Chapter 4

He was a disgrace. He'd always known it—impossible not to when his entire childhood had been all about hammering in how much of a burden he was—but he supposed, in light of more important tragedies, he'd forgotten just how vastly he could mess things up.

Gold averted his eyes from the library when walking to his shop, kept his face turned completely away when walking home, and hoped that Belle's kindness would extend to simply sweeping his ill-begotten foray into philanthropy under the rug and not spreading it all over town.

If—when—Bae came back, Gold would prefer his son not have to suffer hearing his father made the laughingstock of Storybrooke.

The days seemed to stretch even longer now that he'd failed so abysmally at the latest item on his self-appointed checklist. If he couldn't brave the animal shelter, and now would never be able to show his face at the library again, Gold began wondering if he could just anonymously donate money to some charity and call it good. It might be better for everyone all around that way.

The first couple nights, he wasn't even tempted by the gun. He didn't deserve such a quick way out. What kind of man couldn't even read a single picture book aloud to a bunch of kids? What sort of person nearly hyperventilated just at the mere thought of reading a story to a boy who wasn't his son?

But Bae was gone, and it'd been years since Gold read him a story, and now he couldn't—he might never get to read him another story—and in that moment, staring down at a little dark-haired boy, Gold had felt like a fraud. Like a cheat. Like a conman.

Like his father.

The librarian must be wishing she'd never met him. She was probably tearing down every single flyer she'd ever put up and determining that even going it alone was better than risking another absolute joke of a man taking up her time and ruining her events.

The fourth night, Gold sat in the foyer next to the cabinet holding the gun, a photo album on his lap and the drawer open beside his head. Page by page, he flipped backward through his son's life, ending with the very first picture he had of his son. When he'd been dishonorably discharged and come home, his leg in a terrible cast, his face bruised from the beatings he'd taken, while Milah was sleeping in the bedroom, spent from unleashing her disappointment on him—the neighbor, dropped by with some mail mistakenly delivered to her, had offered to take a picture of Gold holding his son.

What little was visible of the house behind his shoulder showed just how dingy and miserable it had been, but all Gold had been able to see back then was that tiny baby in his arms. So wee, so fragile—and so perfectly willing to reach up with those strong fingers of his to touch Gold. As if he recognized him right away as his father. As if he wasn't afraid to claim him as his own.

This picture, he thought, was taken at the best moment of Gold's entire life, and seeing it now hurt so badly his entire body ached.

He'd been given something so indescribably precious…and he'd lost it. Lost him. Lost everything.

Gold set the album aside and picked up the gun. It was heavier than the pictures comprising a whole lifetime, and so cold that a shiver traveled down his spine. He imagined lifting the gun. Aiming it. Pulling the trigger.

He imagined never having to wake up to an empty house again. Never having to face eternal hours of a day without the chatter of his son. Never having to close his eyes and be unable to imagine anything but all the ways his son might be suffering. Never having to put another tally-mark in that little book of his and trying to sleep while the silence echoed with his boy's cry of Papa!

"Oh, Bae," he whispered. "If only I knew…"

But he didn't want to. Not if the truth was that his boy was dead. Had died years ago. Was rotting away in an unmarked grave, beneath some inconspicuous plot of earth. Or thrown out to the sea, his bones long since sunken to the seabed, his flesh all devoured by parasitic creatures.

A low, keening sound was torn from Gold's throat. His hands clenched over the gun—just a tool, really, one he could make work to his advantage. Embers burned in his ankle, laid awkwardly out in front of him. He was cold, and he was tired, and he couldn't see past the tears streaming from his eyes…but Gold didn't pull the trigger. He sat there until the sun came up, then he struggled to his feet, hid the gun away in its drawer, and crawled upstairs to ready himself for the day.

He was half an hour late opening his shop. Not that it mattered. No one noticed.

"Maybe it's time to do an inspection of all my properties," he said. He'd been trying to speak out loud more often, exercising his voice like he did his ankle. "Check up on Dove."

The task seemed daunting, more so when he realized that he'd have to go into the backroom and dig out his past inspection histories. He'd need to call Dove—which meant talking to someone—and then send out warnings to his tenants, and then…

The bell over his door rang.

Gold froze. For years, he'd been the only one who ever tinkled that bell, but he was in the backroom, and there were footsteps up front, and…

And the last time someone had come to see him, it had been the police. With Bae's belongings, found in that warehouse owned by Blue Star Wish Foundation.

Gold's heart lurched upward and lodged in his throat. His hands were shaking so badly he could scarcely pull the curtain aside to duck into the front.

But it wasn't a police officer waiting for him. It was the librarian.

"Belle," he blurted, shocked, before straightening and correcting himself, "Miss French."

"Please, I'd prefer it if you called me Belle." Behind her, the sun arrowed through the blinds, as per usual, but then, as if astonished to find Belle rather than Gold, it fell to spotlight the young librarian rather than spotlighting him. Which meant he couldn't pretend not to see the way she bit her lip and shifted her weight, clearly nervous and uncomfortable.

It also gilded her hair bronze and copper and caramel, and made her eyes shine even bluer.

Gold blinked, then blinked again. It was like the evening she'd made him see rainbow sparkles in the gray drizzle—beauty amidst the black where he'd lost the ability to see it—and noticing it so suddenly was as shocking as if a candle had finally been lit before a prisoner kept in an ocean of darkness for years.

"I'm so sorry," Belle suddenly exclaimed, simultaneously taking several steps nearer him. "I should have asked you what you were comfortable doing before I just expected you to get up in front of everybody—and well, I know I thought you liked children—you smiled at Alexandra—but I should have asked instead of just assuming and then insisting—you'd think I'd have learned better by now, I always push too hard and expect too much, and I do work on it, I promise, but I forgot, and I was too impulsive and—"

"Miss French. Belle." He held up a hand in an attempt to stay afloat under the deluge of words, all of them bewildering. "You have nothing to apologize for, really. I should have been able to read a single book without falling apart—"

"No!" Belle lifted a hand toward him. "That's not… Everyone has different comfort zones, and I know that better than most, and you shouldn't have to make yourself face something terrifying to you if—"

"I wasn't terrified," he snapped, his whole frame tensing at this oh-so-familiar accusation.

Belle's brow creased. "Okay. But I didn't mean to scare you off—"

"I wasn't scared," he insisted. "I…simply had a moment of weakness."

The way she bit her lip was so distracting he wondered if it counted as another moment of weakness.

"I don't talk much," he finally said, too quickly. "From day to day. It makes it hard to speak."

"Okay," she agreed. Too easily. She didn't believe him. And why should she? Milah hadn't been the first to accuse him of cowardice, nor had she been the last. "I just…I wanted to make sure you were okay." Before he could snap at her again, she added, "That we're okay. I don't want a reputation for driving off my volunteers, after all."

He nearly gaped at her wobbly smile. "You…you still want me to come back?"

"Of course!" Her eyes widened with what looked like surprise. "I love having you come. I'll find something more up your alley for next time, I promise. If…if you still want to try."

Try. He'd promised Bae he'd try. He'd promised himself he wouldn't take the easy way out without doing everything he could to escape it first.

"If you'll have me," he finally murmured, "I'll still volunteer."

Her smile was blinding. It rattled him so that he felt off-balance and two steps behind. Which was the only explanation for the reason he said, "It's on my list, after all."

Belle seemed so much more relaxed as she took the last step up to the counter and leaned against it, her elbows propping her up, her attention all on Gold. "What list?"

Her proximity—her attention—made him nervous. Gold wasn't used to being looked at, not anymore. He was afraid that if she kept looking, if she didn't slide her attention to something more worthy of her focus, she'd start noticing all the flaws so ingrained in him.

"It doesn't matter." He waved a hand and turned toward the register, hoping she would see this as a dismissal.

"If I can help with anything…" Belle trailed off, looking nervous again. Or at least, he assumed that was why she bit her lip. A most distracting trait of hers.

"It's not…" Tightening his grip on his cane, he shrugged. "It's just something I'm working on. For myself."

"Oh." Belle looked away. He should have felt relieved, so he couldn't explain the sharp surge of disappointment choking him. "Well. I guess I should go. Maybe I'll see you soon?"

"Tomorrow?" he asked. Thursday nights were often slow; it would be a good time for him to slink in and dust the shelves or do whatever other menial work she found for him now that she'd realized how useless he was.

"Tomorrow," she agreed, and for some reason, her smile was back. "Have a good day, Mr. Gold."

By the time he realized that he should wish her the same, she was long gone, the bell long still, his shop once more left to dust motes and ticking clocks. And Gold's voice had once again withered away to nothing.

All day long, Gold felt sick. He should cancel. He knew it. But he didn't know Belle's phone number, and she was expecting him, and…and he didn't want to cancel.

That was such a strange, even novel feeling—wanting something he could actually have—that he didn't have the heart to crush it.

So when the time came to close up the shop, Gold locked the door behind him, remembered to tuck the keys away in his coat pocket, and headed for the library. Where his shop seemed a graveyard, the silence incidental rather than reverent, the library, in contrast, seemed a quiet haven, its emptiness abated by the thousands of books, its soundlessness a matter of respect. And it was so warm. A tension Gold hadn't even realized lived inside his bones eased and unraveled within the heat of the library.

"Hello, Mr. Gold!" Belle chirped as soon as she came around to the circulation desk. As usual, she was carrying a handful of books, and though he warned himself not to get used to it, there was a smile on her lips as she greeted him. "You're just in time. I had Ruby bring over some dinner. I figured you wouldn't have had time to eat between closing your shop and coming here, and I can't just put you to work without feeding you, so I hope hamburgers and iced tea are okay."

"You didn't have to," he tried to say, but she only waved him off.

"I wanted to. Trust me, Mr. Gold, I can't tell you how happy I am to have you volunteering." As if she didn't realize the way he flinched and swallowed at that notion, so easily spilled out, she gestured him back into the library. "I set the food up on the main table in the middle. I'm just going to grab a few things and I'll be right there, okay?"

She disappeared so quickly that Gold was half-tempted to think he'd only imagined seeing her—imagined her saying that she was happy to have him here. It felt dreamlike. In real life, no one was happy to see him.

Slowly, even tentatively, Gold made his way back through the library until he found a table, set in the non-fiction area, surrounded by plush chairs. A bag bearing Granny's Diner logo sat atop the surface, and he busied himself setting out the to-go containers, parceling out the napkins, and inserting the straws into the Styrofoam cups.

"Oh, thank you!" Belle said when she came around the corner with a box and that same stack of books she'd been carrying earlier. She dumped them on the opposite corner of the table and then slid into a chair—not opposite him, as he'd expected—but kitty-corner to him. "Doesn't it smell delicious?"

"Yes," he said, and only realized that it did when she said it. It did smell good, hamburger and grease and salt. His stomach growled and gurgled as if he hadn't been nauseous all day.

"I got you extra pickles," Belle said with a smile he could only describe as mischievous. "I remembered."

"So you did."

He remembered that evening too. The first glimpse of beauty he'd had in years. The first breath of fresh air he'd felt. The first item on his checklist he'd thought he might actually accomplish.

Belle smiled at him, for the first time hesitating, and Gold realized how difficult it must be for her to carry an entire conversation all on her own.

Clearing his throat, he sat in his own chair and said, "The real question is if you brought extra ketchup. Condiments can work magic."

Her laugh startled him, and he tensed instinctively, but when he dared look over at her, he didn't find her mocking him. Rather, she was laughing with him. It took his breath away.

"Well, I brought ketchup for the fries," she said, "but I'm sure we can add some to the hamburgers if we want."

It was strange, eating with someone else. He felt self-conscious, but companionable, and bizarre as that combination was, he wouldn't have traded it for any of his lonely nights. Belle seemed content to eat mostly in silence, though she made a few comments here and there, and even asked him how his day had gone in the shop. He scrabbled desperately to remember but could only recall that he'd been trying to talk himself out of coming here all day. Nevertheless, he mumbled some answer, and she seemed to accept it readily enough.

"I don't remember ever having Granny's iced tea," he said when he felt brave enough to dare a conversational foray of his own—that was on his list, after all. Talk to someone every day. "It's good."

Belle laughed. "I'm addicted to the stuff, I think. Can't get enough of it. I feel bad, too, because I always used to think that iced tea was an abomination, but here I am now, the chief sustainer of it in our little town. Just goes to show how much life can surprise you as you get older."

Despite himself, Gold scoffed. "You're likely to make many more discoveries then, young as you are."

"What?" Belle half-laughed, half-snorted at him, something that shouldn't have been as endearing as it was. "Excuse you, I'll have you know I'm not as young as I look—and you're not as old as you're trying to make yourself sound."

He didn't believe her, and apparently she could tell because she straightened in her seat, her hands folded primly in her lap, and said, "All right, I'll share if you will. How old are you?" Before he could even arch an eyebrow, she said, "No, wait, we'll both guess first."

"This hardly seems a fun game," he said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

"It's too late now," she said. "You've challenged me, and I rarely back down from a dare. Hmm…" She tapped a finger to her chin and studied him, making him squirm inside despite how still he intentionally kept himself on the outside. It'd been a long time since he'd worried too much about appearances, but his face fell naturally into his imperious, menacing mask under her scrutiny.

A light giggle broke Belle's mock-studious expression. "That's cheating," she said. "You can't try to throw me off. Sure, there's a bit of silver in your hair, and I love these laugh lines you have, but I still wouldn't put you a day over forty-five."

It had to be whatever sickness had kept him nauseous all day that made his heart flip over in his chest. He lowered his eyes, hoping his hair would hide whatever weakness his expression might give away. "I'm forty-eight," he said.

Belle betrayed no surprise, just gave him that close-mouthed, sideways smile, all softness and dimples, that made him go soft inside. "Only three years off. Let's see if you can do better. Come on. How old do you think I am?"

His mind tried to busy itself with college degrees and years she'd been in Storybrooke as head librarian, but math couldn't stand a chance next to the fact that she'd all but invited him to stare openly at her.

She was beautiful. He'd always known that, intellectually, but here, so close he could smell the roses in her hair, so relaxed he could all but touch the smile playing along her lips, he recognized the fact of her beauty on a soul-deep level.

She was so beautiful, and he was so ugly and worthless and empty, and even this one shared dinner between them was an abomination.

"Twenty-eight," he rasped. It was higher than he truly guessed her to be, but he was afraid saying anything else would give away just how badly her radiance burned him.

Belle's smile was triumphant. "Thirty-two," she said. "You were four years off, so I believe that means I win."

There were fewer years between her and his son than between her and him. She was closer in age to Bae than to him.

Not that it mattered. Of course it didn't. Why would it? She was the head librarian, and he was a volunteer here to lighten her load, and that was the extent of it. The age gap didn't matter. It never would matter.

"What's the prize for winning?" he asked.

She bit her lip, in turn making Gold clench his hands tightly. "Hmm. I think for my prize I want…your name."

"My name?" He gritted his teeth and tried to look impervious. "It's Mr. Gold."

Rolling her eyes, she leaned forward. "It feels strange to call you that, like we're only acquaintances."

He blinked at her. "Aren't we?"

He wished the words back immediately, but it was too late. Hurt bloomed over her face, and she retreated, her shoulders curling inward, her eyes falling away from him. With only two words, he'd cut her in half, making her shrink right in front of him.

"I…I hoped we were friends," she said in a small voice. That she dared to say anything, to utter a hope after he'd inadvertently hurt her, made him realize—as if her kindness toward the town monster hadn't been enough—just how brave she was. "I hoped we could be friends."

"I…" Gold closed his eyes. "I'm not very good at being friends."

"Right. Okay."

Whatever possessed him to make him move, to have him unclenching his fists and reaching across the table corner to put his hand over hers, disappeared too soon, leaving him staring down at their hands. Their hands, together. His over hers—and she wasn't pulling away. Next to that, saying something didn't seem as big a leap.

"I could try," he offered. "I…I'd like to try. If you want."

"I do." And she flipped her hand to weave her fingers between his. "Does that mean I get your name?"

Flinching, Gold tugged his hand free of hers. "Why would you want that?" he asked with an attempt at a sneer. "It's a terrible one. I never use it. It was only given as a punishment."

Belle stared at him. "Well, now I'm dreadfully curious about it." She blinked and then startled. "But you don't have to give it to me!" she exclaimed. "I'm not pushing you, okay? I promised I wouldn't and I'm not—"

"Rumplestiltskin," he snapped. She shouldn't apologize. She didn't have any reason to apologize, not when her only sin was being too kind. "Happy now, dearie?"

"Rumplestiltskin?" Belle couldn't entirely hide her surprise, though she masked it well enough with a smile. "A fairy tale name—just like mine."

He snorted derisively. "Your name suits you, Belle. Mine was only given to remind me that as much as the imp in the story wanted a child, my father didn't want me and would have been happy to trade me away for riches."

He'd said too much. How could a man go from not saying anything to spilling out far too many secrets he'd never bothered to reveal before?

"That's awful," Belle finally said just as Gold made to stand, hoping to pretend these last few moments had never happened. "But even if that's what he meant by the name…well, I don't think he knew the story very well. If you really think about it, Rumplestiltskin was the hero of the story—misunderstood, definitely, and with a tragic ending he didn't deserve—but he's the one who saved lives and fixed situations in the tale. He's the one who never cheated and was honest and true, if a bit odd, in his dealings. So whatever your father might have meant, I think the name suits you."

Gold had always thought it suited him too. He'd always known he was never headed for any good end—and for five years now, he'd been every bit as desperate for a child he couldn't have as that storied imp.

But Belle's version…Belle's version made him ache inside, because whoever she wanted to be friends with—whoever she was pretending Gold was when she smiled at him and held his hand and brought him dinner—it wasn't him.

Him, the useless father.

Him, the cuckolded, scorned husband.

Him, the coward and deserter.

Him, the parasite his father had used, abused, and then discarded without ever once regretting.

"Come on, Rumplestiltskin," Belle said. As she stood, he found all he could do was stare up at her, frozen at the sound of his name spoken so easily. So acceptingly. Almost beautiful, in her accent, her tone, her voice. "We have some old books to mend. If you're still up for it?"

"I am," he said, and when she offered her hand to help him stand, he was helpless to do anything but accept it.

That night, he didn't even think of the gun in the cabinet. He made his usual tally-mark, brushed his hand over Bae's old bracelet, but when he settled into his pillow and closed his eyes, all he could see was Belle's smile as she showed him the old, tattered books with their torn covers and stained pages. All he could hear was her voice cooing over the damage and asking him questions about his process to restore her beloved books—and saying his name as she bid him good night.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't afraid for morning to come.

Gold ended up heading to the library on Monday evening. They hadn't anywhere near finished the backlog of books she'd been hoarding, hoping to eventually learn how to fix them herself, and he'd filled up his weekend hours with looking into a myriad of ways he could use to bring her books back to life.

It was a bit busier that evening, and Belle excused herself multiple times to help her patrons, but Gold kept his head down, let her do most of the talking, and wondered if she knew what it meant to him that she never used his name in front of anyone else.

As soon as she closed the library and locked the doors, she found him at the table and said, so simply, "Would you like some tea, Rumplestiltskin?"

He found himself agreeing, and then he was setting aside his half-restored book and chatting with Belle, his hands wrapped around a warm cup, steam rising to tickle his nose and loosen his voice from his choked throat. Belle hadn't sat across from him tonight, either, and she was so close that his left shoe was actually nudged up against her right foot. She must know, too, because she'd toed off her heels as soon as she sat down; but she didn't shift away.

"You're really good at this," Belle said as she looked over the books he'd finished.

Gold squirmed a bit. He wasn't used to compliments. They seemed very nearly unnatural when aimed his way.

"Anyone could do it if they only learned how," he muttered.

"What other secret talents do you have hidden away?" Belle asked.

"You must have some of your own," he blurted. He wasn't sure if he was more desperate to shift her attention off him or curious to know more about her. She had to have a flaw hidden somewhere, surely.

"Oh, I'm pretty much an open book," Belle said with a laugh that sounded too hollow. "The things I love, I get way too excited about and too invested in and spend too much time on until I'm pretty much useless at everything else."

"I don't believe that," Gold said quietly.

"It's true." Belle made a half-shrug. "I've loved reading and books and discovering other worlds ever since I was little. My mom used to read to me, and every special occasion, she'd give me new books. I learned to read sitting in her lap following along as she read aloud. But then…when she died, I just couldn't face it, you know? I couldn't pick up a book without thinking of her, or read a story without hearing her voice, and it was too painful. So…I kind of went a little wild and did a lot of stupid, impulsive things, and by the time I wised up, all I wanted were the stories that reminded me of who I really was under all the grief and loneliness. So I threw myself into college and getting my degree and finding a library I could really devote myself to."

"And you ended up here."

"Yeah. It's exactly what I needed. But…" Belle bit her lip, her fingers playing with the edge of one of the books stacked between them. "But now, it's like books are all I have. I don't know how to do anything else. I don't really know how to talk to anyone about other things. And when I try to think of what other dreams or interests I might have…" Flushing, she shook her head and clasped her hands together with a fake laugh. "Well, they seem ridiculous. Like a little girl's dreams. But I'm not that little girl anymore, and pretending there aren't consequences or repercussions to living so recklessly is what got me into trouble before, so…I guess I'm just better off being bored."

Gold tried not to swallow the heart lodged in his throat lest he crush it. "Are you bored here, Belle?" he asked.

"I can be, sometimes." She looked up, straight into his eyes. "But not right now. Lately, I've been anything but bored." Her smile went from that close-mouthed crooked smile he was beginning to think was just his to a mischievous smirk so fast he felt off-balance. "I guess you're my adventure," she said.

There was something in her tone, then. Something almost coy. Almost flirtatious.

But that was ridiculous. He was Mr. Gold and she a beautiful, young librarian with the world at her fingertips. Librarian and volunteer. Nothing else. Nothing more.

"Well," he said. "I can't be too adventurous because it's nearly past my bedtime. I should be going."

"Okay." Belle stood and helped him return all his supplies to their box, her hands occasionally brushing against his. "Do you think you can spare some time this Thursday too, or did you come today because this is the only time you had available?"

"I can come back on Thursday," he said, and when her smile brightened the library around him, he couldn't help but smile back.

Hours later, curled in bed with another tally-mark in his book and memories of his son hovering along the edges of his mind, Gold could still feel the ghost of that smile on his lips, his first in longer than he could quite pin down.

That must be why he dreamed of Bae, lost in the snowy woods, his shadow ripped away from him, screaming for his papa.

When Gold woke, there were tears hot on his face and cold on his pillow, and he couldn't sleep again without the weight of something in his hand.

Instead of the gun, he held his little book, and waited for dawn with Bae's name on his lips.

Wednesday morning, Gold ran into David Nolan. Walking only between his shop and his home, it had been easy to avoid most people, but now that he was trying to get outside every day, he should have expected he'd run into the deputy at some point. It was a small town. The police station was only a few blocks from his shop.

But still, looking up to find David headed in his direction, Gold was surprised. He wasn't ready for the encounter—for the memories it stirred up.

"Morning, Gold," David said. He sounded polite. He looked friendly. Never once, since that fateful day when Gold had launched himself at him and slammed him into a glass case, punching him repeatedly, yelling horrible things at him, had the younger man seemed the least bit resentful or vengeful. He hadn't pressed charges, and he'd never spread rumors about the reason Gold had snapped so violently either.

Which meant Gold couldn't hate him, even though every bone in his body yearned to be able to blame David for the bad news of which he'd been the bearer.

"Sheriff Nolan," Gold said. His voice was tight, low, but at least he got the words out.

But the sheriff had stopped walking. He was standing there, as if he meant to keep talking, and panic tasted like bile in the back of Gold's throat. He could still see his son's shawl hanging over this man's hands, held out like an offering.

Like an ending.

"How's life been?" David asked. He phrased the question politely, but Gold heard what he really meant: How are you holding up? It was what he'd asked Gold over and over again when the investigation was still open, still active, still potentially solvable.

"Nothing new," Gold said. "As you'd know better than anyone."

David's eyes were kind. Or maybe just pitying. After all, David and his wife had found their runaway child. And much as David might sympathize with Gold now, it would never quite cover his relief that it was his child who was safe now.

"Listen," David said. "I'm not letting them forget your son's case. I've still got inquiries in at every station from here to Boston. In fact, I'm headed to Boston in a couple weeks, and I mean to stop and talk to a detective I know there. Phillip Prince—he's great at sniffing out cases that have been sleeping for a while. I haven't given up."

Gold wanted to ask why he couldn't go visit this detective right now. He wanted to demand that inquiries be made in every state. He wanted to snap and snarl and rage and lash out until the whole world hurt like he did.

But his voice had dried up. He couldn't move or he'd disintegrate into dust.

This was the first time in over a year that someone besides him had mentioned his son.

Bae was real. He was real, and he was out there, somewhere, alone, lost, maybe hurting, maybe starving, most likely hating the father who'd never come for him.

Or he was real, and he was out there, somewhere, dead and rotting and nothing but bones and strips of fabric.

Either way, he wasn't here. With his papa. In Gold's arms. Safe and loved and cared for and protected.

The world was too big, and the skies were gray, and the sun was like a huge spotlight shining down on Gold, highlighting the crimes spelled out all across his lonely form.

Coward.

Child-deserter.

Useless father.

"Gold?" he thought David was saying, but Gold brushed past him.

He couldn't breathe. The street was too open. Anything might happen out here. There were too many eyes. He could feel them all on him, like ants crawling over his flesh.

His shop. He just had to get to his shop.

David tried to help him, but Gold shook him off and limped away as fast as he could. His hands were shaking and it took nearly a dozen tries before he could unlock the door and barricade himself inside. The sun peered through the blinds. Gold's throat was dry. Sparks flared at the corners of his vision.

Stumbling his way to the backroom, Gold finally collapsed onto the cot. He tried to breathe, tried to hold it for ten seconds, tried to exhale, but there was an iron band around his chest—and he didn't deserve to be able to breathe.

All those hours staring at the gun, and he was going to die here, in the backroom of his shop, suffocated to death beneath the weight of his anguish.

He couldn't die. Not yet. Not before he knew if Bae still needed him or not.

His list! He'd made it for just this reason—to give him something to focus on.

His air-starved brain tried to remember the first item.

Go outside. Well, that had been a mistake. It had led him straight to David and the reminder of everything he'd made himself numb to.

Talk to someone every day. Great. If he survived this, he could hunt down David tomorrow too and try to finish the job.

Volunteer.

Belle. She was expecting him tomorrow. He'd promised her he'd be there, at the library, in the evening, to help her save the books she loved so dearly. The books that were all she thought she had.

She was wrong. She had to be. She was too bright and lovely and kind not to have a couple dozen people desperately in love with her, but it tore at his heart, a bit, to think that she didn't realize how absolutely amazing she was.

But she was useless at stitching bindings back together. He'd seen that. She needed him to do it for her.

She needed him.

Tomorrow. When he was supposed to be there. He'd promised her he'd meet her.

Have accountability with at least one other person.

The last item on his checklist. The one he hadn't even started on.

Maybe…maybe he could tell Belle about the list. She'd see that she could help do something outside of the library, and he'd be one step closer to being the man his son deserved.

It was an idea. And somehow, while it was coming to him, he'd managed to take in a breath. And another. Another.

Shaking and weak, Gold was nonetheless breathing and alive.

And the search for Bae wasn't over yet.