bae figuring this very truth out even now? A papa who couldn't save him, couldn't help him, could do nothing but serve cold eggs and talk of a book he'd already grown past and remind him of the very man who'd tormented him for years.

Henry, if he were Gold's grandson, would never not know this truth, considering Gold had been a non-entity in his life all this time.

And Belle…well, she'd tried her best. He couldn't fault her for anything, not a single bit of it. But even she, for all her grand ideals and good intentions and better angels, had come to learn that he was more trouble than he was worth. That his love was a burden. An anchor that could only drag her down and suffocate her.

She'd reminded him of his list, and how could he forget? The fifth entry was the most recent, the most fresh in his mind.

Don't pull Belle down with you.

He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

Not her. Not Bae. Not Henry and his whole big extended family that only he knew about.

One muscle at a time, Gold set aside the Redwall book and stood to his feet. Made his way down the stairs. Opened the drawer of that cabinet. Pulled out the gun from inside. The familiar weight in his hand made him reel in astonishment that he'd all but forgotten its very existence since bringing Bae home.

Bae. Who would come home eventually, even if just to grab clean clothes. He didn't deserve to have to find the remains of his papa lying shattered and broken just inside the door.

The basement. Surrounded by Bae's things—back when he'd loved his papa.

Yes. That would do. And to ensure Bae didn't go down there and see anything traumatizing, he'd leave a note here for him to find—a direction to call the police to deal with everything. A final reminder that his papa loved him. A plea that Bae take everything he'd inherit and make something better of it than Gold had ever been able to. Not that he'd be able to do anything else. Even without trying, Bae was a hundred times the man Gold had ever been.

The note took only a moment to write. Gold looked down at himself, recognized the suit he was wearing—the shirt that Belle had unbuttoned for him—and decided it would do.

Picking up the gun again, he went out the back door, locked it behind him, and then forced his way through into the cellar. Even in June, there was a chill that lingered between the packed boxes, making Gold shudder as he curled up on Bae's old cot. He pulled a nearby box close and opened it to reveal a bunch of toddler toys. His lips curved upward as he pulled free a stuffed sheepdog that Bae had once loved. It used to be soft, but his boy had dragged it behind him so many places that most of its fur had worn clean away.

Gold cuddled it to his chest with one arm while with the other he lifted the gun. It was ironic, he supposed, that he'd avoided this moment through all the years while Bae was missing, only to find himself giving into the necessity now that he had his son back.

But of course. Of course, because now his son was safe. Pan wasn't a threat anymore, the police had assured him of that. There'd been a firefight, ricocheting gunfire, and an all-out assault between police forces and gang-members. They'd offered to let him come identify which of the bodies were Malcolm Gold, but Gold had declined. Even if the little boy still living somewhere deep inside him had wanted the closure, he wouldn't risk any connection between himself and Bae's kidnapper being ignited within his son's mind.

Besides, Gold hadn't dared risk discovering that he'd still mourn for the death of his own personal bogeyman.

All that mattered, in the end, was that Bae was safe now. Safe, and happier than he'd been with just him and his papa cloistered in this house doubling as a mausoleum, and apparently finding his own way in the world. Gold had updated his will the moment he'd returned to Storybrooke with his son in tow; Bae would never want for anything again.

It was Belle he was worried about. Gold hesitated with the gun halfway to his temple. She'd blame herself. Her kind heart wouldn't allow her to do anything else. He had to find a way to let her know this wasn't something provoked by her. She hadn't caused this—no, she'd saved him just long enough for him to ensure his son was safe and cared for. That was more than he could ever repay her for.

Feeling an odd rush of déjà vu, Gold set aside the plush dog and pulled out his phone. He'd text her. Tell her thank you for the extra days she'd given him. He'd been a liability to her—toxic, even, he knew, considering that his love often manifested in silence and tiny gestures that meant nothing to anyone besides him—but she'd been a true friend to him. She'd made him feel more…cared for? Yes, cared for. Wanted. For perhaps the first time in his life, really.

Gold looked down at his phone, and that was when he saw the text she'd sent hours earlier. That was when he read her reassurance—for all its terseness, he knew that was what it was. She was hurt and angry and probably confused, but she'd taken the time to reach out and reassure him she wasn't writing him off.

She wasn't. But he'd been about to.

Bile crawled up Gold's throat as the gun clattered to the concrete floor. His hands shook so badly that he dropped the phone too, knocked the stuffed dog off the bed, fell to his own knees with a jarring thud as he scrabbled for the phone. And, on second thought, for the gun—it was too dangerous to leave lying here with the safety off where anyone could stumble over it.

Before he could make it back to his feet, Gold vomited everything in his stomach out to the floor.

His note!

Juggling his phone, the gun—safety back on—and Bae's dog, Gold lurched up the steps as fast as he could. The door stuck once, then again, and he let out a shaky curse as he threw his whole body weight at it. The key under the mat skittered away from him twice before he could finally unlock the back door. The distance between him and the front entryway seemed to yawn wider. There was a sound outside the front door—something that sounded a lot like keys. Like scuffing steps.

Gold lunged for the cabinet, slammed the drawer over the gun, and squeezed his note in a clammy fist just as the front door opened.

Bae startled back at the sight of his papa standing there, hair wild, suit mussed, vomit on his chin, and an old stuffed animal hanging from his elbow.

But at least the gun was hidden. At least the note was safe in his sweaty hand.

"Bae," he said.

"Papa?" Bae frowned as he stepped tentatively closer. "Are you sick?"

Gold thought of the note he'd nearly made his son find. Thought of Bae here, right now, and wondered if his son would have even seen the note before hearing the gunshot from the cellar and racing straight into trauma and abandonment. His stomach roiled all over again and he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"It's okay, Papa." Bae was there. Gold couldn't believe he didn't recoil from the stench of vomit, didn't hesitate before slinging Gold's arm over his shoulders. He even plucked the toy from his hands and gave it a vague look of recognition. "Did you keep everything?" he asked, but he rolled his eyes too and sounded almost fond.

Gold broke down into wracking sobs. "I'm sorry, son," he said. "I'm so sorry."

He couldn't blame Bae for the startled, vaguely panicked look he suddenly wore. "Uh, it's okay, Papa. I really don't care. You know, maybe one day this old dog is going to come in handy again."

Gold thought of Henry, a little toddler who might love having a father, might appreciate a toy that had also been a father's—only he didn't know that was even a possibility. Did Bae?

A shudder shook his frame, and Bae half-carried him upstairs to his room. His son pushed him into the bathroom, shoved some pajamas his way, and nearly begged him to wash up on his own. Gold did the best he could with a sink-full of water, not ready to risk the slippery shower floor—or the steam and his razor—and dressed in pajamas that smelled refreshingly free of concrete dust and vomit.

When he emerged, Bae was waiting for him. A cup of tea, still wafting steam, waited on his nightstand, and Bae was gentle as he steadied Gold and helped him crawl under the covers.

"You should have told me you were sick," he muttered, plunking the tea into Gold's hands. "I would have stayed and helped you."

This sent a spear of guilt through Gold's chest. He took a sip of hot tea, tasted the sting of cinnamon, and looked at his son. A grown man, really. His own person. Not the little boy Gold missed with a poignancy that felt like a betrayal to admit to. But still, for all that, someone Gold loved with every molecule of his being.

"I'm sorry, Bae," he said. "I don't know what to do."

Bae's face fell into a tight frown. "What do you mean? You're…you're doing everything you need to."

"Am I?" Gold met his eyes, intense and imploring all at once.

"Yeah," Bae muttered, but he couldn't hold his gaze. "Look, I know…things have been…strained between us. But it's not like it's your fault. We're just… It's the situation. Okay? And I know I haven't been around—we haven't read the book like we talked about—but it's just…Emma needs me right now."

"You met her on the streets?"

"Yeah." Bae's voice lowered as he plucked at the blankets bunched up under his weight. "I got away from Pan for a while. I was living on my own. And she…we found each other. For a while, we were all the other had."

Why didn't you come home? Gold bit his tongue to keep the question in, reminding himself that Bae had both believed Gold had sold him off and was dead.

"She's…" Bae shook his head impatiently. "There was a lot of miscommunication, okay? And she was mad for a long time. But I'm here now and I'm not going to let her think that I just abandoned her like she meant nothing. So I have to be there for her. You get that, don't you?"

Gold's smile was wry. "Yes, son, I believe I do."

At that, Bae rolled his eyes and gestured to the tea. "Finish drinking that, okay? You sound like you've been smoking a pack a day. Can I get you anything else?"

"Do you think…"

Gold stared down at the tea his son had made him. Tiny, tangible proof that his son cared about him despite everything. Despite the dark voices in his own head telling him differently.

"Do you think you could stay?" he asked in a tiny voice. "For tonight?"

Bae's voice didn't sound too clear either when he said, "Yeah, Papa. I can do that."

His son hogged the blankets and slept sprawled across every inch of the bed he could claim as his own. He snored lightly, tiny snuffles of breath that Gold cherished and tucked away in his most treasured memories. He was so present, so immediate, that Gold couldn't think of anything else long enough to compose words to text back to Belle as her own reassurance. He was a furnace radiating heat, and Gold nearly fell off the bed twice.

But Bae didn't wake up screaming once. He only woke when the sunlight poured like warm blankets over them both, and he smiled to see Gold, and immediately asked if he was feeling better.

It was the best night Gold had ever had.

It took all of Gold's courage and a bit more besides to knock at the door to Belle's apartment. As always, for his efforts, he was rewarded with nothing. For a long moment, he stood and regarded the dark lacquered wood, closed to him forever. His ankle throbbed from the long climb up the narrow staircase to her apartment, but the beating ache in his heart took more than his usual pain tolerance to ignore.

She was done with him. She'd walked out of his shop—after doing nothing but caring for him—nearly twenty-four hours ago. Had texted him reassurance not even an hour after that, and yet he'd kept silence.

Because it was easier.

Because he was a coward.

And now she was done with him. She wouldn't answer the door, wouldn't even come see him. And he couldn't blame her. He could only be grateful she'd given him as much of her time and kindness as she had. When he saw her—and he would see her, no matter how much it hurt—he would remember her gentleness and he'd respond in kind.

Gold turned from the door and hobbled back down the steps. His hand was on the latch of the door leading into the too-bright morning when the door opened on its own. His spine stiffened, his usual mask falling into place—and Belle stepped onto the threshold.

Air caught in his throat, making him feel as if he might hyperventilate. Or was it his heart, lunging for the person it belonged to?

Either way, he froze. And so did Belle, caught between the darkness and the light.

"Belle." Her name escaped him in a short sigh, the air slipping out in the gaps around his heart.

Backlit in gold, her expression was nothing more than a shadow.

"Rumple," she said.

He bowed his head. Whatever she wanted, he'd agree to. If she never wanted to speak to him. If she wanted them both to pretend this had never happened. If she meant to tell the whole town every one of his secrets in payment for the hurt he'd caused her. He'd say nothing. And if…if she could find it in her endless bravery to dare risk giving him another chance, he'd grovel at her feet on Main Street itself. He'd do any of her menial tasks, be her servant for the day, accept whatever criticism she might offer him. Whatever she came up with couldn't be as cruel as Milah's best day, so he'd count it as less then he deserved.

"Rumple," Belle said again, and his heart clenched and sank back to its usual place. And then she said two words he couldn't understand.

And she stepped into the darkness beside him.

And she wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder.

Gold couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

This didn't seem like a punishment. Or chastisement. Or censure.

It felt…like a hug. Like her tears on his cheek. Like her heart pounding against his chest, reaching back in turn to his.

"I'm sorry," she said the two words again. They might as well have been in a foreign language. "I was just looking for you, but you weren't at home or your shop. I mean, obviously, because here you are." She made a sound, then, something very similar to the sound he'd made when his heart leapt for his throat. "You're here," she said again. "You came for me. You didn't give up."

"I…" His carefully chosen words vanished. His grasp of the English language dissipated into thin air. With the door shut and the sunlight blocked from its spying ways, he could see her staring up at him. He could count the shades of blue in her eyes, could see the smudges of a sleepless night under her eyes, could catch the care still shining there just like it had been the day before—and the day before that—and the day before that.

"Belle," he said instead. "What I said…I shouldn't have… You didn't deserve that."

Her smile lit up the gloom for only a moment before she threw her arms around his neck and hid its brightness against his throat. "And I shouldn't have tried to interfere between you and your son. I don't know what it's like to be a parent, and of course you have to do whatever you can for him. I won't—"

"You care," he said. "Don't…don't be sorry for that. But I snapped at you. It's what I always do. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway, and you deserve so much better than—"

"I want you," she murmured. "I want you. Isn't that better than deserving?"

Her lashes were thick and wet, and she peered up at him through them—and Gold wished he could draw, could paint, could make magic enough to affix this singular second, this unique expression, into reality every day. If he could only see Belle looking at him like this—like she…like she more than cared for him—then he could endure anything. Everything.

Even once again facing that entryway and the hidden gun and the note crumpled up and shoved into that same drawer before Bae could feel it in his nerveless hand.

"I want you too," he admitted in a low whisper. "But I'm only going to hurt you. I'm going to push you away any time you try to get close. I'm going to hide every vulnerable part of me until you give me no other choice. I'm going to suffocate you with the force of my attention and take a mile wherever you grant an inch. You shouldn't risk it. You shouldn't—"

"I love you."

Her lips curved up in a smile, as if what she'd said was simple. As if it wasn't terrifying. As if it was feasible.

"I love you, Rumplestiltskin Gold."

A better man would have tried to protect her from even herself. A stronger man would have cut ties now before he came to another dark moment and ruined her forever with a gravestone bearing his name but no answers. A nobler man would have unmasked himself as the monster in all her stories now so that it wouldn't surprise her later.

But Rumplestiltskin Gold was neither a good man nor a strong one. He was not inclined to nobility and had never once been called the better of anything.

So he let his eyes fill with tears. He let his mouth curl up in a trembling smile. He let his hand cup her cheek and feel the warmth of her. He let himself fall into her and pull her tight against him. And he let the truth fall from his unworthy mouth.

"And I love you too."

If it was a mistake, it was the single greatest mistake of his life.

"I'm staying at August's for the weekend," Neal told him the next morning. "We're going camping out by that old well."

Gold's eyes narrowed. Uncharacteristically, he felt sluggish. Or perhaps the more accurate word would be hungover. Not from liquor, but from Belle. They'd eaten out at the nicest restaurant Storybrooke could boast, and he'd drank down every word she said, every move she made, every tender look she sent his way—drank it all down, and then, at the end of the night, kissed her on her doorstep for so long that he'd barely felt anything as he limped down that narrow staircase and headed home. In fact, he'd been so punch-drunk, it hadn't even occurred to him to worry about the entryway until he was already upstairs in his room, curled up in bed and imagining Belle there beside him, her slender arms looping over his shoulders and drawing him down, down, down, so deep into her there was no going back.

The sight of Bae standing, hovering awkwardly between the kitchen and the rest of the house, had Gold shaking his head hard to wake himself up. The cowardly part of himself thought he should probably be happy that his son at least thought to let him know he'd be gone the weekend. The ever-wakening father within him couldn't let it go.

"Camping," he repeated. "With August."

"And Emma," Bae said, and at least he pretended to be bashful about the admission.

"And if I call Mr. Geppetto and ask him, he'll know that his son is camping with you and Miss Nolan?"

Bae rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm not going to apologize for the fact that Emma and I have a lot to talk about. I like August and I'm glad Emma has a friend, but she hated me, Papa—for something that wasn't true! So, yeah, we've been alone, but it's nothing like you're thinking. We've just barely gotten to the point where she can talk to me without yelling or crying."

Gold thought, again, of Henry. Of that baby Regina had struggled so hard to bond with. The baby Emma Nolan had given up under the assumed name of Emma Swan. The fact that Bae was young, but old enough.

"Okay," he heard himself say. "Camping. Can you at least write down the area you'll be staying in so I know where to start looking?"

There was a hesitation, short enough most people would overlook it, Gold supposed. He suffered through it and then almost sagged with relief when Bae nodded. "Sure, Papa. I can do that. And hey, I guess I could stay long enough for breakfast. If you wanted."

It wasn't as much as he greedily coveted, but it was so much more than he'd expected, so Gold took it and was thankful. Their conversation was still fragmented, and filled with more awkward pauses than he'd wish, but Bae didn't rush off until after the dishes were done, and he even clasped his papa's arm in the facsimile of a hug.

"Don't worry, Papa. I'll be back."

The casualness of youth. The cruelty of children. Gold did his best to cling to the silver lining that this meant Bae's innocence hadn't been wholly stripped from him by Malcolm rather than the stormclouds of bitter memory those few casual words called up to engulf him.

A long moment later, after he'd already felt himself drowning in the silence of his empty home, Gold's sluggish—hungover—mind thought of something he should have connected immediately.

Bae was going to be gone for two nights.

Belle had told him that we'll plan a bit better next time.

And last night, she'd told him she loved him.

The greedy, possessive monster inside him began to plan—plan better—and Gold didn't try too hard to stop himself.

By the time he made it to the library that evening to help Belle close up, he'd thought up, and then discarded, over a dozen plans and was very close to chickening out completely. But somehow, as he handed Belle a book up to where she stood on a ladder near its proper home, it somehow came out that Bae would be gone for the weekend.

Gold didn't think he imagined the way her eyes sparked bright before something, some little delighted wriggle she made perhaps, had her stumbling backward—off the ladder step and down into his arms. Though he fell heavily back against the bookcase behind him, Gold felt nothing but the warm weight of Belle in his arms. Saw nothing but her mouth so close to his.

"Come to dinner," she said, her voice as far from steady as he felt.

"Okay," he said, barely aware of what he was agreeing to but hyper-focused on the mere half-inch between their mouths.

"I'll make you dinner."

"Okay."

"You should bring your pain meds with you."

Gold blinked at her, the moment broken. And then he remembered—the excuse he'd used to leave her the last time she issued him a sleepover invitation.

She was planning better too.

"Already have them," he said confidently, and erased the last bit of distance between them.

It was a struggle finishing up the last of her closing tasks, keeping his hands just to her waist and hair as she locked the doors, giggling under his ministrations before pocketing the keys and turning into him. She leaned up and kissed him, hard, so thoroughly and intently that whatever reservations his fear might have still been carrying for him were erased completely.

"Dinner," she reminded them both, panting heavily between them. Gold shuddered at the thrill of her breath on his skin and pulled her close to taste her tongue again.

They stumbled up the stairs wound closely together, stealing and giving back kisses between them, until finally, they made it into Belle's apartment and shut the door behind them. Gold couldn't help but feel that with the click of the lock, she had brought them to a whole new world—small and self-contained, private and intended only for the two of them.

"I want to take care of you," she said softly when he made to kiss her again.

It seemed an alien sentiment, particularly when he burned to touch her wherever she'd let him, but there was just enough sincerity in her tone to convince Gold this was important to her. So reluctantly, cautioning himself to temperance, he stepped back and let her move to the kitchen. In no time at all, she had the counter full of food ingredients, something bubbling on the stove, the oven pre-heating, and her shoes off and discarded in a corner.

Her playful smile and twirl of her fingers had him rolling his eyes and hanging up his own suit coat, loosening his tie, unbuttoning the top bit of his shirt. It felt a bit more disarming to remove his own shoes, but it wasn't like she hadn't seen the scars on his right ankle the last time he spent the night here.

"So." Belle glanced up at him, looking so domestic in her blue apron decorated with books and so concerned as she said, "Baelfire's not staying with you this weekend. And you're okay with that?"

Gold frowned. She didn't seem impatient. Or put upon. But with this simple question—with her obvious belief that this would be sufficient to distract him from what they'd been doing so few moments earlier and would hopefully return to doing as soon as dinner was over—it occurred to him just how often their conversation was filled with his problems.

His list.

His missing son.

His past mistakes.

His insufficiencies.

"He'll be okay," he said, forcing himself to be brief rather than waxing on about all his tedious fears. "It's what he needs. And he took time to have breakfast with me before leaving."

"Small steps," Belle agreed, so happy for him that he couldn't help himself from standing and reaching for her hand.

"Belle. I…" Unable to meet her gaze, he stared at her hand. Wet from washing potatoes, grainy from cutting them, but still beautiful for all that. And holding his with equal force. "We don't have to talk only about me. I'm sorry that I always monopolize the conversation."

"What?" She half-laughed and tugged at his hand until he had no choice but to dart a glance up at her. "You never monopolize the conversation. Sometimes I feel like getting a straight answer out of you is more difficult than training a cat to walk on a leash."

"But we could talk about you," he insisted. "I want to talk about you. Have you had any more luck convincing parents not to just leave their kids unattended during story hours?"

"We just talked about that at lunch yesterday," she said.

"Oh." Gold frowned. "Then…we could talk about your new method of arranging your books. I noticed—"

"Rumple, what's this about?"

With a sigh, Gold stepped closer and hoped she wouldn't begrudge him a hug. "I'm sorry, Belle," he said. "I feel like all we ever do is talk about my problems. I don't want us or…our relationship…to only be about me."

Of everything he was expecting, her laughter wasn't one of them.

"Oh, Rumple." She ran a hand down through his hair, threatening to derail his entire train of thought. "You always ask after me," she said. "Even when there's nothing exciting happening in my life at all, you still take time to make sure I'm okay."

"But we always talk about Bae—"

"Of course we do! Rumple, he's the most important thing in your life! We always talk about the library too—because that's important to me. Trust me, you're not overlooking me."

"But Bae's all I have," Gold said helplessly. "You have your whole life ahead of you. I shouldn't just depend on you to help me solve my problems."

"That's not what this is." Belle framed his face in her hands until he looked at her—her brilliant eyes, her soft smile, her earnest expression. "Rumple, I love that you talk to me about your problems. I get the feeling that I'm the only one, and whether it's right or wrong, that makes me feel…I don't know. Special. Trusted. And I love that. Besides…" For the first time in this conversation, Belle suddenly looked unsure. "I'm not…it's not good for me to focus only on myself."

"Belle…" Gold wrapped his arm around her waist to hug her close and hoped his proximity did half as much for her as hers did for him. "Sweetheart, it's not selfish for you to have your own concerns and—"

"No, I know." She shook her head but didn't draw back from the embrace. In fact, she fisted her hands, one in his shirt, the other over his tie, to keep him close. "It's just… When Mom died, everyone told me to put myself first. Watch out for my mental health. Take all the time I needed to work through my own grief and—"

When her breath caught in her throat, Gold felt a stitch open in his heart. Leaning his cane to the side, he wrapped his other arm around her and buried his face in her hair. The tiny kisses he dropped along her hairline sent a shiver through her that he felt in every inch of his body.

"The thing is…I don't think I'm built for that," Belle said. "I tried to do what they said and it sent me down this road to self-destruction so fast. I just, I felt so angry all the time—no, not angry. Disappointed. In life, at first, but then, the more I focused inward, the more I felt disappointed in myself, and that just spilled over onto everyone else around me. It got really bad, to the point where I pulled away from everyone and everything I knew. The only thing that saved me, in the end, was one of my friends, Ariel, needing my help. She'd been begging me to see someone for ages, but I just…I didn't think it was best for me. I thought I could do it on my own because why should anyone but me make decisions for my own life? But when she needed me…when I chose to set aside my own stupid interests to help her…that's when I realized how close I'd come to losing everything."

"Belle, you were going through a difficult time—"

"I was." She nodded, the movement lifting her face so that she was cheek to cheek with him. "I know. And I'm not saying that some of the advice wasn't good. But I think for me to be truly happy, I need to feel needed. Seems dumb, I know, but it really works. It helped me clean my life up and get through college and find a place here. It's easier for me, in a lot of ways, to keep myself centered if I have a clear way of anchoring myself to other people."

Gold's heart strained, threatening to pop out another stitch. His own cruel words from their argument at the shop echoed in his head.

"I…I don't want you to think I'm only here to have you solve my problems," he admitted hoarsely. "Or to fix me."

"I know. And I think we make a great team," she said, her tone suddenly decisive. She pulled back far enough to meet his eyes at the same time as one of her hands smoothed his hair back from his face. The other kept his shirt in a tight grip. "I think you're prone to…well, just accepting things. Like it's only what you deserve. Like there's no point in protesting or looking for alternatives. And instead of helping you, that just drives you ever lower. So, I can focus on you and help you see outside your own worst perspectives, which in turn helps me." She smiled. "And you can be reminded that you are loved and cared for—and that you deserve it because you take care of me in turn."

It was too simplistic. Naively idealistic, perhaps. Or maybe, in its radical departure from everything he'd heard his whole life, it was just right.

Either way, Belle wanted him here, and she wanted to talk about Bae, and she seemed comforted by the clumsy ways he thought to ask about her days—and she was so close, so warm, so wonderful.

He kissed her, the counter hard against his back, his hand grasping her shirt, the other cupping her face to ensure he didn't hurt her with the force of his desperate need for her.

She kissed him back, her tongue wet and hot and so sensuous against his that he nearly choked until her own shuddering gasp had him seeking to taste the recesses of her mouth in his turn. The soft way she whimpered his name had him turning them until he could press her back against the counter, his cane falling to the floor with a clatter, his thoughts afire with Belle.

Her hand slid his tie from around his throat while his pushed aside her cardigan and then learned the textured curve of her bare arms. Needing to breathe, he dropped his mouth from hers and painted wet kisses down the underside of her jaw, the side of her throat, behind her ear, along her shoulder. Each kiss prompted a different strength of pressure from the hand she kept plastered along the side of his throat—soft and caressing at her shoulder, tight and straining at her neck, almost painful when he nosed aside the loose collar of her sleeveless shirt to mouth at skin hidden from view.

It was only when he slid his hand up to hold back the collar for him, giving his mouth room to descend lower, and his fingers skimmed along the top of her breasts, that Belle shuddered and wrapped her leg around his waist to pull him closer.

Dinner would have been forgotten completely if the change of balance hadn't had him putting his weight nearly wholly on his right ankle. A pained sound escaped him before he could bite it back, and Belle was instantly pushing him clear of her, her eyes worried.

"It's fine," he tried to say, but she only shook her head, her expression fond and concerned and happy all at once.

"One of these days, I'm going to kiss you and not hurt you," she said.

The prospect of this pleasurable future had him smirking and saying, "Perhaps after dinner? We can certainly make a go of it."

Her laughter was sweet on the best of days; knowing he caused it only heightened its allure.

Dinner was delicious, prompting him to give another belated thank you for the welcome home dinner she'd cooked on Bae's first day back in town.

"I was glad to do it," she said with a shrug. "It gave me something to do besides think myself in circles."

He felt tentative but pushed on anyway. "You keep mentioning that—getting caught up in yourself. Is that…" Suddenly unsure he wanted this answer, he took a deep breath. "Do you have a list too?"

"Not as such." As if sensing his unhappiness, she laid her hand over his. "Self-harm comes in a multitude of ways. I get caught up in chasing a new thrill, proving that I'm brave or independent or…I don't know, just not messed up from my mom's passing. I get so caught up in it that before I know it, I'm swept away on some current of doing whatever impulsive thing occurs to me."

"It's hard to imagine you that way," he said, but he thought what he really meant was that it was hard to imagine himself in that kind of life. If Belle were still that way, still Lacey, would she have ever looked twice at the ghost of a man he'd been for so long? Would she have taken a moment out of her adventures to spot him, so lost and desperate for something to live for that he volunteered to work in a library he'd barely set foot in before? If he had met her in Boston—waiting for the police to finish questioning Bae, perhaps—drinking in a bar and wondering what his life would be like with his son returned to him, would he have ever been brave enough to speak to a beautiful young woman lighting the place up with her brilliance and charisma?

It hurt, somehow, to think that this quiet, precious love story of theirs would only ever exist after the darkest things in their lives had happened to them both.

Or should it just be all the more beautiful, to think that they'd navigated every horrible, rotten thing this world could throw at them and still come out the other side able to build something so beautiful?

Oblivious to his thoughts, Belle played with her fork. "I once made a bet with this sleazy sheriff that I could beat him in a pool game. If I lost, I'd have had to spend the night with him. Since I won, he had to give me his car. I drove away with it, and then six blocks later, gave it away to this man begging for money to send his pregnant wife to the hospital. He thanked me by giving me a bag of drugs." She laughed without smiling. "Can you believe that? He called it pixie dust and said it was worth thousands if only I could find the right buyer."

"And did you?"

"I don't know. I kept it for a while, until Mulan—a friend of mine—needed help getting her friend's work visa cleared. I gave her the bag, she took it without asking questions, and several months later, Phillip was in the process of getting citizenship. I'm not sure if she used the dust, or if it's because he was marrying Aurora and becoming a citizen through marriage. Either way, I was already on to the next big thing. And the next. And the next. And you want to know something?"

He really didn't. The little she'd told him already sat like stones in his gut. Belle was so brave. So kind. So impulsive.

So everything he wasn't.

"None of it mattered." Belle squeezed his hand and offered him a smile so heated it caught all his wandering attention. "I just wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel important. But none of it worked. Sure, I helped people, and yes, I definitely got myself into dangerous situations. But at the end of the day, I was still me, and my mom was still dead, my dad still never heard anything I actually said, and I still had no one to love."

"That sounds terrible," he said, though he did his best not to sound judgmental. "You don't deserve to ever feel that way, Belle."

"Well, I don't. Not anymore." Biting her lip, Belle hesitated, then rose from her chair and sat on his lap, careful to leave most of her weight on his left leg. Her arms twined so perfectly around his neck that Gold wondered if he'd dreamed this whole evening—Belle herself—up in his lonely mind.

"Belle," he whispered.

"You came to the library to give me my umbrella back," she said softly. "Do you remember? I'd given you something to help you—impulsively, without thinking it through—and there you were. Come to return it. No one ever did that before. All those people I helped and swept up with me and left behind, not one of them sought me out later to return what I gave. Until you. I had no idea what to make of you and asked you if you'd come to get a book even though I could tell you hadn't. And you remember what you did?"

He couldn't speak, not with her lips brushing along the roughened lines of his jaw.

"You said I'd convinced you and asked me to pick you a book—and you picked a children's book. And I felt something then, Rumple, something more than I ever had before. I felt like everything I'd ever been looking for could have been right there in front of me. All those highs I'd thrown myself at, all those scrapes I'd gotten myself into, they were nothing compared to seeing the look in your eyes when you picked up that book and hugged it so close to you. All the people I'd helped with those grand gestures—I've forgotten most of them. But I'll never forget the way you looked at me when I took your hand that first time, to lead you through my library. That's what I'd been looking for all that time. You're what I've been looking for." She smiled so wide that she had to hold it down by biting her lower lip, and Gold felt a deep tug low in the pit of his belly. "And here you are."

"Here we are," he said. And maybe it didn't matter what had brought them here. Maybe he'd never know for sure if she'd still love him in any other situation. Because here, now, in this situation, she was on his lap, caressing her hand back through his hair, her breasts pressed to his chest, and when he kissed her, she wouldn't draw back. Wouldn't demand something in return. Wouldn't play games with his heart.

She'd kiss him back and want everything he offered her and ask him sweetly for whatever he didn't think to give her.

"My darling Belle," he moaned, and then he slanted his mouth over hers and clasped the back of her head to angle her down toward him.

She went further, twisting until she straddled him in the chair, until she was arching down against him and he was straining up into her and she tasted of cherries and iced tea and desire. Gold licked a line over her lips and back to her ear, to her jaw, lower, relearning the route he'd taken before dinner.

Her mewling cry turned him nearly wild, and he forgot to be tentative as he fumbled for the hem of her shirt and drew it up over her head. Her hair tumbled down to curtain their faces, and he leaned in and devoured her mouth all over again. Every time he did, there was more to discover. More to learn. She was his own mystery, just like she'd talked about, and he couldn't fathom ever learning to love another genre more.

"Rumple," she panted even as she squirmed deeper into his lap. "I know last time…" She gasped and directed his mouth farther down, so much soft, hot skin for him to taste and explore and memorize. "Last time, I offered the couch. But…" At his gentle nip over lacy fabric, she threw her every limb around him and clung so hard that Gold couldn't breathe. Not that he needed to. He was too busy flicking at a fiddly little clasp and sliding his hand along rounded flesh.

"I really think the bed's better," she finally managed to say, and then she was pulling back, away, standing to her feet—Gold nearly groaned aloud, and did make some sort of noise when he got his first good look at her, all lush skin turned golden in the lamplight, her hand reaching for him and tugging, pulling, yanking until he stumbled after her. His cane was forgotten in the kitchen, but Belle was solid and real, and she let him lean on her, his mouth tasting whatever bit of her he could reach, her own fingers busy on every single button his clothes boasted until they stumbled into her bedroom.

The sight of the bed, covers rumpled and an indent in the pillow where she'd lain the night before, brought a spark of awareness back to Gold. Belle flushed and muttered something about not knowing he'd be here, but soon enough, her embarrassment faded under the ministrations of his hands playing with the waist of her skirt.

His own shirt fell to the floor in concert with the last of her clothing, a quiet lullaby he knew he could easily become addicted to, particularly with her soft, sighing noises as their accompaniment.

"Rumple, please," she gasped, pulling at his hands, and she fell backward, taking him with her so that he landed atop her. She laughed with her forced exhalation, but Gold couldn't breathe at all. His entire torso was bare and pressed up against her, and he could feel everything.

It was an overload of sensation that threatened to undo him—at least until his hand found her breast and his mouth brushed once more over hers. Gold had spent a lifetime developing habits of focus and intense fixation—some might even call it obsession—with those things that interested him.

Belle interested him so much that the whole rest of the world vanished. His hands were full, his mouth busily occupied, his ears ringing with the echoes of Belle's tiny, beautiful sounds, and in that moment, he couldn't imagine ever being bothered by that entryway, that cabinet, that tool hidden within. How could a gun ever satisfy the emptiness of his hands when he now remembered the feel of Belle against his palm, around his fingers, clasping at his wrist and directing him, begging him, thanking him?

His whole body was tingling, his every braincell intent on Belle, when she rolled them and draped herself over his chest, her legs on either side of him.

"I love you," she whispered. They hadn't flipped the light on, but the windows had no curtains and the moonlight shone down over Belle, turning her silver and gold and ebony, and he stared, transfixed, as she laid herself atop him and married them from head to toe and everything in between.

"Belle," he said, and again, again, over and over, her name mixed with sweetheart and darling and beautiful in a rhythmic chant that built and built and built. Every other word was driven clean away from him, leaving him gasping and straining and rocking up into her, his eyes threatening to roll back in his head with every breath that reminded him she was here, saying his name back to him, arching and writhing and shuddering so hard that his body acted on instinct to flip them and surround her on all sides with himself until finally, with lightning and thunder that reminded him of raindrops glistening so prettily in a gray world, they both fell still.

She was boneless and pliant, shaking slightly, but still she rested her arms over his shoulders, kept her legs loosely wrapped around his waist. Gold couldn't imagine ever moving, couldn't fathom twitching even far enough to stop her hair from tickling his nose where his face lay buried against the side of her neck.

"My beautiful Belle," he murmured.

Her smile was wide and radiant even in the dark, and he felt it branded through his cheek as she turned and dropped a soft kiss against the side of his head.

Like a fairytale, he almost imagined that that single kiss had cured him of his every dark thought. Belle could so easily be a princess, a knight, a hero.

His hero, and like the dragon of any story, Gold knew far better than to let go of the things that mattered most.

Sunday night, after long kisses and slow embraces, Gold tore himself from Belle, left the warm safety of her apartment, and made his way back home. The porchlight glowed steadily, and he felt himself smiling to know that it really would lead his son back home.

His ankle was sore, the rest of him aching from more activity than he usually saw, but still he couldn't stop himself from smiling as he unlocked his front door and entered the house. A light from upstairs reassured him that Bae was back, safe and sound and not missing.

Still covered in the warm glow of Belle's love, the memory of her kisses yet burning against his mouth, he felt strong enough to go for the cabinet. He slid the drawer open, intent on removing and destroying that crumpled note he'd written what seemed a thousand years ago, and had barely time to notice the gun laying there when Gold heard the trickle of water.

"Bae?" he called, turning toward the staircase. Slamming the drawer closed, he limped his way upstairs. Near the top step, there was a trail of water, overflow that led back to the bathroom one door down from Bae's room. "Bae?" he called again, his voice rising over the stream of water.

No answer.

"Bae!" he screamed, and his fist came down hard against the wood of the door. It felt damp, pliable with moist heat, and when he shoved it open, a wall of steam erupted to blind him.

Coughing and waving his hand wildly, Gold squinted past the obstruction—and saw Bae standing in front of the sink.

Staring into the mirror.

His eyes were blank and flat—a familiar expression Gold saw too often in the mirror. His mouth was set in a thick line, his bottom lip just barely trembling.

And in his hand, at his throat, he held a razor.

"Bae!" Gold yelled, and dived forward.

They both crumpled heavily to the wet tiles, Gold's suit ruined, the robe around Bae completely drenched. A line of scarlet cut through the steam, lodging Gold's heart in his throat as he saw the tiny line of red just under Bae's left ear.

"Bae," he keened. "Oh, Bae. Oh, my boy."

Bae's shoulders drooped, his whole body shaking, as he broke into wracking sobs. Gold tried to gather up as much of him as he could, cradling him close, desperate and terrified but determined all the same to do whatever he had to in order to save his boy.

Bae cried for hours, weeping and shaking, almost dead weight in his papa's arms, but never once did he speak a single word.