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Chapter Text

___

Emma's day so far: woke from a coma, discovered fairy tale characters are real, fought a dragon, and broke a 28-year-long curse.

Now she is standing on the street, watching the residents of Storybrooke embrace each other. Some are laughing with joy, others skipping in the streets. Emma spots Mary-Margaret and David outside of Granny’s Diner and walks cautiously towards them. They haven’t seen her yet, too busy embracing Ruby, Granny, Leroy, and his brothers. Her heart is hammering against her bruised ribcage. Her sides hurt. Her head is throbbing. She'd tried to take Henry out of Storybrooke, and paid for it when the car spun off the road and into a ditch.

"So it's true," she says tentatively as she comes up behind David and Mary-Margaret.

They stare at her. Her friends - her parents - are staring at her with a look it takes her a minute to recognise. Full of love. Emma doesn't know how to take it. These are her parents, the people she has longed for her whole life. They're the same age as her, they're fairy-tale heroes, but they are her parents.

Mary-Margaret cups Emma’s face in her hands and looks at her so adoringly, the exact way Emma had always wanted her mother to look at her. "You found us," she says.

Emma can't help but startle a little when she hugs her. David reaches for them, sliding his hand into Emma’s hair, and embraces them both.

It's quite possibly the most awkward experience of Emma’s life. There's so much about this that she doesn't know how to process. Take away the fact that her parents are fairy tale characters, take away that they're the same age as her, take away that she has been talking to them for months without knowing they are her parents - and there is still the big gaping wound in her heart, created by lifetime of being alone. Mostly, she's just confused.

And, of course, Mary-Margaret holds her a little too tight in the exact wrong spot and Emma hisses with pain, easing out of their grip.

"Emma?" Mary-Margaret stares at her with alarm.

"My ribs are broken. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

David's jaw drops. "What?!"

Mary-Margaret rattles out her worry. "What do you mean 'broken?' What happened? Who did this? Emma!" 

Emma explains, haltingly, about trying to leave Storybrooke, about the car accident, and the coma. She leaves out the part about Gold keeping her hidden like a hostage - as a hostage - and how he'd been ready to throw her to a literal dragon the second she woke up, all for the sake of breaking the curse and to save someone he'd cared about. A part of her wonders who that is.

But if she's being honest, she'd rather just punch the son of a bitch in the face than talk about it anymore.

___

Next up: An angry mob tries to kill Regina, because she's the Evil Queen responsible for cursing the town apparently, and apparently she has no magic so Emma has to step in and arrest her before the town rips her to pieces. After, Mary-Margaret and David come with her to see Gold.

When they reach Gold's shop, he's folding old clothes into a suitcase. For reasons he won't say, he has brought magic to Storybrooke. Before Emma can give him the punch he deserves, the panic in the streets rises to a crescendo; a car skids into a fire hydrant outside of the shop, and Emma goes to mediate the resulting argument.

By the late afternoon, the chaos has calmed a little. Most of the townspeople gather at Granny’s Diner, where Ruby and Granny are serving cakes, cookies, and drinks free of charge. An orderly queue of people leads to a table, where Mother Superior sits, offering words of wisdom and comfort as people write names of loved ones they can’t find. Archie is handing out a sign-up sheet for free counselling sessions. On the bulletin board, Marco hangs a drawing of a little boy.

Emma, David, and Mary-Margaret field any questions about the curse – and why they’re still in Storybrooke – though they have few answers. Emma is grateful that David and Mary-Margaret are with her, though listening to them talk about the ‘other world’ this and ‘enchanted forest’ that makes her head spin. There is a rattling in her temples and her ribs are sore. She pushes her fingers into the soft flesh by her eyes and sits down on the sidewalk.

Mary-Margaret crouches next to her. "Maybe you should go home. David and I can handle this."

Emma grits her teeth. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not," replies Mary-Margaret. "You need to rest.”

“Resting isn’t really what I do.”

“You’ve been in a serious accident," says David. "Go back to Snow’s and get some sleep.”

She agrees, though for her own reasons. As much as David and Mary-Margaret have assured her that they won’t push her to talk, she can see in their expressions that this is all they want. Especially Mary-Margaret.

And Emma…just can’t.

Her Mom and Dad are Snow White and Prince Charming. She is the product of True Love, a Savior, a prophesy. This morning she'd fought a dragon. A few hours before that, she had been in a medically-induced coma. If she couldn't feel her cracked ribs, she would have written all this off as a crazy dream.

She takes a slow, careful walk, as delicate as a baby swan. This only makes her seethe. She feels weak and useless. As she walks around the street corner, she passes the entrance to Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. Seeing it makes her think of August. Where is he now? She hasn't seen him yet. She hasn't seen him since the night she tried to leave Storybrooke.

All along, he’d tried to convince her of all this. He'd told her he was Pinocchio. She'd thought he was crazy.

Jokes on her, huh.

He has helped her so many times. She hopes he is still as forthcoming because she could really do with a pep talk right about now.

She goes into the inn, grabs the key from behind the counter, and heads upstairs to August’s room. She knocks. No answer. She unlocks the door and goes inside. The bed is neatly made. The desk and closet is clear. All of August’s belongings are gone. She remembers how desperate he'd been when she'd last saw him. He'd begged her to believe him, to save him. That kind of desperation only comes from someone who has no other options.

Where is he now?

Returning to the ground floor, Emma checks behind the reception desk and finds Granny’s book of check-ins. Given how few people stay, it’s easy to find August’s name and check out date. He’d checked out five days before their last conversation.

Three months ago.

It’s only then she takes in how long her coma was.

___

When Emma goes to the hospital later that afternoon, it's not to get a check up. Whale insists on giving her one anyway.

"Any headaches?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says impatiently. "Dealing with one right now." She gives him a pointed glare.

Gold had Whale "take care" of her and Henry during their comas, but Whale hadn't said a damn word to anyone about where Emma was, or even gotten them to an actual hospital. Instead he let Gold keep them in a bunker, like something out of a spy movie.

Whale tries to apologise. “If I had known who I was working for…” he begins.

Emma is over the excuses. “Don't bullshit me. You knew he was a crook even when you were cursed.”

Whale shrugs. “I still gave you both the best care you could get.”

"Why didn't you tell anyone? What does he have over you?"

"Nothing that matters now," replies Whale, shining a light in her eyes. "That life is no longer important to me. But... even while cursed I think a part of me knew that I prefer working in the shadows."

Emma didn't nearly have the extensive knowledge of fairy-tale characters that Henry did. "So what's your real name?"

"Victor."

"Victor Whale?"

"Sure." He lowers the light. "Let's go with that for now."

Another reason not to buy his bullshit.

They go through a list of symptoms. He asks her to lift her shirt so he can inspect the purple and green bruises on her stomach. He asks if she's having any memory issues. She knows who everyone is, she knows her life, her friends, but there is this sense of...displacement. Like the impact of the car rolling over in the ditch shook something important out of her head.

"That's normal, dare I say, a healthy sign." Whale picks up a chart, flicking through it. "Nothing I can do about the ribs. Just rest and let it heal, if you can."

"Great. Can I see my kid now?"

Whale takes her to the room where Henry is. Henry is awake and sat up in bed with the Once Upon A Time story book open on his lap. He smiles when he sees her. There's a cut by his left eyebrow which is being held closed by stitches. True love's kiss might have broken the curse, but it was pretty useless for healing Henry's wounds. He still needs to recover. Now that he’d been moved from Gold’s bunker to the hospital, he’s under observation by Doctor Whale and a few of the nurses.

Emma doesn't think she will regret anything more than trying to take Henry with her that night.

“Hey, kid.” she says softly, coming to sit on the bed by his knee. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” he answers quickly. “What’s going on out there? You broke the curse, right? Does everyone have their memories back?”

“Yeah the curse is broken which means things are a little crazy right now. I had to save Regina from a mob today.”

Henry looks concerned. “Is she okay?”

“I arrested her. She can't hurt anyone, and no one can hurt her.”

Henry chews on his lip. “I know that she’s the Evil Queen, and – and I don’t like what she did but… She's my Mom. I hated her for so long, but I don't want anything bad to happen to her. It’s confusing.”

“Yeah. I know.” Emma brushes a couple of tufts of his hair behind his ears. It’s longer. “I wanted to talk to you about the accident. I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to take you away from Storybrooke. It wasn’t fair of me to do that to you.”

“It’s okay. Things are going to get better now, right? You have your parents. I have you.”

Emma wishes it could be that simple. One thing she knows for sure is that she has Henry, and she is never going to let anything bad happen to him again. “Yeah. You have me.” She leans over to give him a careful hug.

He wrinkles his nose. “You’re all sweaty.”

“Yeah. Well. I walked here. Pretty sure my car is in a ditch somewhere.” She says this lightly but when she looks at Henry’s face, his lip his wobbling. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.”

He must feel awful. He grabbed the steering wheel trying to stop her from 'abandoning everyone' and sent the car careening into the ditch. She didn't blame him for a second. He'd been scared and desperate and he acted without thinking. It had been her who had tried to run, like she always did when she was afraid. She should have stayed.

She smooths his hair with her hand. “Just promise me you won’t ever do that again. You could have been killed.”

He dries his eyes. “I promise.”

She kisses his forehead.

“Hey, Emma? You won’t let anyone hurt my mom, right?”

“Of course I won’t.”

Emma wishes she could stay with Henry overnight, but even in a fairy-tale town visiting hours apply. In any case, she's can hardly keep her eyes open and it’s a long walk back to Mary-Margaret’s. “I’m going to head off, okay? I’ll visit you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” As she’s leaving, Henry calls out. “Emma?”

“Yeah, Henry?”

"I'm really sorry about your car."

She puts on her most convincing smile. "It's just a car." 

___

The next day, Leroy and his brothers help pull the beetle out of the ditch. It’s, putting it mildly, a total wreck. Emma fiddles with the key chain around her neck and winces as the yellow hunk of metal is hoisted onto the road. Insurance will write it off for sure.

She doesn't want that. It's one of the few things she has from Neal, a reminder to never let anyone else hurt her the way he had, and a reminder that no matter what happens, she can sit comfortably in her pain.

With little hope in her heart, she drops it off at the garage. Billy says it’ll take a while, but he’ll fix it for free because she broke the curse and all.

He’s a nice guy. He used to be a mouse or something.

___

Everything is remarkably peaceful for a while. 

Blame the bump on her head, but Emma starts talking to Regina instead of ignoring her. At first, Regina offers nothing but snide, sarcastic comments and biting words - which, if Emma’s being honest, she kind of enjoys. So she keeps pushing, and she actually thinks she's getting somewhere, chipping away at Regina's cool exterior. It's that cool exterior that reminds Emma of herself.

Henry is released from the hospital. He moves in with his grandparents and occasionally visits Regina in her cell. At first they were a lot of arguments between them, but being in a cell seems to have mellowed Regina out. She doesn’t snap back when Henry tells her about all the things she did that hurt him.

Leroy and his brothers go down to the town border, where a red painted line marks where Storybrooke meets the rest of the world. They take it in turns hopping back and forth over the town line and report back their lack of findings. The curse is broken. Storybrooke isn’t a prison anymore.

Some people leave, but a lot of them don't. A lot of them are still looking for each other.

One day, while on patrol, Emma notices a man hovering next to a telegraph pole, watching a group of school kids get off a bus. She nearly pulls her gun when she sees it’s Jefferson. Cursed or not, Jefferson kidnapped her. She puts her hand on her holster and watches. When the last few girls get off the bus and the bus drives away, Jefferson steps out from behind the pole. “Grace!” he calls.

A schoolgirl stops mid-step. Jefferson is completely still as Grace turns. Even from across the street Emma can see how nervous he is.

“Papa!” Grace runs to him. He crouches to take her into his arms. His face is red with tears. “You found me. I knew you would!”

Emma removes her hand from her gun.

When she goes home to Mary-Margaret’s that evening, she tells them that she's ready to talk. It doesn’t go perfectly, but Emma sleeps a little easier that night.

___

Not all reunions are peaceful. Unsurprisingly there’s bad blood between some of these fairy tale characters, though what is surprising is that not all of it is directed at Regina. Emma is walking through town towards the Maine Garage to pick up her car. 

Just as she passes a flower shop, the shop bell chimes a warning and the shop door swings open. A woman in a blue poker dot dress stumbles backwards out of the flower shop. “I’m not a child!”

An older man follows her out. Emma recognises him as the owner, Moe. “You don’t understand what that man will do to you, what he’s already done!”

The younger woman stands square-shouldered. “No, you don’t understand. It’s my life.”

Moe grabs her arm. “I can’t allow this! You’re coming home with me.”

“Let go of me!”

Emma's had enough. She goes up to them. “Hey! Is there a problem here?”

Moe glares at her. “This isn’t your concern.”

Emma levels him with a glare of her own. “I’m the sheriff. That makes it my concern. Unless you want to spend a night in a cell for disorderly conduct, I suggest you let her go.”

Reluctantly, Moe lets go. The woman pulls sharply away and, hugging her arms, walks away. Emma follows. There are tears in the woman’s eyes. She blinks them back and puts on a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem. You know that guy?”

“He’s my father.”

“Oh shit.”

“He doesn’t approve of the man I’m in love with.”

Emma hefts her eyebrows. “Well, screw him. He doesn’t get an opinion on who you want to be with.”

“I tried telling him that. I understand his concerns but…”

“But nothing. You can make your own choices.”

The woman laughs. “Thank you. I’m Belle, by the way.”

“Emma,” she replies, surprised when Belle doesn’t react like she’s talking to the town hero. It’s a welcome change, though it does raise questions. “Crazy world right now, huh. How are you dealing with all this?”

“I’m just trying to take it day by day.” She laughs helplessly. “It’s actually rather more difficult than I thought it would be. I’ve been…isolated for a while. Everything is so new and different. It’s nothing like what I had back home.”

Emma hums. “Well, in my experience, whenever you’re intimidated it’s better to take the plunge.” She shrugs. “And if it doesn’t go as well as you liked, grab yourself a hot cocoa with cinnamon.”

“A what with cinnamon?”

The corner of Emma’s mouth rises. “Head over to Granny’s Diner and ask for one. It’ll be worth it.”

___

Speaking of hot cocoa with cinnamon, Emma starts a daily habit of bringing Regina hot drinks, as well as the occasional cake.

“So,” Regina drawls as she takes the coffee Emma offers her, her smile only vaguely sardonic. “What’s going on out there? Seems quiet. I thought there would be parties through the street by now. Must be nice having all the members of the fairy tale guild singing your praises.”

“If there were any singing or parties, I’m glad I missed them.”

“Not enjoying your fame?”

“Not even a little bit.” She sips her hot cocoa and settles onto the couch by the cell, regarding Regina. While they're far from friends, over the last month or so they've developed a strange camaraderie, like Clarice and Hannibal Lector. If Regina sticks to her vow of ‘no magic’ and ‘no evil’ then maybe Emma could trust her outside of the cell. Or maybe not. She hasn't quite decided.

"Oh look." Regina glances over her shoulder and rolls her eyes so hard her pupils disappear for a second. “Here comes one of your fans now.”

Emma turns.

She's surprised to see Marco. He's wide-eyed and a little pale, and Mary-Margaret is with him, holding his arm. Behind them is Henry, looking happy as always. He bounds over Emma and Regina.

“Hi, Moms. We found Marco outside. He’s in a bad way.”

“It’s okay,” Mary-Margaret is whispering to Marco. To Emma, she says, “I was coming to drop off Henry and he was on the doorstep. I think he’s been there for a while.”

"I didn’t want to bother you. I know you are very busy," stammers Marco. He takes off his hat and squeezes it in both hands. Emma doesn't think she's ever seen him so nervous. “It’s my boy. I’ve looked for him everywhere and it's been weeks since you broke the curse. I thought he’d turn up by now but..." He shakes his head. "I know I should have come sooner…”

“It’s alright. I'll do what I can to find him.” Emma interrupts carefully. “What can you tell me about him?”

“His name is Pinocchio.”

“Pinocchio?” Henry says excitedly.

Emma feels her stomach flip over. She knows exactly who Pinocchio is. "August."

“August is Pinocchio?” Henry is grinning ear-to-ear. “Of course! I can't believe I didn't put it together sooner. That’s why he wanted to help me with Operation Cobra." He looks up at Emma with pride. "He came to Storybrooke to help you believe, Emma. Because if you believe in something hard enough, then…”

“…then it’ll come true,” finishes Marco. He presses his thumbs into his hat. “I used to tell him that.”

“See?” Mary-Margaret tells Marco, “I told you it would be alright.”

Marco doesn’t look reassured by this information. He stares, unfocused, at neither of them. "August… is Pinocchio. But that can’t be. August is Mr. Gold's son."

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up. "I'm sorry, what?"

“He’s Mr. Gold’s son. I was certain of it.”

"Could he have false memories like the rest of us?" Mary-Margaret asks.

"No, he knew who he was," replies Emma, feeling her pulse speed up. "He tried to convince me he was Pinocchio. And that was before the curse broke. He told me this whole story about him and me coming through a portal here together through some tree.”

Marco closes his mouth so quickly his jaw clicks.

“Excuse me?” Regina says, sounded outraged.

Mary-Margaret is shaking her head. "But that simply isn't true! You couldn't come with anyone. There wasn’t enough magic to transport two people. If someone else could have gone through that wardrobe, then I would have come with you, I promise you that."

"Mary-Margaret, it's fine." Emma puts her hands on her hips, averting her gaze away from the desperation in Mary-Margaret's face. She doesn't know how to reassure her; she really just wants to focus on August now.

"It's not fine," protests Mary-Margaret. "Emma, believe me, I wouldn't have left you alone if..."

"Mary-Margaret, please. Not now." Mary-Margaret looks hurt, and Emma can't help but feel awful. “Listen, I – we’ll talk about it later, I promise, but I really need to think about finding August."

How long had he been missing? Could it be that no one had seen him since he checked out of Granny's? She was such a selfish idiot. She should have tried to find him herself.

Marco had slowly sank onto the couch and cupped his hands over his mouth. He’s trembling, tears in his eyes. “That poor passerotto.” He rocks back and forth. "My poor boy.”

“Right,” Mary-Margaret says awkwardly. “I’ll go make some coffee.”

“Who the hell is August?” demands Regina.

“August Booth. Leather jacket. Rides a motorbike,” Emma rattles off.

“Ah. Your stalker.”

“My friend."

Regina makes a face, as if the prospect of Emma having friends is doubtful.

Emma ushers Henry out of the way and sits down next to Marco. “Henry, could you help Mary-Margaret please?” Henry opens his mouth to protest, but Emma gives him a stern look. “That wasn’t optional. Come on, kid, she's your grandmother.”

“Okay,” grumbles Henry, trailing after Mary-Margaret.

“I suppose I’ll stay right where I am,” Regina says sarcastically.

Ignoring her, Emma focuses on Marco. Or Geppetto. Screw it, Marco is what she’s used to. She looks at him and says in a gentle voice. "So, Mr. Gold's son, huh? What makes you say that?"

Thinking about it, she might have seen August and Gold together, but her memory is hazy from the car accident.

"Well, he came to me and told me that his father and he were on poor terms. And Mother Superior - the Blue Fairy, I mean - she told me that Gold was interested in August, that he’d asked about him."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "And you just assumed Mr. Gold was his dad?"

"And Archie. He thought so too!" Marco flushes, thumbing the brim of his hat.

Emma immediately feels like a bitch. It isn’t like she is in her right frame of mind right now either, and she wasn't the one who was cursed. There was probably a good reason for the mix up. She holds up a hand as Marco opens his mouth to say more. "No, it's okay. I get it. You were cursed. You had no reason to think different."

Suddenly, Regina starts to chuckle. Her brown hair swishes side to side as she shakes her head.

Emma glares because, really, now is not the time. "Something funny?"

"Gold."

Emma's eyes narrow.

"He told me he 'acquired' a son. August is probably chained up in a basement somewhere."

“You knew about this?” In a second, Marco is on his feet and gripping the bars in his hands, his hat fallen to the floor. “What do you know? What has Mr. Gold done to my boy?”

Emma stands and takes hold of Marco’s elbow. “Okay, okay.”

Regina snorts. "How would I know? That man's motivations are beyond anyone’s understanding."

"What else did he tell you?" asks Emma.

"That was all. That he had acquired a son. I was too busy worrying about my own son's abduction to think about his."

"He is not his,” Marco snaps.

Regina sneers. “That’s funny. I’m usually having this argument with Miss Swan.”

Emma bites back a sigh. She thought they were past this. "Okay. Enough.” She tugs on Marco’s arm until he turns to look at her. “Marco don't worry. Finding people is what I do. Trust me. I will find your son and bring him back to you."

Suddenly Regina stops the jeering. “Emma.” Her voice is serious, very close to concerned. “If, for whatever crazy reason, Gold has decided that August belongs to him, you will not be getting him back without a fight.” She folds her arms, “As an adoptive parent myself, I know exactly what kind of extremes he’d be willing to go to.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Oh come on! This is a totally different situation.”

Regina’s lip curls. “No. No, I don’t think it is.”

___

Reminding Marco of Gold’s new magic powers is the only way Emma is able to convince him not to storm Gold’s shop.

Emma, on the other hand, does not give a damn. She parades right in. Gold is emerging from the back of the shop with some folded shirts in his arms and looks at her with a wrinkled brow. “Miss Swan, what can I…”

"Where's August?"

Gold pauses. He's convincing when he pretends to be surprised. "Mr. Booth? What makes you think I’d know where he is?”

“Because until the curse broke, at least three people in this town were convinced he’s your son, and given that you two were the only ones who had your memories, it all seems too coincidental.”

“Sounds like hearsay to me.”

There’s a suitcase on the counter and Gold drops the folded clothes into it. Emma notes that this is the second time she's seen Gold seemingly packing, yet he hasn't taken the opportunity to leave town.

“The curse has resulted in a lot of confusion,” Gold replies. “Two lives, two sets of memories. I can’t be blamed for any misunderstandings.”

“So you didn’t tell Regina that you’d acquired a son? ‘Cause I haven’t seen any new kids running around Storybrooke and now August is missing. And don’t think I don’t remember you asking me about him at Mary-Margaret's party. You and he are caught up in something. Is he your new ‘son’? Because if you kidnapped him all so you could play some twisted little game…”

“Kidnapping implies force. An old man like me against a strapping young man like August? Really, what kind of fantasy is that?”

"An old man with magical powers." Emma braces her hands on the counter and leans a little closer. “Cut the bullshit. What did you do to him?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“But you know where he is.”

Gold quirks his lip.

He knows. Of course he knows. But, as always, there's a cost to the information. Emma sighs. “What do you want?”

“A favor.”

“Name it.”

“Not yet.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t get anything until I know August is alright. I want to talk to him.”

The moment she finishes speaking, she knows she’s made a mistake. Gold looks too pleased. He picks up the telephone on the counter and dials a number. He's still smirking when the call connects. “Hello. Could you put August on the phone for me? Thank you.” He holds out the receiver to her. “Now you can talk to him.”

Huffing with annoyance, Emma snatches the phone. “August?”

“...Hey, Emma,” says August.

His voice is a relief to hear. Emma doesn't let herself show it. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. It’s complicated.”

“Tell me where you are.”

“I… I don’t want to.”

“August…” Or is it him? It sounds like him, but that doesn’t mean anything in this town. After all that time he spent following her, it’s hard to believe that he suddenly doesn’t want to see her. She casts a suspicious glance at Gold. “Is this really you I’m talking to right now?”

Gold wrinkles his brow in amusement.

“Yes,” August breathes, “Yes, Emma, of course it’s me. How could you even ask that?”

She turns her back on Gold. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I fought a dragon, found out my parents are fairy-tale heroes, and have the Evil Queen locked up."

"You've been busy."

He sounds proud of her.

It makes her feel a little lighter. She feels a twitch of a smile. “I feel like I’m losing my mind over here. Tell me something only you and I would know.”

It’s a moment before August speaks again.

“The last time you and I saw each other, I took you to the diner you were left at as a baby. I told you I was the seven-year-old boy who found you…” He inhales deeply. “There was one thing I didn’t tell you that night. When you were a kid, you ran away from a group home.”

Emma’s heart starts to pound.

“You were homeless for a few days. One night, you were burning pages from a book of fairy tales.”

No. No, it can’t be… She blinks back tears.

“…and a boy came up to you and told you to stop. This boy told you that the story of The Ugly Duckling was about a duck who believed he could become a swan so hard that it actually happened. And then that boy took you by the hand – your cold, tiny hand – and he walked with you to the police station.”

“That was you?”

“Yeah, Emma, that was me.”

She owed that boy her life. She’d always believed that she’d never see him again, but it had been August all along. She blinks furiously when a tear falls onto her cheek. “Where are you? I need to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I know I promised I would be there for you and I keep failing but…”

“I don’t care about that. I just want to know you’re safe.”

“I am safe.”

“Then why can’t I see you?”

“I don’t want you to see me.” He says this kindly, but it hits hard like a punch in the lungs.

She changes tactics. “Your dad asked me to find you. He misses you.”

“I miss him too. Can you tell him that for me? Tell him that I love him. And that I’m sorry.”

Heart pounding, Emma has to take a moment to compose herself before she speaks again. “Tell him yourself.”

“I’m scaring you, aren’t I? I don’t mean to. I’m not in trouble. I’m not lying about not being in trouble, either. Believe me, lying has become… difficult lately. I’m safe. I’m being taken care of. I’m not going to go anywhere. I’ll talk to you again, Emma Swan.”

Whether August is in trouble or not, this is a goodbye. Emma feels her heart harden, putting up walls to keep itself safe.

“I know I’ve disappeared before,” August says, as if sensing this, “but I’ve always checked up on you. Ever since you were little, I’ve checked up on you. Even when you didn’t know it was me. I will talk to you again.”

Emma swallows. “Prove it.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line. And then a soft sigh that’s almost a laugh. “Okay. Put Mr. Gold on the phone.”

Trying to cool her expression, she holds the phone out to Gold, who takes it and presses it to his ear.

“Are you sure?” Gold says after a moment, unexpected softness in his tone. August says more that Emma can’t make out. “Alright. Speak to you soon.” He puts the phone down. Meets Emma’s eyes. He looks exacerbated. “Miss Swan, how would you like to come around to my residence this evening for dinner? Alone, if you don’t mind. I'd like to discuss the terms of our agreement.”

___

When Emma knocks on the door to the Gold residence that evening, the last person she expects to answer is Belle.

“Belle.” Emma blurts, openly gawking.

Belle smiles. She looks delighted to see her. “Hi! Come in.”

Gold steps close to Belle as Emma enters the house. They don't touch, but the intimacy in their stance is unmistakable.

“This is the guy you’re in love with,” says Emma.

Suddenly Moe’s anger makes sense.

There’s a twinkle of pride in Gold’s eyes when Belle flushes and says proudly, “Well, yes!”

Seriously? Gold?  thinks Emma. Isn’t there, like, a thousand-year age gap?

“Come along, Miss Swan,” says Gold. Emma keeps her eyes on him as she walks past, watching him close the door, and turn back to him. “As always, your timing is impeccable. Dinner is almost ready.”

“Lucky you didn’t have to wait for me to wake from a coma to get me here this time.”

Belle purses her lips. “I’m, um, going to check on…” she gestures offhandedly towards the kitchen before fleeing the scene. She emerges a few minutes later, when Emma and Gold have found their way to the table without breaking eye contact. She’s wearing yellow oven mitts and carrying a steaming dish of pot roast. She spoons meat and gravy onto the plates and hands them out. “So, um, Emma.” She begins haltingly. “What’s it like being a sheriff?”

“I’m never bored.”

“Sounds exciting.” She smiles when Gold pulls out her chair for her and she smooths her hand through his hair before she sits down.

Emma pulls in her cheeks a little. She isn't sure what to make of this whole situation. Granted, Emma doesn’t know Belle that well, but from what she’s seen, Belle is a ball of sunshine and kindness. She seemed like the kind of girl who would never do a bad thing in her life, a bit naïve. Gold is the exact opposite, though his usual regal nature seems a touch softer with Belle nearby.

Emma ignores the food. “Let’s cut the crap. Why am I here?”

“My, where are your manners?” Gold sneers.

“Rumple,” Belle scolds softly.

Rumple? Emma nearly wheezes.

Gold sighs. “That favor you owe me. I need to find someone, so we’re leaving tomorrow. When you go home tonight, pack your bag. We leave in the morning.”

“Wait. Find someone? Who?”

“My son.”

“Your actual son, you mean,” Emma quips.

Belle’s jaw drops. It takes Emma a second to realise that she’s offended on Gold’s behalf. Belle can't possibly think that August is Gold's son as well. How many people is that? 

“My firstborn,” responds Gold carefully.

God save her from cryptic sons of bitches!

“Fine,” Emma mutters. “What does this have to do with August?”

From the dining room entrance, Emma hears a scuff of feet. She looks over her shoulder and gasps. In the archway, a mannequin shifts nervously. Emma startles when she sees it, and startles again when she realises that even though it has painted eyes, it is absolutely staring back at her. Her jaw drops when she puts together who it is.

“August!"

Though wood grain patterns his face with lines and squirls, it's August's face for sure. Emma pushes back her chair, rising, and August moves an inch into the light of the dining room before he changes his mind and dips back into the dim hallway.

“Emma…” he starts, his carved mouth making the word look odd.

“What happened to you?” She stops halfway and turns sharply to Gold. “What did you do to him?”

Gold takes a sip of his drink.

“It wasn’t him.” August says and when Emma looks back at him, he smiles ruefully. “I did this to myself.”

"No offense, but I find that hard to believe."

Yet, there was no shame in his words. But as far as Emma can tell, he’s wearing his shame instead; he’s wearing gloves and socks and long-sleeves, covering every inch of him he can. Emma takes another step towards him, and he takes a step back, angling his head in the direction of the stairs.

“Let’s talk,” he says. “I promised, after all.”

She follows him upstairs into a small bedroom. The bed sheets are rumpled, slept in. August’s typewriter is settled on the desk.

“You live here.”

It comes out as an accusation.

He crooks a smile. “You were always quick.”

“Not quick enough.”

It doesn't make sense, even as she watches August shift his leather jacket from the bed to the back of the chair. He'd slung the jacket on the bed because no one was looking, because this is his room, in the house that he lives in. As he sits, the mattress creaks under him. He invites her to sit next to him with a gesture, but she declines.

She holds out her hand. "Come on. Let's get out of here.”

“And go where?”

"To your dad."

"How is he?" His voice cracks, "My papa?"

"He's worried about you."

Panic enters his expression. "I can't let him see me like this. It'll break his heart."

"So you're going to stay here with Gold?”

August opens and closes his mouth. His jaw creaks like an unoiled hinge.

"August,” Emma kneels down like she would with Henry. “He kept me and Henry away from the hospital after our car accident because he didn’t want anyone else to get to me. He brought magic to town and won’t tell anyone why."

August stares at her. “You were in a car accident?”

“I never made it out of Storybrooke. After what you said, I tried. I wanted to. I got Henry and we were on the road going out of town and he realised what I was doing and...” She feels her heart begin to pound and a sickness shudder through her nerves. She folds her arms to hold it at bay. “We went into the ditch. I was sedated, both of us. Gold kept us. I take it you didn't know.”

August looks horrified. "No. Emma, I swear I didn't know!"

“It’s okay. I figured you didn’t.”

“But it might have been my fault.” August averts his gaze. “Mr. Gold went after you because of me.”

Emma's blood runs cold. “…what?”

“Because of…” He gestures to himself. “…this. I was turning to wood. If the curse remained unbroken, I would have died. Mr. Gold used you to save me. He used you to break the curse.”

Emma stares at him. When Gold had dragged her into fighting a goddamn dragon, he had told her that the life of someone he cared about was at stake. Someone who was like a son. Does that mean that Gold honestly thinks of August that way or is he keeping him for the same reason he had Emma, as something to use to his advantage later?

"Please believe me when I say I never meant for this to happen," says August. "Is Henry okay?"

“He’s doing better now.”

August looks relieved. “Good. He’s a great kid. Smart. Like you.”

Emma gives him a small smile in agreement before returning to the issue at hand. “I’m glad you’re okay too, but I don’t think Gold had good intentions when he saved you.”

“I think he did,” August protests softly. “I think he cares about me.”

“You ‘think?' That’s not reassuring. You can’t put that sort of thing on faith alone, especially with him. Not after all he’s done.”

August doesn’t reply.

Emma presses forward, whispering. "I don’t care what he has over you. You don't have to stay here."

"I want to."

She studies his expression for lies. Her superpower has always faltered with August. For a long time, everything he said sounded too fanciful to be entirely true, but her instincts told her that he wasn't lying. Then he'd taken her to the diner she was left at as a baby, fed her that story about being Pinocchio and she'd called him a liar when it was the truest thing he'd ever told her. He's an enigma, and she doesn’t know what to say to convince him to change his mind.

August pats the mattress again.

Emma sits down next to him.

"Do you remember when Mary-Margaret was framed, and you were struggling to piece together what really happened?" asks August.

"You told me I had a block."

"You needed to look back and change your perspective."

Watching him, Emma re-aligns the pieces in her head. It started as a missing person, then became an abduction, but now it turns out it's not either of those things. August truly, honestly, wants to stay with Gold. Emma isn't sure how she feels about that. Part of her feels betrayed. Gold used her. Was August using her too?

"I changed my perspective of Mr. Gold," August continues, "I was improvising a plan, but things took an unexpected turn. I was forced to re-evaluate. Now I don't think of him as an evil, manipulative person..."

"Experience has taught me that he is."

"What if he's not? Do you think you could have a little faith in him?"

"That's a lot to ask, even from you."

"Could you have a little faith in me instead?"

At first she's stunned that August would have to ask, but she quickly recalls how she'd been suspicious of him at every turn when he'd only ever tried to get her to see the truth. Now he's slipping away from her, and she doesn't know what to do. Gold can’t be trusted. August is vulnerable right now. Put those two things together and it’ll only end in tragedy. At the same time, Emma knows that if August wants to stay, she can't change his mind. His choices are his own. Seems the only thing she can do is what he's asking of her.

"Okay," she agrees. "But I hope you know what you're doing."

___

The evening continues its awkward dance. August sits with them at the dining table as Emma, Gold, and Belle finish eating. Afterwards, August and Belle retreat to the kitchen with the dishes. As they’re washing up, Emma and Gold stare at each other from opposite sides of the table. Gold sips on wine.

“Do you love him?” asks Emma.

Gold pauses, mid-drink. He searches the bottom of his wine glass. Lowers it with a careful click. He looks at her, nodding slightly. “…I do.”

There was no answer he could give that wouldn’t have unsettled her.

___

Emma tries again before she leaves. The evening is old. Belle has tucked herself onto the couch in the lounge and Gold casts her adoring looks whenever she scrunches up her nose and yawns. His attitude towards Emma has grown increasingly snappish.

August is retreating to the shadows of the unlit corridor when Emma catches his wrist. “Are you sure?” She pleads with her eyes. Change your mind, come with me.

He touches her cheek like she’s the one who needs reassurance. Maybe there's a little truth to that.

“I’m sure,” he says.

In the corner of her eye, Emma notices Gold watching them. The son of a bitch looks as satisfied as a cat who recently made a kill. It’s the final push she can take. The walls around her heart crumble; she hugs August.

It is uncomfortable only in the physical sense. He is all rough edges and pointed angles. But she needs this. He holds her like she is as fragile as an infant.

"Anything happens, you call me. Promise?"

"I promise."

It feels wrong to leave him, like she is leaving family behind. Still, she goes without further protest when Gold ushers her to the door. He is about to close it in her face, but she stops him with her hand.

"You hurt him, and I will take you down once and for all,” she hisses. “I am not kidding."

Gold chuckles. "I'd enjoy that. Such a shame it'll never happen." When Emma narrows her eyes, he raises his hands, "I assure you, Miss Swan, that so long as August is in my care he'll be perfectly safe. I won't let anything happen to him."

His gaze is heavy with the weight of the promise. There’s no curve to his lip, no hint of insincerity or mischief. He means what he says.

“Good,” Emma belatedly replies.

Gold seems to realise he has shown too much because his face goes carefully neutral. That, at least, provides some reassurance that there's something real here. This little something is what Emma uses to talk herself into leaving.

Once she crosses the street, she can't help but turn back to look at the house. She was hoping to see August standing in the window, but he isn't. The only one watching her leave is Belle.

Chapter Text

For Belle, it began with a door opening.

“Come with me,” said the man in white scrubs as he entered her cell and extended his hand to her. Belle didn’t know her own name, or why she was locked up, but she knew this was a rescue. Taking the stranger’s hand, she rose from her bed.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“My name is Jefferson, and I need your help to do something that I can't.” His face was kind, but serious. Instantly she trusted him. She would remember later that she was the sort of person who trusted easily. “The woman I thought was going to fix this has abandoned us, so I need you instead. There's a man – his name is Mr. Gold. Find him. All you have to do is tell him where you've been, and that Regina locked you up.”

“Wait a minute, what?”

“It's very important,” insisted Jefferson. “Mr. Gold's gonna protect you but you have to tell him Regina locked you up. He's gonna know what to do. You understand?”

Her heart leapt at the thought of being protected. “Yes, I-I have to find Mr. Gold.”

When Mr. Gold said they were going to fetch magic, she assumed he was joking. As she followed him through the woods, pushing the man in the wheelchair, she began to question her instincts. Her thoughts took detours along anxious pathways. She tried to shake them away and focus on something else – like how light the man in the wheelchair was. Belle wasn’t strong by any means, but he weighed nothing, as if there was nothing inside of him.

It was no use. Belle felt increasingly uncomfortable the further into the woods they went. As they came to a gentle incline, the man – August if she recalled right – slumped over. Belle stopped.

“Hey, are you alright?” She touched his shoulder. It was harder than she expected. She could feel his bones through his clothes. She pulled at his shoulder and his head bobbed slightly. That was when she saw that he wasn’t a man at all. He was a doll. She screamed, stumbling away.

Mr. Gold, who was walking in front of them, turned at the sound of her screams. She hardly noticed him. She was staring at the doll, and she couldn’t stop screaming because she was so sure he’d been a real man, that he’d spoken to her, introduced himself, but if she was wrong about that then maybe she was wrong about everything. Maybe she hadn’t left the asylum at all. Mr. Gold touched her shoulder. “Belle!”

She flung his hand away. "Stop calling me Belle! I don't know who that is! Whatever is happening here I don't want to be part of it!"

He backed up, hand up. “It’s alright. It’s alright. Please, wait!”

She backed the way they had come, but she didn’t know how to get back to town. She froze, looking back and forth between Mr. Gold and that thing in the chair.

“Just…” Mr. Gold kept his hand up as he side-stepped towards the wheelchair. “Just wait. Please. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I promised to protect you and I will.” She waited, though couldn’t help her panicked breathing nor the sob she was struggling to contain. Mr. Gold touched the doll’s shoulder, looked at it, shook it. “August? No, no, no. I can fix this.” He turned to Belle. “Please. This won’t take long.”

This man was insane. Or she was insane. One of the two. Belle curled her fingers into the sleeves of the coat Jefferson gave her. “…Okay,” she whispered.

“Thank you.”

They left the doll and the wheelchair and continued up the incline. It was here that Belle felt something pass through her, like a tidal force, and she froze. She remembered. She remembered! She stared at Mr. Gold’s back. Only his name wasn’t Mr. Gold. He looked different, but his face was the same.

“Wait,” she said.

“No, no. We’re very close.”

“Rumplestiltskin. Wait.”

Slowly, Rumplestiltskin turned.

“I remember.” She approached him, hopeful. Part of her couldn’t believe it was him she was looking at. The last words they'd spoken to each other were in anger, when he'd told her he cared more about power than her, and minutes ago he'd touched her shoulder and held her like she was something precious. And his face! His skin was as clear as any man's. His eyes had lost that reptilian glint that she remembered fondly, but it was him. A calmer, more regal version of himself.

He was staring at her. He was smiling. He was happy.

“I love you,” said Belle.

He was looking at her the way she’d always wanted him to look at her. Like he loved her. She knew it was true before he pulled her into his arms and said so himself.

“But hey.” Cupping her head, he pulled back. Still smiling. Still so open with love for her. “There will be time for that. There will be time for everything. But first there is something I must do.”

It was as he told her. They’d gone to a wishing well to bring home magic. As the swirling purple mist rose from the pit of the well, Belle backed away. Rumple braced her back with his hand. The mist rose up, ballooning over the tops of the trees so high that everyone in Storybrooke must have been able to see it. It was also spreading between their feet. As the cloud passed them, Belle turned and watched it spread further still, down the incline, between the trees, to where the wooden man was. The purple shroud enveloped him. It lingered around him and sank into him. It was as if he were absorbing it. Belle glanced at Rumple, who was watching the sky, and tugged at his arm to get his attention. "Rumple."

Suddenly the cloud that had risen above them plummeted. And then it was simply gone.

"Rumple." Belle said again.

He was staring at his hands. Spreading his fingers, he turned his hands, so his palms were facing up and, furrowing his brow, turned them back again. "Sorry, sweetheart."

"That man...your son... he's... I'm so sorry. It just happened. I don't know how..."

"It's alright." He squeezed her fingers. "Just give it a few minutes."

Belle frowned. Though she had her memory back, she felt as confused as ever. Why had Rumple brought magic? What did he mean 'wait a few minutes'?

"My darling Belle.” He held her arm again, leaning close. His voice was soft. “You have to tell me what happened to you."

She did. She told him Regina abducted her and locked her away, both before and after the curse.

"For 28 years,” Rumple growled. “All these years, you've been here. Alive."

"Is that—is that why you did this? Why you wanted magic? For revenge?"

Rumple looked down at his hand, where it was clenched around the top of his cane, and slowly back up. "No," he said, distractedly. "But there are other ways."

Belle trembled. "No. No!"

"I cannot let this stand, Belle, I will not let this stand!"

"Look." Belle took his hand. "Promise me. Promise me you won't give in to your hate. Promise me you won't kill her." He averted his gaze, staying silent. "Promise me and we can be together."

"Oh." He caressed her face. "Sweetheart, I promise." He brought her hand to his lips. "Come on. I'd like you to meet my son properly."

His son. He'd told her that he'd lost a son, a long time ago. She never had gotten the full story out of him, only the hints; a lit candle every year, a shawl he paid special attention to, and a sadness in his eyes. As they drew closer to the man slumped in the wheelchair, her gut began to tie itself in knots. Rumple placed a hand on August's shoulder, shaking him gently. August didn't move.

"Rumple..." Belle said carefully. “He’s made of wood.”

"I know, but he’s alive. You’ll see in a moment.” Rumple tilted August's face up, so he wasn't slouching. August's eyes were open. They were painted on. "August. August!"

This cry was desperate. Overcome with sympathy, Belle rushed over and wrapped her arms around Rumple. He staggered back a step. She was the only thing keeping him upright.

He turned into her arms and buried his face into her neck, gasping. She stroked his hair, shushing him. She closed her eyes and held him.

And then - a crash. A succession of branches snapping.

They startled away from each other. The wheelchair was on its side. One of the wheels was spinning, squeaking. A line of snapped ferns and sticks led to a tree.

Rumple carefully removed his hand from Belle's waist and followed the trail. Belle shuffled behind him. Rumple looked around the tree, bracing his hand on the bark. August was pressed up against the tree, trying to be as small as possible.

Belle stared as the two of them talked.

Rumple was being so gentle, so...

Good.

When they arrived at Rumple’s house, they had barely got through the entrance before Rumple said, "I'm going to go fetch you some clothes from my shop. You've spent enough time in those rags." He nodded towards August, who was retreating into the house without saying a word. "Watch over him for me, will you? I won't be long."

Belle glanced at August. He’d stopped in the hallway, where a mirror was hung on the wall, and was staring at his reflection. "Why is he...?" She trailed off, not sure how to ask.

"Something his father did to him."

Belle shot him a puzzled look.

"I'll explain everything later," Rumple promised. With a kiss to her knuckles, he left.

Something uncomfortable coiled in Belle’s gut the moment he was gone. She hadn’t seen him in so long – hadn’t known a life without him in so long – and both of these facts gave her an odd feeling. Carefully, she approached August. Their gazes met in the mirror.

“I should have shaved,” he quipped, running his thumb along his upper lip and chin, where the wood grain was darker. Before Belle could think of anything to say, he dropped his chin. “I’m sorry. I know I look frightening."

Oh, Belle thought, the poor man. "I don't think you look frightening. But then, I'm used to beasts."

Rumple's home was not unlike his castle, if a lot smaller. Belle took pleasure in exploring it.

Downstairs was open plan, with large windows letting in the light. Upstairs was darker. The walls were maroon red. The wooden panelling, skirting boards, and doors, were all a deep oak brown. Hundreds of paintings were hung on the walls. Everywhere she looked, there was a painting. Best of all, they were paintings she recognised from his castle. Like Rumple, his home looked different, but it still felt like him. By the time he returned, Belle had explored every inch of it – save for August’s room. August hadn’t emerged all day, but there was a sound from in, like metal fingers tapping.

Rumple brought home a suitcase of clothes for her. When they went up to their bedroom – their shared room – there was a moment where Belle didn’t know whether to get changed in front of him or not. She wanted to but she never had before. She started getting changed and Rumple, flustered, left the room.

Belle put on a peach, pleated skirt, and a red tartan blouse. When she went downstairs, she found Rumple sat in the lounge, wringing the top of his cane in his fist, and bouncing his knee. He glanced at her and froze.

“…Hey.” He managed.

“Hey,” she replied.

Rumple stared a little longer. "Uh… You – You’ll be happy to know that Regina has been locked up. She can’t hurt you."

"Does she have magic too?" Belle approached him, studying him. She'd always found it adorable how nervous he could be. Back in the castle, he would flit around like a bird, trying to watch her while also avoiding eye contact. This version of him is more collected overall, though right now he was angling his head away from her and watching her through the corner of his eye, the exact way he used to in the castle, when they were dancing around their feelings. She didn't miss the beast, not really, but she missed puzzling that version of him out. Now he was a man, he was an entirely different puzzle. An entirely different mystery. Her throat went dry.

Rumple adjusted the cane in his hands. "No. No, she doesn't."

“Good. I don’t want to think about her ever again.”

She could still feel the cold in her skin from being locked in her padded cell. She could still feel the hurt in her chest from when Rumple had told her she didn't matter to him. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to wipe it all clean.

She took Rumple’s cane out of his hand and moved it out of the way before she settled on the arm of his chair. Rumple watched her, looking stunned. “You know, your son has spent all day in his room.”

“Has he? I’ll talk to him.”

“Tell me about him.”

This was familiar. Her, sitting close to him. This conversation. She could see in his eyes that he remembered too. Their first kiss had been achingly hard to look back on; a moment of sheer joy shattered like glass by cruel words. Belle’s heart started to pound.

“I found him,” Rumple said quietly. “Nothing more to tell really.”

“Will he be alright? I mean… why is he like that? What happened to him? You said his father, but you’re his father.”

Rumple’s lip curled. “He and his dear old dad aren’t on speaking terms.” He spread his hands. “So August lives here. Im his father now.”

An adopted son. Belle could hardly believe what she was hearing. Rumple truly had changed! She dipped her chin, failing to suppress her grin. “Well… I’m glad.” She looked at him. “That you were able to open your heart to him.”

“As am I.”

“So…” She spread out her skirt on her thighs for him to see. “What do you think?”

“I think that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He looked at her so, so softly. It warmed her to her very core. Slowly, oh so slowly and carefully, she leaned down and kissed him. He returned the kiss hungrily, coiling a hand to the small of her back. Belle’s heart leapt, a fraction of panic in her soul – only he didn’t pull back. He kissed her harder. He only pulled back when there was a scuffle of retreating feet from the corridor. With a huff, Rumple pressed his forehead to Belle’s. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“I, uh…” August was shuffling in the doorway with his hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“Could you give us a moment, my dear? I believe August and I are about to have an overdue conversation.” He had odd sort of smirk on his face, and August lifted his chin slightly, as if rising to an unspoken challenge.

Belle looked between them, puzzled by the sudden tension in the room. Though her curiosity was positively buzzing, she excused herself to the garden.

She hadn’t seen a garden in years.

The next afternoon Belle decided she was going to see what was in Storybrooke. When she stepped out of the front door, the street seemed impossibly large in front of her. She felt like a mouse standing in front of a lion. She ran back into the house, into the kitchen, and vomited into the kitchen sink.

She waited a few hours and tried again. By then, it was evening. The sun was low. Light shone between the houses on the opposite side of the street. It was beautiful. She opened the door, but the moment there was nothing between her and the world, she couldn’t move. She stared at the expanse in front of her and felt like she was being crushed. Her chest was heaving by the time she threw the door shut again. She slammed the door so hard the house shook. The paintings rattled. Upstairs, the tirade of metallic tapping coming from August’s room abruptly stopped.

Wincing, Belle pulled her hands to her chest. Her chest wouldn’t stop heaving. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. It was like she was dying.

“Belle! Belle,” August was stood next to her. She hadn’t noticed him coming downstairs. She tried to meet his eyes but couldn’t. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She panted. “It’s like… everything feels so…big.”

“What about the garden?” August asked softly. “Is the garden too big?”

The garden had a tall hedgerow all around, and beyond that, even taller fir trees. The rooftops that were visible were huddled close, like the individual bricks of a wall. She couldn’t see the street from the garden. “The garden is fine.”

They went into the garden and sat on the patio flags. Belle bunched the pleats of her skirt in her hands. “I’m being silly, aren’t I?”

August tilted his head. “No. You’re not.”

“I don’t understand. I want to go, but it’s like my body is stopping me.”

“Maybe you need a task."

“A task,” she repeated dubiously.

“When you went to Mr. Gold’s shop, you knew where you were going right? You went there for a reason.”

“I was told to find him.”

“Right. A task takes your mind off of everything else. Start small. 'Go down the steps.' 'Go to the curb.'”

Belle thought about this. She did want something to do outside of the house, though she wouldn’t refer to it as ‘a task’ – more of a hobby or, simply, a life. A life she could call her own. “Is that what you spend all your time doing? Different 'tasks'?’”

"Of a sort," he said, raising his chin smugly. "I'm a writer."

“Really?” She shuffled an inch closer to him. “What do you write?”

“Words.” August smirked.

Belle gave him a flat look.

“Stories,” he amended quickly. “I write stories.”

“I love stories,” she said quietly. “Must be a good one to keep you.”

“I’ve been very inspired lately. It’s like… It’s like I’m full of energy. I get lost in it. It’s like magic. When I write, and hours go by.”

“What are your stories about?”

“Oh. This and that.”

She sucked in her cheeks. “Honestly! You’re as cryptic as your father.”

“One of my best attributes,” said Rumple from behind them.

He was standing in the patio doorway. Though he was dressed in the same fine suit and red tie she’d seen him in that morning, the very sight of him stole her breath. With a smirk, he joined them on the patio. He leaned down and kissed Belle on the lips, and then kissed August on his crown. August jolted.

Belle giggled. That was utterly adorable.

“You’re embarrassing him!” she teased.

“I should think so!” Rumple settled a hand on August’s shoulder as he stood upright.

“You’re back early,” noted August.

“Well…my work wasn’t going quite the way I intended it to, so I thought I’d come home and see my family.”

“Do you even get customers now the curse has broken?” asked August, a little sceptically.

“Someone has to make sure no more riffraff sneak in the back entrance,” drawled Rumple, with a sneer in August’s direction.

“You broke into his shop?” Belle pretended to be horrified. “Have you taken in a criminal, Rumple?”

“Is it breaking in if the door is unlocked?” August said carefully.

Rumple chuckled. “The door said no entry, sunshine.”

“It was still unlocked.”

“Was that before or after you picked the lock?”

August did not answer.

Later, Rumple and Belle slow danced in the lounge to the crackly music from a record player. Belle tucked her cheek to Rumple’s chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.

“Darling is something wrong?” he asked after the music faded.

She told him about the incident at the door.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’ve been through an ordeal.” He ran his hands down her arms, chasing away the chills that had suddenly come over her. “I want you to be happy. I want you to have all the experiences you deserve. We can fix this.”

It was morning when Belle made her next attempt. Rumple walked down the stairs at the front of the house and turned, extending his hand to her. Belle stepped over the threshold. One step. Two steps. She stopped.

Walk to the bottom of the steps, she told herself. It was such a simple task. And yet…

“It’s alright.” Rumple inched closer, reaching. “I’m here.”

She looked at his face. The morning sun bled through the fir trees and onto his cheeks. The shadows of the branches made his face speckled, almost glittery. She drew back from him. Tears came to her eyes – not for herself, but for him. “I… I think that might be the problem.”

She tried again the next day when Rumple was out. Without the beast guarding the exit, she made it to the third step before the world crushed her.

Belle was determined not to give up. By the end of a week, she could walk down the steps. By the end of the next, she could walk down to the mailbox to pick up the daily newspaper. By the third, she could cross the road and back again.

It wasn’t enough. She was impatient. She was bored. She wanted out. Aggressively, she adjusted the collar of her dress in the hall mirror. August watched her from the shadows at the top of the stairs.

“Are you going out?”

“I am,” she said, firmly. She adjusted her clothes again. And again.

“Well, if you do decide to go out,” August said slyly, “Could you buy me a postcard?”

A postcard, thought Belle as she went down the house steps. A postcard for August, she thought as she walked down the street. I’m buying a postcard for August, she told herself when she saw how big the town truly was and nearly crumpled into a ball.

She kept moving, fists clenched at her sides. She looked at all the signs on the shops she passed, though had no idea which of them she should go into.

“Excuse me!” She stopped a man walking a dalmatian. “Do you know where I can get a postcard?”

“The post office is over there.” He pointed out a building across the road.

“Thank you.” She hurried across the road and into the building. She hated how much better she felt when she had walls around her. While she enjoyed looking at all the pictures on the back of the postcards, it made her sad too. They were clearly the type of card sent by adventurers who wanted to share what they were seeing. She picked one out and went to pay for it. Money was something else she was a little puzzled by. Instead of coins, a lot of it was paper. Luckily the amount was written on them, so she managed to pay.

Feeling pretty good about herself, she decided she would visit at least three more shops before she went home. Three more shops. Three more.

There was a glorious flower shop with ivy hugging the walls. It looked right out of a picture book! A rose would certainly look lovely on the dining table. As she pushed open the door, a bell rang. She startled. And laughed.

She felt…good. She felt like her old self.

"Belle?!"

Belle startled again, looking where the voice had come from. The man behind the counter wasn’t just anyone. "Father?" She was in tears before she knew it. He rushed out from behind the counter and held her in his arms. "Oh, Father!" 

“Oh, how I've missed you, Belle.” He pulled back to look at her face. “After the curse broke, I searched all over for you and discovered The Dark One still had you captive. How did you escape?”

“He’s not holding me captive. I chose to be with him.”

His jaw dropped. “You’re in love with him?!”

“Father, he isn’t all like you think. There’s good in him.”

“He’s a monster! Promise me that you will never see him again.” He was gripping her arms so tightly that it hurt. His warm embrace had turned oppressive. Once again, it was hard to breathe.

She tore out of his grip and shoved open the shop door. “I’m not a child!” She tried to keep her breathing steady. She wasn’t going to let her freedom go so soon. No one, not her father, not herself, was going to make her a prisoner again.

Her father followed her out. “You don't understand what that man will do to you, what he's already done.”

“No, you don't understand. It's my life.” And she hadn’t been able to live it yet! She froze in panic when her father grabbed her arm.

“I can’t allow this! You’re coming home with me.”

“Let go of me!”

“Hey!” Another voice. A blonde woman.

Belle had stumbled into the path of the town sheriff.

“In my experience, whenever you’re intimidated it’s better to take the plunge.” Sheriff Emma told her. “And if it doesn’t go as well as you liked, grab yourself a hot cocoa with cinnamon.”

Belle’s reunion with her father definitely had not gone the way she’d planned. Still determined to cultivate her confidence, Belle went to Granny’s Diner and ordered the hot cocoa like Emma recommended. It was nice, but Belle much preferred the iced tea. After she ordered their third, the waitress stopped by her table and asked if she was okay.

“That's your third iced tea this morning,” she said, teasing. “Wouldn't wanna have to call you a cab.”

“No, I... I've never had it iced before. It's- it's delicious.”

“I haven't seen you in here before.”

“Well, I… uh, I've been stashed away for a long time.” Belle took another eager sip of her tea.

A flash of concern came and went on the waitress’s face. “Oh. Well. Just take it easy on the caffeine. It can be really bad for you in large amounts. I mean, I don’t drink coffee at all. Gives me anxiety.”

Belle stopped sipping. “Oh. Oh. Well I’ve had my fair share of that.” Reluctantly, she pushed the glass away.

“You can finish that, but maybe…get a water next? Or juice. Or food. You just missed the breakfast menu, but I could do you a corned beef hash.”

“Thank you, but I’m not sure if I have enough money. I was only intending to get a postcard today.”

The waitress laughed kindly. “You got a little lost then!”

“A little bit.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thank you, uh…”

“Ruby.”

“I’m Belle.”

As Ruby tended to other customers, Belle picked up the menu and read the meal and pricings. She checked the contents of her purse. It looked like she did have enough to buy something to eat, though she wasn’t sure if she should. This was Rumple’s money. Would he be happy with her spending it? It was for a good experience… Would he really mind? If she got a job, she could pay him back! Yes, she thought. A job would be wonderful! Choice made, she waved at Ruby.

“Change your mind?” Ruby said knowingly as she stopped by her booth.

“Yes. Well. I was just wondering. What’s ‘corned beef’?”

“It’s beef but salty.”

Belle wrinkled her nose. “Oh…”

Ruby laughed. “It’s better than it sounds! And if you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else. On the house.”

“Alright then.” When Ruby brought the corned beef hash, she slid into the seat opposite Belle and put her chin on her fist. The food in question was a bowl of meat, onions and potatoes, fried up and presented as nicely as a bowl could be. Belle let out a choked sound, amused and shocked. “That is… That is something.”

“It’s also nicer than it looks.”

Belle tried some. “Hmm? Hmm!”

Ruby grinned. “Right?”

“Oh, it is good!” She ate more.

“You’ve really not had hash before, huh? No hash. No iced tea.” Ruby’s smile faded a little. “Are you sure you're okay? Do you have family here?”

“I do.” She ate another bite and let out a satisfied grunt. “This is really good. Thank you. I – I’m trying to experience new things.”

“What sort of things interest you?”

“Well… I love books. I love mysteries. I’ve always wanted to travel.”

“You remind me of a guy who used to stay at the inn.” Ruby said. “He’s really cool. He’s travelled around Asia, seen hundreds of different countries and cultures!”

“I’d love a life like that. There’s so much I want to do but…fate seems determined to stop me.”

Ruby smiled ruefully. “Same here. One of these days…” She trailed off. “I’ve thought about it but… It’s difficult, especially now that the curse is broken. Remembering who I was. What I…did.” She smiled brightly. “Anyway, you would have loved August.”

Belle looked at her with delight, about to say that she already knew August, but Ruby kept speaking, and Belle's smile slowly faded.

“I hope he’s okay. He’s been missing for a while now.” She held up her hand, warding off a protest Belle wasn’t going to make. “I know that’s dramatic. Granny thinks he’s skipped town, and I thought so too but he got a job with Marco! He was making roots here. And the last I saw him he was with Mr. Gold. Now there’s someone you should hope you never meet. It’s practically common knowledge that he was involved with Kathryn’s disappearance. I'm thinking he was involved with August's too.”

Suddenly Belle wasn’t hungry. She looked at her food, biting the inside of her cheeks.

“So I went into town today.”

“That’s brilliant!” Rumple smiled. “Oh, Belle, I’m really happy for you.”

They were standing in the lounge. Rumple had just come back from his shop – from whatever it was he did there – and Belle had risen from her chair where she had been reading, ready to confront him. She tapped her knuckles anxiously with August’s postcard.

Rumple noticed. "What's that?"

"August asked me to get it for him." With a curious hum, Rumple reached out to take it, but Belle pulled her hand away. She pursed her lips. "It's strange..." she said slowly, watching Rumple's furrowed brow shift into a look of caution. "While I was out, I stopped at a diner, and I met a lovely waitress. She told me her friend is missing."

"How tragic."

"August is her friend."

For a moment, Rumple didn’t react. Then he chuckled. "He isn't missing. He's upstairs."

His nonchalance was an obvious cover for something more sinister. Belle's hands began to tremble. Though Rumple wasn’t reaching for the postcard anymore, she clutched it to her chest like an awkward shield. "Rumple. Tell me what's going on."

He sighed. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"August came into my life very recently... under some unpleasant circumstances. That's not important now. What's important now is that he belongs here. We made a deal."

Belle’s heart bucked with fear. Her patience was sapped away. "A deal? What do you mean a 'deal'?" She backed away from him, and further still when his eyes grew wide, and he took a step towards her. She shook her head. He stopped. "Rumple. Is August your prisoner?"

"No! Of course not! He lives here."

"Because if you're going to treat him like you did me, I can't - I won't let you. I'm not doing this again. You can't kidnap people into your family!"

He let out an incredulous laugh. "I didn't kidnap him! He came to me."

"The same way I came to you?"

"Belle. That's not - This isn't -" There was a scuffle behind her, and Rumple abruptly straightened. "August."

Flushing, Belle quickly turned.

August had crept in again and was eyeing them. "Are you... Are you fighting about me?"

"No!" Rumple cried.

"We would never fight about you..." Belle began.

"We weren't fighting."

"...we were fighting about something else."

For a moment, August watched them with a small smile on his mouth. "Okay," he said, fond. "Well, um... it's nearly six so I thought I’d start dinner..."

"That would be wonderful," interrupted Rumple gently. He hooked his arm around Belle's shoulders and jostled her gently.

Belle gave August a smile, hoping it didn't look too tense. "That would be wonderful," she agreed, "Thank you, August." Once August slipped past them into the kitchen, Belle told Rumple in a low voice, "We still need to talk about this."

Dinner was delicious. Belle felt terrible that August always sat with them but couldn’t eat. To distract him, she gave him the postcard. He beamed when he saw it.

"It's perfect! Excuse me.” He stood and quickly left the room, clutching the postcard like a precious thing. Belle watched him go, listening for the sound of his bedroom door shutting. When she was sure August was out of earshot, she put down her knife and fork and stared cooly across the table at Rumple.

Rumple dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and crumpled it up into a ball. "It's not what you think," he said into the quiet. "It’s like I told you. August made me his father and in return I made him my son. That's all there is to it."

He was twisting words again. Shaking her head, Belle pushed away from the table.

“Belle…”

She paced. “You can’t…demand people be a part of your family. It doesn’t work like that.”

"It worked with you.”

Belle’s blood ran cold.

Rumple winced. He started to stand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“It didn’t ‘work’ with me,” she snapped. Tears were in her eyes, and she didn’t bother trying to hide them. "I still have nightmares about the beast who took me away from everything I loved."

Rumple went still.

"I fell in love with the man,” Belle continued. She pressed her knuckles into the tablecloth to stop them shaking. “Not the beast. You didn't keep me, Rumple. I was ready to leave you. I was leaving you until...” She stopped herself, shaking her head. There was no point dragging up that horrible day along with everything else. “I came back because I thought you could change. The only reason I chose to stay with you now is because I thought you’d changed. But if you haven’t, I’m sorry, I can’t do this again. I can’t keep being a prisoner. And I won’t let you do the same to someone else."

Rumple looked horrified. He rose slowly. He reached for her, though changed his mind. He curled his fingers. "You're right... I treated you terribly. What I did to you was unforgivable. I won’t lie to you. I’m not the changed man you thought I was. I’m still a monster.”

Belle dipped her chin.

“I have regretted how we parted every day since it happened. I was a coward. I am a coward. I have been my entire life. I tried to make up for it by collecting power, and the power became so important that I couldn't let go...not even...when that meant losing the most important person in my life. My son. Baelfire is his name. I dedicated myself to finding him. I went down many, many paths until I found a curse that could take me to the land where he'd escaped."

"Here,” she guessed, raising her gaze to meet his.

"And I found myself in this little town with only one thing left to do. Wait for the curse to be broken so that I could leave and find him. As I was waiting... a man arrived. A man with a... terrible affliction. A man who sought refuge… whose only desire was to spend time with a father."

"August."

Rumple nodded. "He tried to trick me by pretending to be Baelfire and, for a moment, I believed him. I believed him because I missed my son so much. And because I missed you." He took a step towards her, and she didn't step back.

“You – You let him stay? Even though he tricked you.” That sounded like the actions of the man she’d glimpsed inside the beast. The man who traded a gauntlet he’d fought for to save her life. The man who spared a thief’s life because the thief was a father. Maybe there was still hope for them.

“He reminded me of you.” His lip shook. "I thought I'd lost you like I lost my son, and... I needed him.” He inhaled. “After a while, I noticed that August needed me too. That I could be what he needed, the way I wasn’t for Baelfire. Now we've agreed to remain as we are. Him, as my son, and I as his father. I know it sounds strange but, you know me better than anyone. Have I ever done anything by traditional means?" He chuckled, and she couldn't help but smile in agreement.

It was...sweet. When put like that. Sweet in the way it probably shouldn't be, but Belle had learned long ago to find sweetness in this man whenever she can. She inhaled, trying to keep herself from fawning over him again. "And Baelfire? Instead of looking for him, you - you brought magic."

"You're right. I wanted magic here because I'm still a coward. Magic has become a crutch. And now it seems I must walk without it. And I don't know how. I wanted so desperately to have that power back." He squeezed his eyes shut. "That I couldn't leave until I found out why the potion didn't work."

"Wh - Why it didn't work?" She’d suspected as much though hadn’t wanted to say anything.

"Have you noticed, my dear, that in this town purportedly infested with magic, there seems very little of it?"

Shaking her head, Belle stepped around the table and to his side. "Isn't that a good thing? Now you can go find your son. Without magic."

He scoffed. "And how do you propose I do that? I need magic. With a locating spell and his old shawl, I could find him in a matter of days. Now I…"

"You're just afraid! There has to be a way to find a missing person without magic.”

“Across the entire world?”

“Yes!” She cupped his face. “Together, we can do it.”

“Oh, Belle…” He whispered, tearing up. She pressed her forehead to his, brushing away the tears as they ran down his cheeks. She didn’t know what to do. Rumple doesn’t need magic to be his crutch. He needs people who love him. This could be the start of something better…

Except the magic wasn’t gone. Rumple didn’t know, but Belle did. She knew exactly why the magic wasn't working.

It was because of August.

Belle didn’t believe, not for a single moment, that August would ever intentionally harm Rumple. Their bond might be odd, but it wasn’t one-sided. She was concerned about the rest of it, though. Not only the magic, but that August felt the need to hide away when there were clearly people in town who cared about him, like Ruby.

Ever since finding out August is a writer, Belle spent at least one hour a day reading through his latest pages. In the short time they’d known each other, August had written a 300-page novel and started a new one. It was a good excuse as any to talk to him. She knocked on his bedroom door before entering. “Hey. I know it’s getting late, but I was hoping for a bedtime story.”

August was at the window, his back to her. He pointed to pages stacked by the typewriter, which were weighed down by a wooden paperweight in the shape of a donkey, and went back to threading together his completed 300-page novel on the windowsill. She watched, fascinated. "You bind books too?" He hummed an affirmation. "You know...Rumple gave me the key to the abandoned library. It would be nice to have an assistant."

The line of August's shoulders went tense. “…Thank you. That means a lot to me. But I can’t.”

“August," she said, a touch firm. "You helped me and now I want to help you.” He didn't answer her, simply carried on binding the book. “It’s because of your father, isn’t it? Rumple told me. Whatever happened between the two of you, you can’t let it keep you a prisoner.”

“Can’t I?” He muttered.

Belle sighed softly to herself. “My relationship with my father isn’t great right now either. He loves me. I know he loves me, but… he’s treating me like I’m not capable of making my own choices. After everything I've been through, I can't have him or anyone controlling me again.”

He was turned slightly toward her now. “…What if you make bad choices?”

“Then those are mine to make too. There is so much I want to do, so much I want to see. This world – this world is so big! And I’m finally ready to experience it. You can too, August. It doesn’t matter what you look like or what your father has said to you. You deserve to be happy.”

August was quiet for a long time. His chin was tucked close to his chest and his eyes pinched shut. “My real name is Pinocchio,” he said at last. “My papa carved me from enchanted wood and the Blue Fairy awakened the magic to bring me to life. She said that the magic would grow stronger and turn into a real boy on the condition that I was selfless, brave and true. So you see... I’m a failure. A wood pile of failure. I can’t face my papa like this. I can’t.”

It broke her heart to hear him so crestfallen. Shaking her head, she moved closer. “You’re only a failure if you give up!”

“That's easy for you to say. You've never had to worry about forgiveness and redemption. You've never needed it.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand, but there's someone here who does." She covered his arm with her hand. "You should talk to Rumple about this.”

August pulled his arm away, shrinking further into himself.

This was going nowhere. Belle drew back. She picked up the stack of new pages on his desk and sat on the bed to read them. For a while, either of them spoke. August finished binding his novel, while Belle read through the newest draft. She’d never known anyone could write so much. Did August even sleep?

“Can I ask you something?” August said as she was reading. She was caught in the stream of words, her mind building the pictures August had scribed. Though his spelling was atrocious, he really was a talented writer! It was with some reluctance that she pulled her eyes from the page and looked him. By then he’d set the bound book on the windowsill so the glue could dry, and he was sat in the chair by the desk, running his fingers along the back of the wooden donkey. He wasn’t looking at her.

“Anything.” She expected him to ask advice about his latest story. He’d started doing that a lot since she’d asked to read his work.

“Suppose you had a secret…”

Belle’s heart thudded against her ribs. “…Okay.”

“…and you’re keeping it because… you’re protecting someone. Someone you care about.”

Belle clenched her fingers around the pages. She was keeping the magic's location a secret from Rumple to protect him.

“But…there’s someone else you care about too. And this secret is about them.”

Wincing now, Belle put down the pages. “August…”

“If you tell them the secret, it will give them what they’ve always wanted. But if you do that, you betray the other person. But maybe… maybe telling the secret will help the other person too. It could…fix them.”

And now she was lost. She frowned.

“What do you do with a secret like that? How do you choose who to be loyal to?”

Was this his cryptic way of asking her why she hadn’t told Rumple what she knew about the magic? Or was this a cryptic way of asking something else entirely? “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I suppose if revealing the secret meant doing good then I would have to tell it.”

He seemed to consider this. “Is Mr. Gold still downstairs?”

“Um. I think so.” It always threw her off that he called Rumple ‘Mr. Gold.’

Putting the donkey carefully onto the desk, August rose to his feet. He looked so nervous as he left the room. Unable to help her curiosity, Belle left the pages on the bedside cabinet and slipped out quietly into the corridor. Downstairs, Rumple and August were already talking. She sat on the top step and listened. As they spoke, Belle's heart thundered in her chest. At one point, she had to cover her mouth to muffle her gasp.

Rumple didn’t close the door when he left, and Belle heard his car start up. Rushing downstairs, she grabbed her jacket. “It’s alright.” She kissed August’s cheek. “Let me talk to him.” August stared at her, eyes wide, and not moving at all.

Belle went out into the night.

There was only one place Rumple would go. She found him in his shop, in his office at the back, spinning yarns together at his wheel. He stopped as she pushed back the curtain and entered.

“Belle, it’s dark out,” he protested.

“I was worried.” She bit her lip. “I heard what August told you. How… How are you feeling?”

Rumple reached for her hand, and she gladly took it, rubbing her thumb along his skin. “I feel… that our trip is going to be much shorter than I initially thought.” When he looked at her, his face was brimming with happiness. “How does New York sound?”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “What’s ‘new’ about it?”

“I have no idea!” Rumple stood in a rush and kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her. It should have been nothing but utterly, utterly wonderful. It was everything Belle had wanted. Everything she could have wanted for Rumple too.

Only she had an awful feeling that things weren’t going to go as planned. Because there was still a chance that magic would ruin it all. She didn’t know what to do. Or where to start. The last time she’d tried to free Rumple of magic, he’d thrown her into a dungeon.

With neither of them knowing anything about how life outside of Storybrooke worked, they agreed they needed a guide, so Belle wasn’t too surprised when Rumple informed her that he’d invited Emma Swan around for dinner.

Now Belle is watching Emma cross the street. As her yellow car turns away from the house, Belle closes the curtains and lets out a soft sigh. Rumple comes up behind her, settling his hands on her waist. He presses his mouth to her shoulder, her collarbone, and then her neck.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. Leaving Storybrooke. Seeing the world. Finding… Baelfire. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, Belle turns around and looks at Rumple’s face. He’s calmer now than he was before Emma arrived. There’s a pleased smile on his face. Everything is going well for him.

Only it isn’t, not quite.

Belle feels her heart grow heavy. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Rumple frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I don’t think I can go with you tomorrow.”

"I thought you'd wanted to see the world.”

"Oh, I do! More than anything but..." She reaches for an excuse. It feels impossible. She’s warring with her desires. “…I’m just not ready.” She hopes Rumple can’t tell that she’s lying.

“Oh, darling.” He brushes her shoulders with the pads of his fingers. “I understand. You’ve been through a lot. I’m glad you told me. Besides, I’d feel better knowing you’re here to watch over August. I'm worried about what will happen if he's discovered.”

She presses her lips into a mimicry of a smile and quickly buries her face into his chest.

She hates lying to him. But she has to. For his sake.

Magic is a temptation he can’t give into, not when he’s so close to getting his son back. The only way she can help him be the better man is to remove that temptation before he ever knows it’s there. She has to figure out why the magic hid inside August and how to get rid of it. Only then can magic be out of their lives for good.

When Rumple comes home, he can have the life – and the family – he needs.

If Storybrooke was made up of people and things pulled from the Enchanted Forest, Belle can only surmise that the books in the library were brought over from their world too. They must be records of magic in there somewhere. Over the course of the next day and a half, she turns the place upside-down. She skims through every book on magic she can find, but what she finds makes her head hurt. She has no idea about any of this! She aches for Rumple and has to remind herself that she's doing this for him, to protect him. He needs to be able to rely on her as much as she relys on him.

That keeps her going despite her exhaustion and her growing frustration, though soon it's impossible to deny that she needs help. There is one person she knows other than Rumple that understands magic.

It’s a small victory that when Belle walks into the Sheriff’s Department, Regina looks positively astonished to see her.

When Belle returns home, her mind is in turmoil. She closes the door and presses her back against it, closing her eyes. Talking to Regina had gotten her nothing but frustration. She shouldn’t have expected anything else.

Once she’s composed herself, she calls up the stairs, “I’m home!”

There’s no reply.

“August?” She checks his room, but he isn’t there. It’s only as she walks back down the stairs that she catches a glimpse of him through the patio doors. He’s stood in the middle of the garden, looking up at the sky. He’s holding his arm up, bent at the elbow. Belle opens the door and steps out onto the patio, the stone flags cold on her bare feet.

"Did you have a nice day?" August asks without turning.

No. Not really. She manages to smother her upset. “I did.”

August turns abruptly. “What’s wrong?”

Clearly she hadn’t hidden her feelings as well as she thought. “Nothing.”

“You miss Mr. Gold,” August guesses. It’s true. She does miss him. She wishes she'd gone with him. She wishes she could be what he needs.

“A little,” she agrees. Regina’s taunting eyes are in her mind. She gathers herself, once more shoving her upset down, down, down.

“Wanna see something cool?” August says with a playful tilt of his head. Without her reply, he turns back around and holds out his arm again. As Belle joins his side, August whistles a short, little tune, like he’s trying to call a dog. He whistles again. Upwards. Facing the sky.

Belle looks up. The sky is clear and beautiful.

“Forgive my friend’s tardiness,” says August. “She’s gotten slow in her old age.”

Belle raises an eyebrow. “Your friend?”

He smirks at her. Whistles twice more. At last, a dove glides down from the sky and perches on August's outstretched arm. "There you are," August rumbles to the dove, "I was beginning to think I'd scared you off. You don't think I look strange, do you, Cleo?" He tilts his head at Belle. "I guess doves don't believe in magic, if you've ever wondered."

Belle laughs, a little choked. "Can't say that I have!"

Ruffling her chest feathers, the dove settles herself more comfortably on August's arm. Belle wants to stroke her but holds off until August notices her fingers reaching and tells her it's okay. Belle runs her fingers through the soft feathers along the bird's spine. Her plumage is pale grey and brown. "Hello, Cleo! Oh, she's lovely." She tucks her hand into the crook of August's elbow. "You're lovely. Thank you."

He smiles. The dove coos softly, comfortable on his sleeve. In between her toes is a card. August takes it carefully from her and she climbs up his arm to nestle on his shoulder. August unfolds the card, smiling as he reads it.

"What is that?" 

"A reply. Cleo’s very good at delivering. She always knows where to find me, whether I’m in Storybrooke or the US or Asia.”

"Sounds like you’ve had a lot of wonderful adventures,” she says quietly. “I've always dreamed of travelling,"

“Why didn’t you go with Mr. Gold?”

The question hurts her heart. She looks away, unable to answer.

“Well…” August says after a moment. "You’ll get your chance someday.” Absently he strokes the bird's chest. As he tucks the card inside his jacket, Belle catches a glimpse of what's written on it. It’s the same postcard she bought for him, but August’s message has been crossed out:

Broken Fixed.

Nothing else. No address. No name. Yet another mystery to solve. Her brow furrows. “Who’s it from?”

It's a moment before August answers. "...I guess you could say it’s from my brother."

Chapter Text

Neal first met August in 2001 in Portland on what quickly turned into the worst day of his life - or the second worst, depending on his mood. The guy came out of nowhere. Neal, whose stolen enough times to know to watch his back, immediately recognised the intent in the stranger's pace - and bolted. The guy was fast. He had longer legs than him. And he was taller.

"You got the wrong guy, officer!” Neal said as the man caught him. “I wasn't even jaywalking!"

"It's not like that. You want to protect Emma? Come with me."

A flare of fierce protectiveness drowned out any confusion Neal felt. He went with him. The man introduced himself as August. He spouted off some BS about being Emma's guardian angel or whatever, which he didn't even sound convinced of, and then he got defensive when Neal called him out.

"I've been looking for her for the past two years!" August stepped into Neal's space. "Now I finally find her, and she's robbing convenience stores with some deadbeat. Tell me again who's doing the crap job."

Neal scoffed. "Let me tell you something.” He jabbed his finger at August. “I'm the best thing that's ever happened to her. Two years? Where were you the rest of her life?"

August snapped back. "I'm not perfect. This world? Full of temptations." Anyone else would laugh at such a pretentious phrasing. Neal forgot to. This world. Talking like he knew there was another. Neal shifted back, staring at August with narrowed eyes. August had fallen right into confessing his wrongdoings like him and Neal have some deeper connection. He even put his hand over his heart like a little boy making a promise. "Turns out I'm not that great at saying no. I'm not built that way. But I'm here now."

"So who are you?"

August closed his eyes for a second. "We were in the same home as kids, and I thought she'd be safe inside the system. But now that she's out..." He rushed through the words like he didn't want to say more. Neal eyed him. So, what, he's her brother? "Back then, I promised I would take care of her."

"We promised to take care of each other."

For a spit second, August looked surprised. Then he looked pleased. "You love her. Good! That means you have to do right by her."

Neal held his stare, frowning. If this guy really was Emma's brother or guardian angel or whatever, then he needed to know that Neal would do anything for her. "That's all I'm trying to do."

"Then leave her." He didn’t so much as blink.

Neal didn’t hesitate. "Never."

"She has a destiny. And you... This life? You're going to keep her from it." Neal said nothing. No way he was going to take back what he said, especially not for some jerk who appeared out of nowhere.

Especially not if that jerk was from the same place Neal was.

"Okay." August’s lip curled. "You believe in magic?"

Unease twisted like a knife in Neal's gut. "I take it you do."

"So will you. Trust me." He walked past him. His shoes hissed against the gritty, rain-damp asphalt. He didn't turn to check if Neal followed.

There wasn’t a choice. Neal had to know.

"I'm going to show you something..." August led him to a motorbike parked by a nearby building. "...something that's going to make you look at everything differently. And, when you see what I have in here, you're going to listen." August rested his hand on the wooden box on the back of the motorbike. "You're going to believe every word I say." He opened the box.

Neal matched August's expectant stare with scepticism. "Yeah. Right." Heart pounding, he leaned over to look inside. There were no magical potions. No portal-opening magic beans. No fairy dust. All that was inside was an ordinary typewriter. But typed on the paper in the bail were four words.

Four words to shatter his world forever.

I know you're Baelfire.

August told him a story. Neal’s home has been torn apart. In the years he'd been away, a war between Snow White and the Evil Queen waged. That fight had come to this land and everyone who lived in the Enchanted Forest has been cursed to never experience happiness again and to never remember their old lives.

And Emma was the only one who could break the curse.

Neal knew what destiny and curses and all that shit entailed, and before August's story of evil and love and separated families was over, he'd made his choice.

When Emma breaks the curse, she'll have the family she'd always wanted. She'll have her parents back - her parents who didn't abandon her like she'd always believed, but who saved her. She'll be able to heal from a hurt Neal could never heal her from. She'll have her family. She'll have a home. Neal knew more than anyone what abandonment feels like. He'll do anything to free Emma from that. 

"She'll get her family back?" Neal reiterated. "Her home?"

"Yes."

Neal dragged his hand down his face. "I don't think you get what you're asking me. Man, I love her! Me and her are... are two messed up people who found each other in a messed up world." He glared at August. "But what would you know, huh? Have you ever been abandoned?"

August's expression went neutral. "Would you guide her to her destiny knowing that you'll put yourself directly in the path of your father?" he asked after a moment.

"Naw." Neal sniffed. "Not him. Not..." He shook his head. It hurt too much to think about. "Hey, how – How’d you know all this?"

“A little fairy.”

"The Blue Fairy?”

August nodded.

“That's... That's who gave me that magic bean. What, she just gossips to whoever will listen?"

"No." August chuckled. "I’m a special case.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?”

”I was one of her charges. She was very keen to impart lessons about right and wrong. Not many of them stuck, but that one did."

"You're so full of it."

August looked puzzled.

"Go on then. What was the lesson?"

"Don't make deals with the Dark One. No one can trust him. Not even his own son."

Not long after, he saw August again. Neal was at a bar. He’d abandoned Emma to get arrested for something he’d done, and he was drinking away his guilt. It wasn’t working. Sometime after dark, when Neal’s eyes felt a little heavy, and he was far too tempted to dance on the bar top, he pushed off his bar stool and landed in a heap on the hard floor. A couple of drinkers jeered – the harshness of it made his eyes burn.

Someone helped him up. Neal’s head lolled to one side trying to get a good look at his face. “Shit.”

August smiled ruefully, bracing Neal's arm over his shoulders. “Come on. I’ll get you home.”

They stumbled out of the bar.

“Man, what are you doing here?” Neal snapped. “I thought you were supposed to be watching out for Emma.”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

“So you came to bother me? How’d you even – are you stalking me?"

Neal wasn’t sober enough to remember August’s answer. Or to remember how they had gotten from the street to his motel room. What he did remember was waking up the next morning with a pigeon sat on his windowsill with a postcard under its foot. All that was written on it was a contact number, signed ‘August W. Booth.’

The pigeon, a scraggly little thing that was mostly white save for a scattering of black spots on its face, stayed on the windowsill until Neal broke off a lump of crust from his breakfast toast. The bird thanked him by taking a shit on his sleeve before flying off.

Jerk.

Neal had no intention of calling August. For anything. Ever.

But the weeks turned into months and more months. Neal’s heart was so sore. He couldn’t sleep, worrying about Emma, missing her warmth by his side. Some days they’d sleep curled up together until noon. When he had nightmares, she’d kiss his forehead and rub circles into his arm, and she would never ask what they were about because she understood what it felt like to be an orphan.

He hopped from place to place, motel to motel, city to city. Everywhere he went he felt her absence. If he saw a bar or a restaurant or a tourist attraction or a fairground, his first thought would be Emma would love this.

So he called. He met up with August in Vancouver.

"Been a while." August eyed him with faint interest. "Where'd you go?"

"Tried to lose myself. It didn't work. I want to talk to you about Emma."

"I hope you're not trying to reach out."

Goddamn this guy was a jerk! Can’t he see that Neal was being ripped apart from the inside? "I just... I feel like... if... if I knew that she was okay, then I could move on. Is she?"

“She will be. She got eleven months.”

Neal exhaled sharply. He turned away and back again, a spasm of angry movement. "That should be me! I should be doing that time."

"No. We went over this. It's good."

"How's it good?"

"It's a minimum-security place in Phoenix, and no, I am not going to tell you which one. She'll get out of there and she'll be fine. You keep your promise and steer clear, and she can have a good life. She can do what she's supposed to do."

"And if I can't be there for her, man, you got to promise me that you will be."

"I promise."

"Then you should do something for me. I was able to fence the watches. Don't judge me. I'm giving it all to her. And the car – I got a clean V.I.N number for it, so it's legit. I just... it'll feel like I'm there with her, you know?"

"Money is not what she needs... not for what's ahead."

"Can you just see that she gets it?"

August hesitated. "Sure."

"And one more thing – if anything changes, and she does her job, this insanity ends, and she's free..."

"I'll send you a postcard."

Two years went by before Neal saw August again. In that time Neal had thrown himself full force into getting his shit together. He got himself a job. He moved to New York. Gotten himself a sweet one-bedroom apartment. He’d only lived there a little over four weeks when August showed his face.

It was late. Nearly midnight. August buzzed the intercom and Neal, after shaking off his surprise, let him up. He announced his arrival at his apartment door with three ominous knocks. Neal debated throwing himself down the fire exit but figured that August wouldn’t show up for no reason and opened the door to let him inside.

"You ever heard of a phone?"

August smirked. "Not happy to see me?"

"No. Not really." Neal was conscious of the mess behind him and hunched his shoulders as August glanced behind him to scan the room. There were boxes everywhere, nothing had a place, and Neal didn't know where anything was except what was in the fridge.

"Well…” August said after a moment. “I wanted to congratulate you on your new job. Honest work is good. Oh, and I have news about Emma."

"What happened to your pigeon?"

The smile slipped right off August's face.

Neal scowled. "What?"

"I..." August turned his face away, as if wholly engrossed by something going on down the corridor. "I think he got... shot."

"Aw shit!” Neal scratched awkwardly behind his ear. "Sorry, man."

August nodded stiffly. "Anyway, I needed to make sure you still heard the news. Emma is fine."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "That's it? Emma is fine? You want to give me a little more detail?"

August said nothing. Neal considered slamming the door in his face, but August looked one scathing remark away from bursting into tears. He wasn’t really here to talk about Emma at all. This was about the damn bird. While Neal had every right to throw him to the curb, he couldn’t help but think of Wendy and the Darlings. Being a starving kid in Edwardian London was an experience that never left him. The Darlings gave him kindness, and Neal tried to be kind to others when he could. He nudged the door a little wider open and, when August didn't take the hint, motioned him inside with his head. With his back ramrod-straight, August stepped inside the dimly lit apartment. He was dressed in black, as usual, and practically disappeared into the shadows. Neal flicked on another light, which only showed what Neal had already guessed – August, holding back tears.

"This is a nice place," he said shakily. He stood in the middle of the apartment with his fingers in the pockets of his jeans, only taking them out when Neal brought him a beer from the fridge, which he took but didn’t open. 

Through manly humming and gesturing, Neal managed to get him to sit down on the couch. He wouldn't have bothered, except apart from looking like he was about to cry, August also looked like he was about to collapse from exhaustion.

"Have you slept at all?"

"A little. On the flight."

"From anywhere interesting?"

"Phuket."

Neal looked him up and down. "So your pet died... and you took a 20 hour flight to visit a guy who hates you."

August blinked at him. "You hate me?"

"Haven't decided." He wrinkled his nose. He was too sober for this conversation and the beer was far too weak to get him to the level of intoxication where he would feel remotely ready for it. "How'd you get a pigeon to deliver a postcard anyway?"

"I found him. He hurt his leg, so I kept him in my jacket. When he got better, I trained him. He was a good boy." His voice was really shaky now. "An old lady from Arizona found his body while she was out walking her dog. Luckily, his ring was intact, and she was able to call me."

"What was his name?"

"Figaro."

"Rest in peace, Figaro." Neal raised his beer.

August burst into tears. He was an ugly crier. He cried like he'd never had a tantrum to grow out of; all loud and sticky and unaware. Wrinkling his forehead, Neal watched this downright depressing display until he finished the rest of his beer. Then he crossed the room and bundled August up in his arms. He patted him awkwardly on the back, which was a mistake because August latched onto him, and Neal could feel his tears and snot soaking through his hoodie.

Neal cleared his throat. "You, uh, you loved that bird, huh?"

August nodded into his shoulder.

Turning his eyes to the ceiling, Neal willed whatever god existed to give him strength. The crying went on for a while longer, until at last August pulled back, sniffling, and stared at a spot on the floor by Neal's shoe.

"I took your money," he croaked. "The money you gave me for Emma. I took it."

"Figured as much."

August blinked at him, eyes wet.

"I looked you up. You're a writer. That's code for dirt poor."

"You're not angry?"

"Oh, I'm pissed. You're a piece of shit, August - but so am I. Please tell me you at least sent her the car keys."

August nodded eagerly.

Neal wasn't sure if he believed him. He'd seen men weep and lie. His papa practically coined the phrase 'crocodile tears.' Extracting himself from August's arms, Neal staggered back towards the kitchenette to throw his beer can away. Still much too sober. He eyed the unopened beer in August's hand. "You gonna drink that?"

August looked like he'd forgotten he was holding it. He passed it to Neal. "I don't drink. I had a... bad experience when I was a child."

Neal raised his eyebrows, but August offered no further comment. "Whatever, man. I'm going to bed. Feel free to let yourself out whenever you want." His shoulder was soaked. He pulled his hoodie off and threw it in the wash basket on his way to his room. He fell asleep before he heard August leave.

There was a recurring nightmare that haunted Neal. It had taken some variations throughout the years. Sometimes it took place in Edwardian London, on the window edge of a beautiful family mansion that was impossibly tall. Sometimes it took place in Neverland, in the canopy of the jungle, off a precarious branch. The setting didn’t matter. The parties involved were always the same: him and his papa, hand-in-hand, with Neal about to fall into a dark pit. Whether it was a portal or a black abyss, it ended the same way. His papa…dropping his hand and Neal, falling, falling, falling...

He jolted awake. There was a noise coming from the living area. The window creaking. He lurched to his feet. When he reached his bedroom door, he saw that the living room window was wide open and there was a man dressed in all black stood next to it. Neal's first thought was not to defend himself or his stuff – it was to make sure the intruder didn't damage the dream catcher Emma gave him.

In an instant, Neal was grabbing the man by the scruff. "What the fuck are you doing?" He pulled and – shit, it was August, staring wide-eyed at him. He had forgotten he was here.

"...The hinges on your window need oiling," August said tentatively when Neal didn’t move. "Sooner or later, it's going to get jammed."

Neal let him go. "Yeah. Well. Maybe I like it like that.”

August raised his hands and stepped away.

"What are you still doing here anyway?"

"Sorry. I’ll go.” August picked up a small, fold-up tool kit that was on the desk in front of the window and hastily jammed it inside his jacket. “I was just trying to… make things better.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. "Were you... you were trying to apologise? By fixing my window?"

August licked his lips.

Jesus Christ he was as well. Neal spread his arms. "You could try 'Hey Neal, I'm sorry I stole your money' 'Hey Neal, I'm sorry I asked you to break up with your girlfriend' 'Hey Neal, I'm sorry that I'm such a piece of shit.'"

"Hey Neal," August said softly, looking at him with big eyes, and without an ounce of insincerity, "I'm sorry... that I'm such a piece of shit."

The words were clunky, but honest. Probably the most honest apology Neal had ever got. It shouldn't have been enough, but this was the first time August hadn't acted like a cryptic all-knowing jackass and Neal had always had a soft spot for people who pretend to be tough but aren’t.

With a sigh, he gestured for August to stop packing. "You don't have to do that. It's the middle of the night. Crash on the couch. I don't mind, man, really."

“You do mind. You hate me.”

Again, too shockingly sober. One more beer wouldn’t eat into his budget too much, right? He won’t be going to sleep for a while anyway. Returning to his stash in the fridge, he cranked open another beer. He almost offered one to August before he remembered that he didn’t drink.

Neal took a long swig, which might not have been the best idea because then he blurted out, "I mean, what did you expect? You got me to send my girlfriend to jail and then made it out to be a good thing." He winced, dragging his hand down his face. Bitter. Who’s bitter? Not him. No way.

"I was in a cage once,” August said quietly. “Set me right."

Uh, what. Neal stared at him through his fingers. "You say some messed up things sometimes, you know that?"

"It was a long time ago."

Case in point. "You're, what, 28?" He hadn’t taken the time to clock August’s age. Obviously August was younger than him, though it wouldn’t appear that way to anyone who wasn’t privy to the knowledge that Neal was well over a hundred years old. Physically they were probably the same age.

"26,” August replied.

"So you were a kid when this happened?"

Now August looked like he'd said too much. "You're worried." He smiled. "That's kind of you, but unnecessary. It was scary at the time but in retrospect it was a good lesson. Anyway it was my fault." Then he freaking laughed. He was talking about being in a cage like it was cosmic justice and, yeah, August was a jerk, but no one deserved that.

"I need you to stop talking." He finished his beer and stood to get another. After he cracked open the can, he slammed the fridge door shut. "Actually, you know what?" He marched over to August, who leaned back as Neal got in his space. "Bad things don't teach good lessons, alright? Good people learn good things. That's it. Those shitty things that happened to you are still shitty. You don't get to tell yourself it all worked out in the end because it would have worked out just fine without it."

August stared at him before giving him a genuine smile, a little sad at the corners. “You’re right to hate me. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I was supposed to watch over Emma. You – You never would have met if I hadn’t...” He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. “I came here because… you are the only other person in this whole world who knows about ours. Like it or not, we’re… we’re two of a kind.”

“Like it or not,” agreed Neal. Sighing, he dropped down on the couch. “You can take the bed if you want. I won’t need it again tonight.”

“You were dreaming about your father, weren’t you?” Cautiously, August sat down next to him. "Do you miss him a little? I miss my father."

Neal hunched. "Yeah, well, your father isn't the Dark One. If I go the rest of my life without seeing that son of a bitch again, I'll be happy."

August watched him. "Tell me about him."

Neal snorted. "Thought you were the all-knowing asshole."

"I only know about what happened with the magic bean. Was he… cruel to you?”

“No,” Neal said sternly. As sternly as he could, given how hoarse his voice had gotten. He was shaking his head. “No. No, he… He was a good man. Before.”

He told him everything. The dagger, the magic, all of it.

Because like August said, it was just the two of them in the whole wide world.

The next morning, Neal and August went to Central Park to catch a pigeon. Neal scattered breadcrumbs on the footpath and the pigeons flocked down. One big mean son of a bitch pecked at the others. One of them had the toes missing from one leg. Neal and August watched as they waddled around.

"That one," said August, pointing. "The one that looks like caramel and vanilla ice-cream."

"Like caramel and vanilla ice-cream," repeated Neal flatly, but he knew exactly which one he was referring to; a big-breasted brown and white dove in the middle of the crowd of grey and blue ones. "Sure. Whatever." He reached into his pocket for a reel of twine and unravelled it. With the cut end, he made a loop.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a snare. The things you learn in Neverland."

"You won't hurt it?"

"Of course not." The birds took flight as Neal laid down the snare. He dropped another handful of crumbs on the path and he and August shuffled back. After a few moments, the pigeons got brave again and dropped down to peck. Their golden girl was with them, inching closer to the trap. Neal looked at August. "Got a cage to put it in?"

August gawped at him. "I'm not putting her in a cage!"

"So it's good to put people in cages but not birds? I’m getting that story out of you one day, you cryptic son of a bitch.”

August looked like he was about to retort, but Neal shushed him because the bird was trotting towards their trap. They sat in silence, neither of them moving, as the pigeon cooed softly. It stepped into the loop. Neal tugged the string, tightening the loop around the pigeon's ankle, and pulling the pigeon towards him. Quickly, he hugged the pigeon under his arm to stop it from hurting itself trying to escape. It took a while for it to settle, and Neal got a wing in the face and bleeding fingers for his trouble. Call him soft, but the adoring expression on August's face when Neal handed the pigeon over made all the wrangling worth it.

Grinning, Neal asked, "What are you going to name it?"

"Cleo." His voice slipped into a slight Italian accent.

It was like someone slapped Neal. "Holy shit," he said. "You're Pinocchio."

"I've put your phone number on too," August told Neal when they were back at the apartment, as he put a ring around Cleo's ankle. "That way if anything happens, you'll be contacted too. If you want..." He stopped. Cleo, bored of exploring Neal's empty desk, pecked at the seeds in August's palm.

Neal was stood behind his shoulder. "If I want...what?"

August turned slowly in the chair. "I still need to train her. If I did that here, I could train her to trust you. Pigeons recognise faces." He added hastily, "It'll only take a few days. A week at most."

And Neal… Maybe it was the genuine, loving way August looked at that scrappy little pigeon, maybe it was because he could hear Wendy Darling telling him to let him stay. Or maybe it was because – despite piecing his life together – Neal was pretty damn lonely.

Neal said yes.

Coming home from work and seeing August everyday took some getting used to. The first few days, Neal nearly jumped out of his skin. He got this smouldering, disgusted feeling in his gut at the sight of him.

August cooked him dinner. Now that Neal could get used to.

At the end of the week, on a Saturday, August helped him unpack the last few boxes he hadn't gotten round to. He helped him move the furniture around three times. He even fixed the loose door handle.

He didn’t touch the window though, not since Neal had told him off. Emma’s dreamcatcher hung there, untouched, like an eye looking in.

After the work was done, they collapsed onto the couch and put on The Fellowship Of The Ring, which Neal had rented along with its sequel, but hadn’t finished watching. He didn’t really like it – reminded him a little too much of home – and was tempted to put on Disney’s Pinocchio, but that movie was fucked up and given some of the things August came out with sometimes, Neal suspected that a lot of it was true.

Neal paused the movie to go take a leak, and once he was back, August murmured.

“Hey, Neal?”

Neal waited, remote in hand. “Yeah?”

“I was wrong about you. You’re a good man. Emma would have been fine with you.”

Something inside of Neal knitted back together – something that was broken when August called him a deadbeat, when he was reminded of how similar he was to his papa – and Neal could have teared up. Instead he inhaled sharply, sucked it all in, and reached over to hook his arm around August’s neck and pull him in. He rubbed his fist in August’s hair.

“Ow! What are you doing to me?”

“A little something I learned from the Darling brothers.” He let him go, cackling. “Kid’s these days call it a noogie.”

The sight of August’s red cheeks made sitting through the movie worth it. For the record, August freaking loved The Fellowship Of The Ring. He damn near cried at the bit where Frodo and Sam are in the rowboat – “I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. A promise. Don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.” – so Neal sucked it up through the sequel, and through August’s gripes about the cliff-hanger before the pair of them fell asleep on the couch.

The morning backache was a killer.

“Good girl, Cleo.” August said as Cleo passed him a little slip of paper. Neal’s desk had been completely taken over by August’s little training sessions, yet Neal didn’t mind. He was doing a little tidy up around the apartment. He was emptying the bins from his ensuite and stopped on his way out to watch.

“She’s getting good, huh?”

“She is.” With a gesture, August sent Cleo shuffling to the opposite side of the desk. “Good girl.” He whistled a tune that beckoned her back. “Good girl,” he said again, feeding her a Cheeto – her favourite. And sent her away again.

Neal started heading out, though when August whistled that little tune again, he stopped. He reversed. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. Is that Mr. Jones?”

August’s gaze darted to him, and he shuffled in the chair.

Neal grinned. “Man, I can’t believe you! You like Counting Crows?” He went over to his stereo and started blasting his Counting Crows album. The tension visibly left August’s shoulders, especially when Neal started speak-singing at the top of his lungs.

By the following Wednesday, Neal got August hooked on Lou Reed too because Lou Reed was a goddamn treasure and it was a crime August wasn’t listening to him.

A few weeks became a month and a half.

Don’t get him wrong, living with August wasn’t all chocolate and roses. One evening, while channel hopping through crappy evening TV, Neal made the mistake of asking August about his father.

“Your dad is in that town, isn’t he? He’s cursed.”

It was a second before August answered. “Yeah.” His eyes were on the remote, on the button he was pressing over and over, harder now.

“That means he doesn’t remember you.” August’s expression went blank. Sounds from the TV shuttered with every channel change. “That must suck.”

“It’ll be over when Emma breaks the curse,” August said cheerfully. He settled on a channel. Neal spared the TV a glance. Cooking show.

“What I don’t understand is why you weren’t cursed, and you neglected to mention your story when you first told me about it. How’d you get here?”

“The same way as Emma,” August said casually. “My papa and I built the magic wardrobe, and he used it to send me here.”

Neal sat up straighter. “Your dad sent you through a portal.”

August gave him a hard stare. “It wasn’t like that. He was saving me.”

“Maybe. But you were alone, right? With – with Emma. What, when she was a baby? Is that right? You were left alone with a baby? Told to look after her at the ripe age of seven?” Neal watched as August picked up the remote again and flicked to another channel. “Christ, man. That’s shitty. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He was frowning. He tilted his head at Neal. “If you’d seen what was at stake… He made a sacrifice. He didn’t have a choice.” 

Neal ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He looked down at his clasped hands. Pursed his lips. “Still, that’s pretty tough for you to deal with.”

“It’ll work out in the end.” More channel hopping.

“Be a good lesson.” Neal grumbled. 

“It will be.”

“Because going through shitty things is noble.” He didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “Your dad teach you that?”

“My papa isn’t like yours,” August snapped. “He’s a good man. Not was. Is.”

Hearing that sent a stab of heat through Neal's chest. Dropping his gaze, he sneered. “Oh lucky you. Maybe we can swap.” He grimaced. He wouldn’t get anywhere clapping back like that. He tried again. “Look, I’m just trying to say… Good man or not, it’s okay to be angry.”

August laughed. “Why would I be angry?”

Neal studied his expression. He had this way with people. After a hundred years of seeing the best and the worst of people, he knew how to read them. August wasn’t angry. He wasn’t angry the same way Neal hadn’t been angry when his papa killed a group of men in front of him, when he turned a man into a snail and crushed him, or even when they were half in that portal and his papa was scared. He hadn’t been angry until his papa broke their deal – until he’d tumbled through the portal. Then he realised he'd been smothering his anger for years.

August wasn’t angry, but he will be.

When Cleo was trained up, they took the elevator to the roof of the apartment building to release her into the air. August whistled the opening to Mr. Jones and held up his arm. Cleo came flying right back to perch on him. He released her again and Neal whistled, and she came back to him too. 

"That's wicked." Neal grinned at August. Cleo wandered up to Neal’s shoulder to groom his hair.

“She’s ready for a longer trip, I think.”

That knocked the grin right off Neal’s face. "Yeah. Guess you're pretty eager to get back to Asia."

August didn’t say anything for a second. "...I have been here a while. Longer than I intended.” Neal watched him through the corner of his eye. Watched him breathe in deeply and nod his head. “Yes, I’ve been here too long,” he murmured.

Neal dropped his chin. Kicked a pebble across the paved roof. Cleo cooed quietly into the silence; feathers cool against Neal’s cheek.

It didn’t take long for August to pack his stuff. He’d gotten a few things since his stay began – a wooden donkey he’d carved in his spare time, a few cookbooks, clothes, and a duffel bag to keep them in – and he was ready to go.

August nodded his goodbye and turned to leave.

"Hey!" Neal hadn’t meant to say it so loud. August froze. His eyes were a little wide. Rubbing the back of his neck, Neal cleared his throat. He knew what he wanted. Except…

Except Neal didn't do families anymore. Every time he tried to make it work, he lost them. The way he saw it, people only have one home in their whole life. The moment it was gone there was no getting it back. Neal lost his home a long time ago.

"See you around, man," he said.

That's invitation enough, right? August is August. He'll show his face whenever he wants to.

August's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sure."

They didn't see each other again for eight years.

Understandably, Neal was cautious when August did eventually show his face. He sent a postcard ahead of time, which Neal appreciated, but it did nothing to calm his anxiety. They met on the sidewalk outside of Neal's apartment. August swept in off the road on his motorbike, pulling to an easy stop next to him.

"I take it you got my postcard," he said cheerfully.

"Cleo's fine," answered Neal. Currently she was snug asleep in the pigeon house on top of the apartment building. She was older now. Tended to sleep long hours between flights. But she was healthy.

August shrugged like that wasn't really what he wanted to know. He pulled off his helmet and without the brim of it casting shadows over his face, Neal could see his under eye was blue from exhaustion. August tugged off one glove and rubbed grit from his eyes.

"Must have been a hell of a flight from Hong Kong," said Neal. "You've looked better." Talk to me, man.

"I've felt better," agreed August, looking pitifully up at him from the seat of his motorbike. "I'm turning back to wood, Neal."

Neal rocked on his heels because damn. He knew it would be bad news but that was something else. Before he could think to say anything about it, August went straight to business.

"It means Emma's in Storybrooke."

Yeah, yeah, BAU, you prick, thought Neal. August must have been freaking out massively if he was sticking up his pretentious little walls again. "You're going there, aren't you?"

"I gotta get her to break the curse to stop what's happening to me."

"If she breaks the curse, my father is going to remember who he is and come looking for me."

"Flip side - you get to see Emma again." He looked so happy saying it too, like seeing Emma will resolve everything. For a guy who pretended to know everything, August could be pretty naive. He didn’t know Emma as well as he claimed. Neal knew that Emma would never forgive him for leaving her, just like she had never forgiven her parents, and he would never forgive his father.

"Not sure she wants to see me."

"You never know." He looked down the busy road, wearing that sly smile like he was so mysterious, when Neal knew he didn't know shit about what was going to happen. Unimpressed, he watched him ease his stiff leg over the motorbike and reach for this helmet. "When the curse is broken, I'll send you a postcard."

He revved the motorbike, glanced once over his shoulder to check for on-coming traffic, and then cut into the busy street. Neal watched him go and then walked home, wrapping his scarf tighter around himself.

Then the day came.

Neal dropped his stupid MP3 player out of the stupid window he should have let August fix years ago and while he was half-hanging off the sill, Cleo landed on his desk with a postcard between her toes.

It only said one word.

Broken.

Neal looked at it for a while. Emma had her home. August wasn't going to turn to wood. Even though Neal was alone, he could be happy for both of them. He scratched out the word 'Broken' and wrote 'Fixed.'

The advantage to having the only mail to his apartment be delivered by pigeon is that when some lady buzzes his door claiming to be UPS, Neal knows he's been made. At first, he figures it’s the cops and throws himself out the window he still can't close. The lady at his door chases him down.

It's worse than the cops. It's Emma.

Neal runs, obviously, but Emma is quick and smart and finds a shortcut in the city he's lived in for years and slams right into him. It only gets worse from there. It's a mess. The whole thing is the shittiest, crappiest mess he has ever been in. Emma has a kid. Emma has his kid. His name is Henry.

He's a father.

He's a father who abandoned his kid, just like his papa did to him.

Worst of all, his papa is with them. His papa, who wants to make it right. And that is the last goddamn straw.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“I don't care. I didn't get closure, so you don't, either. Gotta go.”

His papa is tearing up. “Oh, Bae.”

“No.” Neal walks out of the privacy of his bedroom and into the main living area where Emma is coming back through the jammed window that Henry has used to go onto the fire escape.

“He wants to meet you.” Emma says.

“You weren't gonna tell me about him.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“Yeah, well, he's my kid too, so you don't get to make that decision by yourself anymore.”

“Great. Go talk to him then.”

Neal takes a deep breath then walks toward the window.

“But...” Emma adds, “don't break his heart.”

“Trust me, I'm not gonna do to him what he did to me.”

“And what you did to me.”

Neal lets out a rough breath. “Okay. I get it. We're all messed up. What do you say we try to avoid that with him? All right?” He exits to the fire escape and stands next to – his son. His throat is dry. His heart is sore. He’s terrified. Saying he’s messed up is an understatement. He’s not messed up. He’s…

Broken. That's what August's postcard had said. Yeah. That sounds like an appropriate word to describe the son of Rumplestiltskin.

Chapter Text

___

Rumplestiltskin trails in step with Miss Emma Swan, trailing behind Baelfire and Henry along the sidewalk of a stinking, crowded street in a loud, rowdy, and unpleasant city. Seeing Bae and Henry side by side, there is no doubt that they are father and son – their dark hair and eyes, their cheerful smiles. Henry has his mother's chin and rounded face, but the rest of him is undoubtably Baelfire's.

A grandson. Rumplestiltskin is a grandfather.

And has been, unknowingly, for eleven years. It's with an uneasy mix of pride and jealousy that he watches Bae and Henry stop by a pizza shop. Bae holds open the door and follows immediately once Henry has gone inside, leaving Rumple and Emma on the sidewalk.

Emma makes a move towards the entrance, though hesitates. “Do you think that we should...”

“If we were welcome, I feel confident an invitation would have been extended. It's a sad truth that the people closest to us are the ones capable of causing us the most pain. That's our common ground, Miss Swan.”

“Guess my lying to him just caught up with me.”

“Ah, give him time. He'll forgive you.”

“Is that you projecting your own hopes?”

Emma's mistakes are pedestrian compared to his own. Rumplestiltskin huffs. “My son and I have some way to go.” 

“I can see that.” She narrows her eyes, assessing. “That’s why you took in August. He was your shot at forgiveness.” Her lip curls a little in victory when Rumplestiltskin has no answer. It is the only semblance of a satisfaction she’d seen on her face since their reunion with Baelfire – who is calling himself Neal, of all things - and he sees no harm in letting slip that hint of vulnerability. It might serve him well in the future for Emma to know they had more in common than not.

He truly is projecting his own hopes.

They are not stood there for long when from inside the pizza store there’s a voice, high with fear, shouting, “Emma!”

It's Baelfire's voice.

“Bae!” calls Rumple. He hastily follows Emma through the shop door. From over her shoulder, he spots Bae, on his knees on the tiled floor, cradling Henry’s head in his hand and lowering him slowly down. Patrons stand back, wide-eyed, and the young teen manning the till stares dumbly, asking if they should call an ambulance.

“What happened?” Emma eases to a crouch by Henry’s side. "Did he eat something?"

"We haven't even ordered. He said he felt dizzy. Has this ever happened before?”

“No. Henry?” Emma brushes the hair out of Henry’s face and Henry blinks tiredly up at her. “Talk to me, kiddo.”

“I…” Henry winces. “I-I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bae soothes. “It’s okay. It’s a little warm in here. Reckon you're just dehydrated.” He calls to the server. “Can I get some water over here?”

“It’s not that. Everything hurts.”

“When did it start?” asks Emma, nodding her thanks when a server hands Bae a glass of water.

“…yesterday.”

“God, kid, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I'm sorry. I didn’t want you to leave me in Storybrooke.”

“Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Emma clasps Henry’s hand and helps him up. “Good. Because we are going straight to the ER. No complaints.”

“I’ll hail a cab.” Rumplestiltskin retreats onto the street and waves down a passing cab. Emma and Bae help Henry into the back, and Rumplestiltskin takes the front passenger seat. Through the rear-view mirror, he watches Emma Swan comb her fingers through Henry’s hair, while Bae distracts him with true stories that sound like fantasy.

And though it’s selfish, Rumplestiltskin relaxes into his seat somewhat. It appears this tragic turn of events might have some benefit.

___

The waiting room in the ER isn't as pleasant as the one in Storybrooke General Hospital. Not that Rumplestiltskin finds ERs pleasant under any circumstances. Crippling oneself, and everything after, was enough to put him off for the rest of eternity. While this room has nothing on the shack and canvas bed he was given during the Ogre Wars, the decor is drab. Crusty pale walls surround rows of blue fabric chairs. There's a coughing couple in the corner of the room. An anxious father paces up and down at the back and asks the nurse behind the desk six times if his daughter is going to be okay.

With an uneasy feeling in his gut, Rumplestiltskin brings his cane and his coat closer toward him and settles in for a long wait. At least he's been provided a precious moment alone with Baelfire. With Emma talking privately with the doctors, Rumplestiltskin can speak, once again, to his son. He won’t push. He shan’t risk chasing Bae away. But he can offer a semblance of comfort. That is a start.

“I’ve known Henry all his life,” he says. “He’s a strong boy.”

Hunching his shoulders, Bae glances at him through the corner of his eye. He turns toward Rumple and it's as if in the move he's shoved his bitterness to one side. "What's he like? What's he into?"

Rumple chuckled. "Stories, believe it or not. Fairy-tales."

"Right. Grew up in this world and doesn't know how crap that other world was." Bae drags a hand through his hair.

The coughing couple are giving them an odd look.

"He didn't grow up in this world," Rumple points out. "He grew up in a cursed town where the residents remembered nothing past the last year, his classmates never aged, and every day was the same. He grew up with a gaslighting mother who told him it was all in his head. Meanwhile, everyone around him were too focused on their own misery to notice his."

Bae stares.

"He won't ask you for much," adds Rumple. "Simply continue what you attempted this morning and you'll do fine."

Bae's face softens and Rumple can see he's on the verge of saying something, and his heart picks up in anticipation of a kind word, though he never hears it because that's when Emma returns to the waiting room, her face withdrawn and pale, and Bae rises to meet her. Emma begins to speak, and stops, shakes her head, and says she needs a minute. She retreats through the corridor the opposite way she had come in. Bae lets out a hiss and brings his fingertips to his mouth. "Oh it's bad. It's so bad."

"It's no good speculating." Rumplestiltskin rose from his chair. “Allow me.”

Bae looks at him with vitriol. Rumple isn't sure what he's done this time, to repel the softness he'd earned just seconds before, until he remembers the warmth and pain in his son's eyes whenever he gazes upon Emma Swan and the heartbreak that shines out of hers. They are in love. Deeply, irrevocably. Rumplestiltskin's interference reads as an intrusion rather than assistance. He needs to consider his strategy more carefully. With a heavy heart, Rumplestiltskin exits the waiting room and turns in the direction Miss Swan had gone. He’d known this would be difficult, though perhaps his expectations had been skewed. He’d pictured Bae silent, receptive, as August had been. He hadn’t anticipated for how his words would leave him the moment Bae spoke. Why couldn't it have gone the way it had in the woods?

Because that wasn't real. That was a lie. That's all you get. That's all you deserve; a marionette whose only yours because you pulled the right strings.

He finds Emma outside the main entrance. She's stood at the top end of the wheelchair access ramp, holding the handrail in both hands. She looks as if she might vomit. He approaches carefully, saying nothing, and positions himself by her side. When a woman using a wheelchair nears the bottom of the ramp, he coaxes Emma away with two fingertips to her elbow and takes her to find a suitable place where they can wallow without obstructing others. They trace the circumference of the hospital parking lot. Emma marches a few steps ahead, and Rumplestiltskin walks a respectable distance behind. Still, he doesn't get the impression that his company isn't wanted.

At last, Emma stops and faces him. “I don’t know what to do."

“What’s his prognosis?”

“They think he might have nerve damage. They won’t tell me more until they run some tests but... he could be in pain for the rest of his life.” Emma pulls her lips tight. She sounds as if she’s on the verge of a hyperventilating.

“There are treatments for pain.”

“He’s eleven years old. I don’t want him on medication for life because of something I did!”

“You’re taking an awful lot of credit for an accident.”

“I shouldn’t have tried to take him.” She begins her march once again. Where to is anyone's guess. “I knew I couldn’t be a mother. Why did I ever think I could -”

Rumplestiltskin interrupts her gently. “I think you’re a better parent than you realise. Can you be expected to bear the burden of every cut and scrape your son gets in a playground?”

She looks at him incredulously. “This isn’t a bruise, Gold!”

“And yet it was as unpredictable as one. You couldn’t have predicted the accident, nor could you have predicted its severity.”

Emma’s fearful eyes turn cold. “You could have gotten us to a hospital. If you hadn't kept us, you could have...”

“Don't blame me for this," Rumplestiltskin says darkly. "Do you really think Regina wouldn't have had you smothered in your sleep, had you ended up in Storybrooke's hospital for all to see? I made sure you were provided with the best care available at the time.”

“But you could do better now, right?”

There it is. Rumplestiltskin tilts his head, furrowing his brow in a picture of ignorance. “What are you asking me?”

“Magic. You can use it to heal him.”

He’d expected this. Thinking about it had been easy, though now when he opens his mouth to speak he finds he's choking on his words. "I..."

“Come on. If there’s one thing I know about you is that’s you don’t hesitate to have someone in your debt.”

He scowls. “I don’t need your debt to help my own grandson.” He rubs his lips together and holds up a placating hand. “Magic can help Henry. But not from here. We... We need to get him back to Storybrooke. Only then can I help him."

Even if he hopes Baelfire will return with them for Henry's sake, it’s no lie. He will save Henry from this fate. Somehow. Some way. There is magic in Storybrooke. He needs only to discover whatever is preventing him from harnessing it and remove it from the equation.

___

Rumplestiltskin knew something had gone wrong the moment the shroud of magic dispersed. Storybrooke's well stood in front of him as ordinary as it had been before he dropped the potion inside. The woods had gone quiet. He could feel the presence of magic, a low hum in the atmosphere, the way an animal can sense an oncoming storm. Only he didn't feel the same power he had in the Enchanted Forest. He stared at his hands, spreading his fingers. He flipped his hands, palms up, and back again. He felt the same. Weak.

Belle was saying his name. Snapping out of his thoughts, he turned to her. "Sorry, sweetheart."

"That man..." Belle said tentatively. "Your son... he's... I'm so sorry. It just happened. I don't know how..."

He quickly reassured her. He didn’t want to rush this moment, but there were pressing matters to deal with. First, he needed to get her and August to safety. Then, he needed to deal with Regina. He asked his questions, tucked what he knew to the back of his mind, and took the actions he could take. He brought his family home. With them safe, he went to his shop where he tried to call the magic to him. He could feel it, a distant, muted thing, though he couldn't do the simplest of conjuring. Any potion he attempted to make was little more than a foul concoction. This was not the victory he’d planned for. Was this simply how magic worked in this world? Or was there something else at play? All magic came with a price. Was this it?

He promised Belle he wouldn’t kill Regina. A wraith could do the job – or, at least, that’s what he’d wanted. Only his attempts to summon the wraith were just as fruitless as his attempts to conjure magic.

Something had gone very wrong indeed. The hum of the magic he'd brought was as clear to him as petrichor, yet the Land Without Magic remained in drought. Which was exactly what he led Emma and her parents to believe. They didn't need to know that he couldn't harness it.

He had to keep trying. There was no choice in the matter. He did not walk through hundreds of years manipulating the world around him, sit in a prison, endure 28 years of cursed misery, only to be incapacitated by the backwards laws of a backwards land.

After a few hours of failure, he returned home. Dazed and nervous, he felt as if he was wandering in a completely new world. A world where his hopes had been fulfilled, yet the absence of satisfaction felt greater than ever. Seeing his darling Belle felt as if he were in a dream. He'd brought her the clothes he promised and carried them up to their room, the room they would be sharing now, of course, and even that felt like an impossibility. When she began getting changed in front of him, he'd gotten so nervous he had to leave. He'd loved her for decades, yet they were very much a new couple. He was responding like... a teenager.

With unsteady legs, he settled down in his armchair in the lounge and twisted the head of his cane. When Belle came in, his heart stumbled in his chest. She looked - She looked beautiful. This world's fashion fit her perfectly. He could never have pictured this. She was real. She was alive.

And then she was sitting close to him. Her legs brushed his arm. It was familiar and wonderful. When she kissed him, a wound inside of him closed up. He kissed her back, hard, kissed her with all he had - until he heard the sound of feet retreating outside of the room.

With a huff, he pulled back and pressed his forehead to Belle’s. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“I, uh…” August shuffled in the doorway with his hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“Could you give us a moment, my dear?" He met August's unblinking stare. "I believe August and I are about to have an overdue conversation.” He couldn't help smirking as August raised his chin slightly. His darling Belle raised her eyebrows and he suspected she wanted to stay. Curious as she could be, she was also gracious. She excused herself and stepped through the sliding doors and into the garden. He watched her go.

"She's lovely," said August.

"She is." He watched the hem of her skirt brush her thighs - watched her as she walked deeper into the garden and disappeared like a phantom. His heartrate sped up and he began to lower his chin so he might keep her within his sight. He forced himself to look at August, who was watching him with his head tilted. He was another peculiarity that made this moment feel like fiction.

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Can't say the thought didn't cross my mind."

August hummed. "Since we're being honest with each other now..." he said carefully, "I wanted to thank you. For...for letting me stay. And for not slicing my throat while I slept, however tempted you might have been."

"Would have made a mess of the covers.”

"There's cleaner ways."

"Careful, dearie. I might get ideas."

August stared at him.

Rumplestiltskin couldn't help himself. He laughed.

August laughed too, a soft, breathless laugh. "Fair enough. I'll try not to give you any reason to fall to that temptation." His smile faded. "I am sorry. What I did to you was cruel."

Rumple could have told him what he'd meant to last night in the shop. He could have told him how he had wanted him to suffer, to pay back in pain that which he'd caused him. He could have told him how he was dead set on the idea of beating him to death, but the sight of his eyes stayed his hand. His eyes, and then his smile, and then his proud way of telling stories that didn't belong to him, and his insecure way of telling his own. He could have told him how his fondness had grown from falsehood to reality. How he saw Belle in him, Baelfire in him, but most importantly he saw himself. How deeply he cared for him, even if it was nonsensical, even if he'd vowed that he would never care so deeply for anyone again - in the way that would always, always, stay his hand.

He said none of that.

Slowly, as to not spook him, Rumple rose from the armchair and crossed the rug. With one hand he steadied himself on his cane and with the other he reached for August’s face, watching him for any hint he might he rebuked. August’s expression did not change – until he cupped his cheek, and August sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. His cheek felt exactly how he expected. Cool and smooth, with a barely noticeable crease where the wood grain was, like old scars. There was powerful magic hovering beneath the surface. More powerful than he expected. More powerful than it ought to be. It was an odd choice, even for an idiot fairy, to force so much into such a small container.

"Freaky, right?" August said lightly, opening his eyes.

"No," Gold replied, lowering his hand. "No, of course not."

August raised his chin in lieu of raising his eyebrows. His expressions were much more limited now he lacked the facial muscles to make them. Interesting.

"What’s it like?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Being made of wood? It was easier before I knew what it was like being real." He wriggled his fingers, which clicked as they scraped past each other. "There's all these little quirks I'd forgotten about. So many habits I'd picked up to disguise them. Did you know that the average person blinks every five seconds? When I was a kid, I used to count to five in my head so I could be sure I was blinking often enough."

"And this?" Rumplestiltskin gestured to his nose. A grin crept up his face. "Will it grow?"

"I don't know. I wasn't planning on lying to you again."

Oh, but what fun was that?

"Go on. You've done it before." He held an inch's space between his finger and thumb, scrunching his nose. "Just a little one."

"Why?"

"Because I'm burning with curiosity, sunshine."

Though August didn't move, Rumple could see him withdrawing. His expression, for lack of a better term, turned wooden. "Is that what I am to you? A puppet that dances for your entertainment?"

"I thought I'd made what you are to me quite clear."

He watched August opened and close his mouth. With a helpless exhale, Gold reached for him again. Bringing his hand to the back of August's neck, Gold gently nudged their foreheads together. With their height difference, August was leaning into him, as if he might collapse without Rumple there.

"I don't - I can't -" A sharp inhale. August drew back, his pupils moving side-to-side. He angled his body as one might in a standoff. "You're the Dark One."

"Yes I am."

"You're nothing like I expected." There was an edge to his voice. "You were supposed to deserve it. I was going to..." He stopped.

"I know," Gold said patiently.

"You were supposed to deserve it."

"I'm sorry to disappoint."

August snorted, shaking his head. "I hate you."

It was clear from his tone that he hadn't meant to say it and a mere moment after the words had tumbled out, there was a painful cracking, the sound deadwood makes when it splits, and the tip of his nose stretched. His face, which had been light-hearted, turned to one of mortification. Stumbling backwards, he raised his hands to shield his face, though evidently misjudged the length by which his nose had grown and ended up smacking the end of it.

Rumple let out a single, choked off laugh. It should have been hysterical. He should have been howling with laughter. Only he was reeling at the revelation of what he'd brought into his life.

He couldn't recall a time where he was sure that someone he cared for didn't secretly resent him. His father and mother had abandoned him. Milah despised him and had left him. Cora had left him. He'd been terrified of losing Bae to anyone. He'd been convinced that Belle didn't love him. There was always doubt. Always.

Except now. I hate you, spoken in jest. False enough to get a reaction. 

Oh, but this was dangerous. It was positively addicting. His affections threatened to spill into obsession.

August let out a huff. Behind the shield he had made with his hands, he was curling into himself, dropping his chin, hunching his shoulders. Rumple grasped his wrists and pulled them away from his face. August was wide-eyed, as wide as spring-wire operated eyelids would allow, and he leaned away. “What are you –” He stopped as Rumplestiltskin grasped his chin and turned his face up so he could see.

"An inch per lie told, it seems. How did you ever get away with anything?"

"My nose doesn't compel me to tell the truth," he grumbled. "It just makes it impossible to tell a direct lie."

Rumple raised his palms and put space between them, though he couldn't help but ask, "Does it shrink on its own?"

"No. That requires a confessional."

Rumple frowned. He couldn't help but picture seven-year-old August pinching treats between meals and never being able to get away with it. Never learning how to conspire, to connive, to protect his secrets. All the things Rumplestiltskin had needed to do. Certainly, not always with the best results. But to take that from a child? To force them to confessional like a saint? No wonder the Blue Fairy's cursed counterpart was Mother Superior. He nearly snorted aloud at the connection.

He tried to imagine raising Bae under such draconian conditions. Bae had lied, as children do, and more often once Rumplestiltskin had become the Dark One. Usually he told little white lies to defend men from the Dark One's wrath. Rumplestiltskin had always gotten the truth eventually, but he would never - could never - make Bae parade around with the evidence on his face. It was well within his power, but he couldn't do it. A child's only defence is their word.

August sighed. "I don't hate you." His nose returned to its proper shape. He tapped the end of it. "There. Satisfied your burning curiosity?" There was hurt in his tone.

"I don't hate you either," Rumple said softly.

"That's not fair. I can't tell if you're lying."

"I suppose you'll just have to trust me. Now. What's this I've heard about you saying in your room all day?"

___

A distant police siren can be heard through the hospital ward window. Rumplestiltskin waits by Henry's bed, where the boy is hooked up to an IV bag. Emma and Baelfire have gone to get coffee and to no doubt discuss Henry's condition where Henry can't hear.

"Mr. Gold?" Henry says quietly.

Startling slightly, Rumplestiltskin turns from the window to Henry. The boy looks better now he's taken a dose of pain-relief. Morphine, he's been told. One dose every six hours. How primitive. Rumple smiles warmly at him. "Yes, Henry?"

"Is it okay if I call you grandpa?"

Oh, there's something burrowing into his heart. He drops his gaze to the bright white sheets, trying to bottle up the storm raging in his chest. "Call me whatever you like."

Henry smiles meekly. "Thanks. I've always wondered what it's like to have grandparents from a Mom and a Dad. I know it's the number everyone starts with, but four seems like a lot right?"

"It'll certainly mean receiving a lot of birthday presents."

Henry's smile turns mischievous. “Does that mean you’re going to get me presents from now on?”

“Seems I’ll have to.”

"I'd like that. I bet you're a really cool grandpa when you want to be." Henry falls silent. Rumplestiltskin eyes the door, silently pleading for Emma and Baelfire to return before he does something he'll regret. "Hey, grandpa? Am I cursed now? Did the Dark Curse do this to me?"

Rumple studies his expression. He wonders if Henry is asking not because he fears for himself, but because he fears what this will do to his relationship with Regina. It would be a tasteful revenge to sow disorder between them, though he'd rather have the insecurity be on Regina's side than Henry's. He memorises this idea for later. Leaning a little closer, he hovers his palm over Henry's forehead and closes his eyes, pretending to sense for something he knows he won't find. He hums, sticks out his tongue in a mockery of concentration, and Henry laughs a little, jumping under his touch.

Of course he feels nothing. Even if he still had that power, Henry's only curse is his mortality.

"I can safely say you're not cursed," he tells him kindly. It's the least he could do. Truthfully, and with the smallest touch of shame, it had mattered little to him whether Henry roused from his coma after his car accident. Miss Swan has the stubbornness of her parents, perhaps more, and a gentle nudge to get her to believe wasn’t suitable. Having the thing she loved most in mortal danger? That was an opportunity Rumple hadn’t dared to waste. He'd gambled wisely. True Love’s kiss broke the Dark Curse. It had spared August. Given him back Belle. Though Henry waking from his coma at the opportune time… that was something he hadn't expected. A coincidence? Could be. Though he has his doubts. Fate is rarely so kind. Even now it is causing chaos.

A young boy will lead you to your son, a Seer had told him. It will happen in the most unexpected way. He is more than he appears. This boy will be your undoing.

The prophecy had come true. A young boy had reunited him with his son. Henry had brought Emma to Storybrooke, and his very existence had brought Baelfire back to him. In the most unexpected way. He fit the description. If he was right, fate had decided that Rumplestiltskin's own grandson would cause his death. To make matters worse, fate has thrown in another twist.

Because this hadn't been entirely Henry's doing.

___

“I need to tell you something that’s going to make you angry,” August announced as he entered the lounge where Rumplestiltskin was sat in his armchair, mere minutes after he'd confessed to Belle about the absent magic.

He was about to take a sip of whiskey, but stopped, unable to keep in his laugh. He didn’t think he had ever in his long years of life had anyone say that to him. Placing his glass down on the coffee table, he gestured to the armchair opposite his. August, after a moment’s hesitation, sat down. Unlike most people, August goes completely still when he’s nervous. People tended to squirm under the Dark One’s stare. August wasn’t moving at all. Which meant he was terrified.

In the hallway, the grandfather clock struck midnight. On the twelfth chime, August said, “I know where Baelfire is.”

Rumplestiltskin heard his heart thud inside his ears - and he heard a thud by his feet too. He’d dropped his cane. August broke eye contact with him, startling slightly, as the cane rolled towards him. Suddenly it was hard for Rumplestiltskin to breathe. He’d known that August knew about his son - he wouldn’t have been able to pose as him otherwise. August knew a lot of things. He knew about the dagger. But to know Bae’s location? How? And for how long?

None of these things took precedence. Only one question mattered. “Where?” His voice was ragged. He expected a vague location. A state. A town. He didn't expect...

"89 Wooster Street, New York. The apartment number is 407."

Rumplestiltskin’s breath left him all at once. He felt a lot of things. He wouldn’t call any of them anger. Utter, utter bafflement, certainly. And something else too. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was as if he was floating. He clenched the arms of the chair, though that didn’t tether him and before he realised what he was doing he’d pushed himself to his feet.

August’s face went carefully neutral, but he rose quickly, backing up. His thigh hit the side of his chair in his rush. “I can explain…”

Rumplestiltskin was toe-to-toe with him before he finished his sentence. He grasped the back of August’s neck and pulled him into an embrace.

August went very still. “You... You’re not…angry?”

“Oh, sunshine,” Rumplestiltskin whispered. Cradling August’s head in both, he leaned back so he could look him in the face, taking him in. This strange, unexpected man had given him the one thing he had been seeking for what felt like thousands of years. How could he ever fault him for that? He let out a shuddering sigh. “Of course I’m not angry with you.”

Far from it. His euphoria was overpowering. He’d prepared for a long trip, ready to search the entire world for Baelfire, but now he knew exactly where to look. Baelfire was in New York. He was a plane ride away. He was mere hours away; the timeline shrunk so much it was damn nearly incomprehensible. August had given him an address - an address! - and August couldn’t lie. He was a gift. He was a brilliant, intrusive, wonderful gift and Rumple loved him.

“I’m not angry,” he said again, seeing the uncertainty in August’s expression.

“But… I wasn’t honest.”

“No, no, you weren’t.” It did nothing to lessen the bliss that he felt to his very core. He could see Baelfire again. His boy. His sweet child. The wheel of fate was finally turning in his favor. Surely this was a form of good karma. He’d welcomed the imposter son, and the imposter son had brought him the real one. He pulled him close and held him until August lowered his forehead onto Rumple’s shoulder.

“I thought…”

“Thought what?” Rumple chuckled, not unkindly. “That I’d disown you for guiding me to the person I’ve been searching for?”

"I'm not sure I have. He doesn't want to see you. He's angry with you."

Rumplestiltskin pulled back. “You’ve spoken with him. How? When?"

"I -"

"Tell me!"

"I... went looking for him... when I was alone. I, uh... I wanted... a friend."

"And you found him."

August's blue, blue eyes look into his, his mouth opening. "You were cursed," he said. "You couldn't have looked. And - and the moment you remembered him, you made him a room here. You started preparing to get him back. You're not the man he thinks you are. You've changed."

"Do you really believe that?" He knew he did. He had the evidence right in front of him. But the question slipped out anyway, breathy and uncertain.

Lip curling, August tapped his nose. "You only need to believe to change. But... He is angry with you. He won't believe it."

Rumple nodded slowly. "I know, but he will. I will make it up to him." Right then, it didn't matter how. "What's he like?"

“I came to him on the one of the worst days of my life and even though he didn’t like me, and he didn’t want me there, he opened his door and let me stay. He's funny. He likes drawing, but good luck getting him to show you any of his work. He loves music. He plays guitar.”

“Good,” Rumplestiltskin breathed.

When Bae was six, he'd aspired to be a musician. Rumplestiltskin had no money to buy him an instrument, nor much luck bartering for one. But he knew how to weave. He spun three yarns, each a different strength, and roped them between two fallen branches to make a sort of miniature clarsach. Bae had loved it. He took it into town and played in the streets and asked for money. The village folk thought him charming – thoughtful, even – until the local butcher suggested that Bae had to beg because his lame father hadn’t the means to provide for him. When Rumplestiltskin heard the rumor, he ordered Bae to only play in the privacy of their home and Bae, not wanting to see his dear papa distraught, readily agreed and played every evening until the strings of the clarsach snapped. By that time, Rumplestiltskin had become the Dark One and so had conjured Bae a real clarsach from magic. Bae refused to play it.

“He’s a good man,” August concludes with a warm smile.

“I knew he would be.”

It was incredible. August, of all people, had led him to –

Rumplestiltskin inhaled sharply.

“Mr. Gold?”

He staggered backwards. It couldn’t be August. August was a man, not a boy, and a wooden one at that.

“Something’s wrong. What is it?” August moved closer.

Rumplestiltskin held up his hands. “I – I need time. To think about this.”

August’s face mirrored Rumple’s own efforts to appear detached. “...Okay.”

Rumplestiltskin fled. He drove to his shop, where he sat at his wheel and span straw into thicker, braided pieces of straw. Pieces that frayed at the edges and snapped when he yanked at them. He watched the wheel spin, and spin, and spin, until his eyes lost focus and the wheel became a hazy shape. He was looking through the spokes, at the shelves, which were stocked with bric-à-brac. One item in particular became a focal point. It was a wooden swan. Barely bigger than a baseball. The wheel squeaked as Rumplestiltskin halted its rotation. Rising, he slowly approached the shelf and picked up the wooden swan, turning it over in his hands. It had been shabbily carved by inexperienced hands. A child’s hands, in fact, belonging to a boy in a red bycocket who’d come to see the Dark One in his cell.

Shaking his head, Rumplestiltskin placed the swan back on the shelf and returned to the wheel. That was where Belle found him. Where the reality of it all truly settled in.

He was happy. So utterly, impossibly happy.

But all things come with a price. There was no forgetting that.

___

Rumplestiltskin is more nervous on the flight home than he was on the way out. He waves dismissively to a flight attendant offering him food and drink. As the attendant moves along, he looks over his shoulder to the aisle two rows behind, on his right, where Emma, Henry, and Bae sit. Henry sleeps with his cheek on Bae’s thigh, and Emma's fingers are in his hair. Bae sits next to Henry, with a look Rumple knows too well. The instant, undeniable love between father and son.

He still remembers the first time he laid eyes on Baelfire. He was a small, warm bairn with bright brown eyes. When Rumple had held him, he'd stretched a tiny hand to touch his nose. He knew who his papa was.

Bae glances up and spots him – and quickly looks away, rolling his shoulders.

Rumplestiltskin faces forward once more. He wants to tear through the plane and all its passengers. His fury is stoking inside, a wildfire threatening to engulf him. The prophecy has come true, yet he has no clarity.

You could kill them both. The thought intrudes like hailstone. Nausea swamps him so abruptly that he gasps. Unbuckling the safety belt, he shoves himself to feet and ambles down the aisle to the toilet. He catches Bae's eye as he passes and heat rises to his cheeks, awash with shame. He locks himself inside the cabin and waits. He doesn't vomit, thank goodness, but the nausea gives way to disgust and fear as strong as a tide, swaying him. He settles down on the toilet lid and holds his hand against the door - not to stop anyone coming in, but to stop himself from leaving, as if remaining here might spare him. Spare his life. Spare him this choice. Either way, it's impossible. He's terrified of death, but Henry and August are family.

Incorrect, singsongs the dark thoughts in his head. Only one is your flesh and blood.

That doesn't make him the correct one, he answers. True, August is a man, but they’d met when he was a boy. Age means nothing. The Seer had told him that his actions on the battlefield would make his son fatherless, and it had taken fourteen years for that prophecy to come to fruition. It’s as if she is playing tricks on him even now. Withholding those pesky details. 

'This boy will be your undoing.'

Yes, yes, yes. But which one?

A knock on the cabin door makes him jolt. "You okay in there?" It's Bae.

"I'll be out in a moment." He washes his face in the basin and exits.

Bae wrinkles his brow at him. "You sure you're okay?" Rumple nods, grateful. "Listen, I... I don't want you to get the wrong idea about this. I'm only on this plane to make sure Henry gets home safely. That's it. I'll stay a week and then I'm going back to New York."

"Henry will be disappointed."

Bae scowls. "I'm not exiting his life, asshole, but I'm not staying in a town full of magic either. Henry wants me in his life, he's got me. Emma... Well, Emma can choose how much contact she has with me or not. I just wanted to make it clear before you get any ideas." He begins walking away.

"Bae."

"It's Neal."

"Neal," amends Rumple. "It's not what you think."

"You keep sayin' that but I've yet to see any evidence to the contrary."

"Then allow me to prove it. A character witness, if you like."

Neal scoffs.

"Come with me to my home. I'll show you."

"And how do I know this isn't some trick? Hmm? How do I know the minute I walk into your house you won't cast some spell on me, make me forget who I am or - or turn me 14 again or some crap like that?"

"Bae," Rumple says, horrified.

"Neal."

Rumple holds up a hand. 

"More to the point," continues Neal. "Why should I give a damn what this 'character witness' has to say? I know you better than anyone. I've seen first-hand how evil you can be."

"For one thing, you already know him. August Booth."

At this, Neal twitches. His face flattens to neutrality, though to say he's reassured would be a gross inaccuracy. His expression is not one Rumplestiltskin had predicted. His dark eyes are filled with storm clouds. He presses his lips tighter together. His lips part, about to speak...

A flight attendant interrupts. "Excuse me, sirs, but if you're not waiting to use the restroom, could you please return to your seats?"

Rumplestiltskin, ever the coward, takes the opportunity to flee.

___

Later, much later, Rumplestiltskin is back in the comfort of his own vehicle, in his control, and is driving Neal, Emma, and Henry toward Storybrooke. Henry's endless tirade of questions for his father has thus far spared Rumplestiltskin from answering the questions from his own son, but soon Henry drifts to sleep, and the car ride is far from over. 

"What does this have to do with August?" Neal asks lowly after a few minutes.

Emma, who is sat in the front passenger seat, mutters. "I'm still trying to figure that one out myself."

Neal leans through the gap between the seats, wringing his hands. "Listen, about what happened..."

"I'm not talking about that. At least I hope not. God, if I'm over earth-shattering, cosmic coincidences already." Her stare points towards Rumplestiltskin. "You need to tell him."

"Tell me what?"

"As if you're one to talk," Rumplestiltskin huffs. It's becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the road. "Telling your own son that his father is dead."

Emma sucks in her cheeks. "Neal, how well do you know August?"

"Not...well. Why? Is he okay?"

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Well, he's not exactly... himself anymore."

"What? What are -"

"He's a man who can't lie," Rumplestiltskin interrupts. "Which, right now, is all that matters."

"Holy shit." Neal bares his teeth. "Are you blackmailing him? Is that what this is?"

Rumplestiltskin sighs through his nose. He steers the car down the road that will bring them closer to his home. His palms are sweaty.

Emma is watching him closely. "You seem to care about him."

"I do care about him." Unless he's the boy the prophecy spoke of, cackles the Dark One's voice in his head, which means we have to kill him. Rumplestiltskin tightens his grip on the steering wheel. No!

"How do you even know him?" Neal demands.

"Because he came to me. Posing as you."

"What?"

Even Emma looks stunned at that.

"His life was in danger. You, Miss Swan, refusing to believe in what was patently in front of you, pushed him right into my hands. I suppose I should thank you."

"We both know it's more complicated than that. August asked me to believe in you, so I will, and I know you care about him - only now I'm starting to question what exactly that entails."

Neal flops back in his seat in exasperation. The motion shudders the car and Henry rouses.

"Hmm?" He moans. "What's going on? Are we there yet?"

"Almost," replies Emma kindly. She checks the time on the dashboard. "It's been six hours. Take your meds, okay? We'll be there soon."

___

Turning the car into the driveway of his mansion is like coming to a cliff's edge. The moment the car is stopped, Neal gets out and moves towards the house. Rumplestiltskin quickly follows. Neal tries opening the door. It's locked. Belle must have gone out. How far she's come. Rumplestiltskin takes his house key from his coat pocket as Emma and Henry slide out of the car.

"August!" Neal shouts, pounding his fist on the door.

"Wait," Henry says, bewildered. "August is here?"

"Yeah." Emma sounds exhausted. "He's here."

"You knew? Why didn't you tell me?"

"There wasn't a whole lot of time to explain, kiddo."

"No. No, you lied again." Henry marches away from her.

"Henry!"

Rumplestiltskin catches up to Neal on the doorstep. Slides the key into the lock. He holds it there. "You'll understand," he whispers. "Just... have an open mind. Please."

Neal scoffs.

Behind them, Emma catches Henry's arm, preventing him from following them up the porch steps. "We're staying out of this one. Trust me."

"But I want to see August!"

"I don't think August wants anyone to see him."

As they bicker, Rumplestiltskin opens the door and follows closely behind Neal as he sweeps inside, calling out August's name. Closing the door behind them, Rumple tries to take hold of Neal's arm, slow him down, knowing that August is terrified of anyone seeing him. More importantly, he has to explain. He has to make Neal see what he's built for him here. Neal must believe he's changed.

"Neal?" August is not hiding. He's in the kitchen and emerges as they enter. "You... You came. You came to Storybrooke!"

Neal gapes at him. "What the hell..."

August wilts, looking at himself. He'd forgotten. He hadn't been hiding because he'd gotten comfortable.

"I thought breaking the curse would stop this."

"Didn't work out," he murmurs.

"You look like you walked out of a Halloween shop."

"...Thanks."

"Seriously, you look like something the Blair Witch cooked up."

August drops his gaze. "Can you - not?"

"Nope. Come here, jerk.” Neal breaks out of Rumple's grip and strides to August, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. August jolts. Rumplestiltskin sighs with relief. This is what he wants. A family. Neal pulls back, looking at August's face. "You're alright, aren't you? You're not, I dunno, hurt or whatever."

"I'm...fine," August mumbles, puzzled.

"Good. Now you can tell me what the hell is going on. You posed as me? Are you insane?"

"I -"

"Didn't you listen to a damn word I said about my father?"

"Of course I did."

"Yeah, of course you did, and you used it! Got yourself in trouble." Neal turns sharply to Rumplestiltskin, and Rumple can only give him a helpless look in response to the ferocity of his glare. "You got yourself indebted to him."

“Neal. It’s okay.”

“Let me handle this, man. Because once I'm done here, I've got a ton of questions for you, starting with Henry."

"Do you really believe me capable of so much harm?" Rumple asks, feeling as if he'd been hit in the chest.

"No. You're capable of more."

The heartache expands - the wildfire spreading through his lungs, along his ribs and across his shoulders - and then, like rain, August speaks. "He's not. He's really not. Hear him out."

Neal looks at August for a long time. His eyes grow wider. He backs away from both of them, backing into the lounge. He doesn't take his eyes off August. "...You told him where I was. You son of a bitch. After everything you put me through...." His voice breaks, "I was worried about you, man!"

"I wanted to fix things."

"By telling the one person I didn't want to see where I was!"

"You need him!" shouts August.

Neal shouts back. "I spent my life trying to get away from him! I told you I didn’t need him!"

"Yes, you do! You think I couldn't tell you were lying? I know lying! You needed your papa," August’s voice breaks when he says it angain, and Rumple loves him all the more. "And he needs you too. He... He's not like how you described. He's kind. He cares so much about you. You could do anything, and he would love you just the same."

"Oh yeah and how would you know that?”

August closes his mouth.

Neal narrows his eyes. He looks at Rumplestiltskin and back at August.

Ah. Now this, this, requires delicacy. Rumple shuffles forward. “Bae, listen to me.”

“No. No, no, no. Are you kidding me? Let me get this straight. You made me leave the woman I love and then you moved in with my dad.”

Rumplestiltskin’s eyebrows went up. August confirms it true by glancing guiltily away. Oh. Oh, of course. August had needed Emma to break the curse. He’d followed her to his world, traced her every step through life, changed what he needed to bring her to Storybrooke. What careful, tactical, genius planning. At any other time, Rumplestiltskin might have been proud.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen…” begins August.

“Bullshit!” Neal snaps, “You might not have strings, but you sure as hell love to pull everyone else’s.” He stops short. Snorts. “You know what? Now I get it. You two are honestly perfect for each other. I hope you’ll have a long happy life, for real.” Neal turns towards the front door.

No. No. This is all wrong. “Bae, wait.”

“Neal, I’m sorry!”

Bae whirls around. He jabs a finger at them both. “No! You don’t get to be sorry! Neither of you get to…” He trails off, glancing between them. Rumplestiltskin can barely stand. Bae is looking at the both of them, but he isn’t seeing what Rumplestiltskin wished he would. He isn’t seeing a family. He’s seeing a man who’s moved on. And Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, desperately trying to make him see, and unable to think of the right words. All he can say is his son’s name, softly, pleadingly, like he’s done so many times.

Perhaps too many because Bae doesn’t seem to hear him. He jams his trembling fists into his pockets. “You know, for a moment – let’s call it two months, eight years ago. Remember? There was a moment there when I actually thought…” He sighs and shakes his head. “You’re a piece of shit, August. Always have been. Always will be.”

August says nothing.

Bae is leaving. He’s moving towards the door, still shaking, and Rumple rushes after him.

“It isn’t what you think!”

“Isn’t what I think? Are you telling me that you didn’t replace me with Pinocchio?!”

"Of course not!" Rumplestiltskin reaches but Bae steps back. "I could never replace you. Nobody – nothing – could replace you. Not August. Not magic. Not power. I missed you more than you can ever know. August was… a part of that. I needed him because I needed you, don't you see? He proves that I’ve changed."

“You actually believe that don’t you?” He says nothing more. He pulls open the front door. Emma is sitting on the kerb next to Henry and they turn at the sound.

"Dad?" says Henry, concerned.

Rumple catches Bae by the arm. "You're what matters to me! Tell me what you want. I'll - I'll do anything."

Bae won't look at him. He pulls out of his grip and Rumplestiltskin is losing him all over again, watching him fall away, and he scrambles for the right words to stop it.

"If - If you don't like August, he-he doesn’t have to be here!"

Bae's jaw drops. "Do you even hear yourself right now? You haven't changed at all. Still trying to use magic, still throwing away whatever, whoever, threatens what you want."

"You're right. I - I didn't mean that. I can change. I have changed. I swear I have.”

Behind him, there's footsteps. And then August is shoving past them, out of the door. Within moments, he is down the doorsteps and crossing the garden path to where his motorbike is parked.

"Whoa!" Henry shouts at the sight of him.

August doesn't look back.

Emma pushes to her feet. "August?" Her voice is enough to make August freeze long enough for Emma to reach him and Rumplestiltskin – fool – slows down and focuses on Bae - on Neal - because he fully believes that August won't leave so long as Miss Swan is here. “What are you – Come on. Let me get you out of here.” Emma goes to place her hand on August’s back.

“I can’t.” August smiles ruefully. “I won’t break my promise to you. I just can’t be here anymore.”

He gets on the bike and starts up the engine.

“Wait a second,” says Emma.

“August!” shouts Rumplestiltskin. Neal is continuing his own exit. “Bae, wait!”

Emma steps back as August steers off the driveway and rides down the road. He veers around the street corner and is gone from sight. Emma whirls around. "What the hell happened? Neal?”

Neal shouts, “Screw him!”

"I'm going after him,” says Emma. “If we take the car, we can catch up to him. Gold?"

"I'll drive." Rumplestiltskin turns sharply and marches to his car parked on the driveway. He opens his car door and gets in. Neal groans, clawing at his hair before following. Emma slides into the passenger seat, and Neal and Henry get in the back. As Rumplestiltskin starts the engine, he hears a ringing tone and sees that Emma has her phone to her ear. The hardened look in her eyes could only mean trouble. He swallows the lump in his throat. "Who are you calling?"

“The one person who might be able to get through to him."

"And who might that be?"

"His father."

Chapter Text

For Marco, time didn't start moving when Emma Swan first arrived in Storybrooke. His days spun in the same, monotonous way for weeks following. Oh, he noticed the strange occurrences and the exciting but unfortunate incidents his friends kept finding themselves in, but by and large he felt the same as he had always. His life, fixing one broken thing after another, hadn't changed at all.

One day a stranger arrived. He showed up at Marco's workshop late one evening. He padded silently in front of the entrance as Marco bent over a clock that refused to work. Marco noticed him immediately, though kept his eyes on his work, cautious of engaging with him. The stranger might tilt his head like a curious passerotto, but that did not mean he was as innocent as one.

Rather he seemed to be the sheriff's opposite. She was a bold entrance, a red leather jacket in a bright yellow car. He was a stealthy shadow, dressed in dark clothing and appearing overnight without announcement. Marco had spotted him on his motorcycle zipping here and there, and though he had lived in Storybrooke for years, where there are no rowdy teenagers or twenty-year-olds who enjoy damaging what they don't own, there was a part of him cautious of people who dress in black and ride motorcycles. A justifiable prejudice, he thought. He's old and alone, and he'd fixed too many things in this town not to be suspicious of whoever - or whatever - kept breaking them.

When the stranger told him how to fix the clock, Marco was so pleasantly surprised that he couldn't help but ask, "Who taught you that?"

"My father," he replied, which warmed Marco's heart. What he wouldn't give to have a son, someone to impart wisdom to, and to go out into the world and impart that wisdom to foolish, lonely old men.

"He taught you well. He must be very proud."

As he reached for a cloth to wipe his hands, the man drawled, "Oh, I don't know about that." Marco looked at him, surprised at his sincerity, and even more surprised to see him shuffling his feet and holding his head downcast. "I don't think I became the man he wanted me to be."

Marco took this in, wiping his hands. "Well, have you tried to make it up to him?"

"I made him a promise..." confessed the man, taking a step into the workshop. His thumbs were in his pockets. "A long time ago. By the time I got around to making good on it, I think it was too late."

"But you kept your promise." Marco pointed out, setting the cloth aside and approaching. "You realized your mistake, and you tried to fix it." He spread his hands. "That's important. If I had a son, that would be enough for me."

The man unhunched his shoulders a little, his expression brighter, and Marco blinked as an odd feeling came over him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd connected with a stranger like this. It made him feel foolish. He hastily returned to his work bench. There was plenty to do, in this town that was always breaking, and he needed to finish what he could before the night encouraged him to sleep.

"You look like you might be shorthanded," observed the man politely.

"Hmm. I get by."

"How would you feel about... taking on an assistant?"

Surprised once again, Marco stared at the stranger. His head was down, ashamed for asking. As if he'd known the prejudices Marco had harboured. Oh, he'd done this man a disservice by judging him. This was an honest man. Marco smiled, grateful, and shook his head. "I can't pay you."

"That's okay," The stranger replied softly, "I just feel like fixing things."

Marco glanced at his cluttered worktable, back at the stranger, who was looking so very hopeful, like an earnest child asking to help their parent with chores. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of turning him down felt like a betrayal.

He held out his hand. The man was as still as a frightened woodland creature. Marco beckoned him. "Come in."

The man inched a little way in.

"Vienni, vienni." Marco said kindly, beckoning him again.

The man entered the workshop, ducking slightly under the door. Marco patted him on the back. He talked him through his commissions and showed him where the tools where, and asked the stranger what his experience was, if any.

The man answered in short, breathless murmurs of a workshop with his father and a toolkit he took with him everywhere. All the while, he gazed in wonder around Marco's meagre shop.

"Good. Good," said Marco. "That gives us somewhere to start."

"Ti sono grato," the man murmured, surprising Marco once more.

"You speak Italian?"

"Not as much as I used to," he admitted. "I also know..." And spoke in Thai, German, and other languages Marco didn't know by name.

"Come si chiama?"

The man stared at him, stricken. Perhaps his Italian was not as good as he thought.

Marco chuckled. "Your name. What is your name?"

The man swallowed. "August."

Though he sometimes felt otherwise, Marco was not naive. Hiring a man without so much as a character reference invited disaster. Though he sensed that August is a good person, it didn't hurt to get a second opinion. After he spent the evening inducting August, he'd instructed him to come by the day after next. This gave him time to go about town and make enquiries. He began at Granny's Bed and Breakfast. Who better to ask than the man's host?

Ms Lucas, wiping down the counter in the diner side of her establishment, gave an empathic shrug. "Well, he checked out about a month ago. Seemed pretty friendly. Offered to repair a few loose door handles for free while he was here, and I said that's fine by me. Come to think of it, they're in better condition now than when they were first put in!"

"Are you talking about August?" Ruby stopped at the counter to refill the coffee pot. "Have you heard from him? I haven't seen him in a while."

"Marco here was just asking about him," explained Ms Lucas.

"He's offered to be my assistant," Marco added.

Ruby's eyes lit up. "That's great! I was worried he'd left town without saying goodbye. He travels a lot. Did you know he spent a whole year without a roof over his head? Isn't that amazing? I'd love to do that."

Ms Lucas grumbled with disapproval, and Ruby's expression went flat. Marco hastened to quell whatever tension was building. The whole town knew how thunderous the arguments between these two women could be. "And what's he like? In your opinion?"

Ruby glanced at Ms Lucas. "Granny, can I take five? Please?"

Ms Lucas sighed softly but nodded. "Alright. But it's coming out of your break." She said this sternly, but an attractive, teasing smile was on her lips. She took the coffee pot from Ruby's hands and bustled around the counter to tend to the customers.

Adjusting her skirt, Ruby slid onto a barstool. "Do you remember when Kathryn Nolan disappeared?" She said conspiratorially. Marco, unsure whether to be amused or anxious, gave a tentative nod. "I was there when she... I found her in that alley. We all thought she was dead and when I saw her I - I was freaking out." She rubbed her arms. "I was so shaken up I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak, but then Emma and August arrived. August stayed with me while Emma was helping Kathryn. He... told me this story about a time he had coffee and cake with a Buddhist monk. Trying to distract me, I guess. It worked. He's a good guy."

Marco had never thought to value Ruby's opinion before. He couldn't help but think this was another young person he'd deeply, deeply misjudged.

"Sounds like somebody's got a crush!" Leroy, dressed in his janitor's uniform, elbowed his way past a couple leaving the diner and up to the counter where Ruby and Marco sat. "Is this about that tree who rides the motorbike? Bit of a scruff, ain't he?"

Ruby folded her arms. "Trust a guy to think that when a woman pays a man a compliment it means she has a crush on him. And you don't exactly clean up well yourself."

Marco tried to interject. "You know him too...?"

Leroy wasn't listening. "Haha. You're funny. 'Woman.' Aren't you, like, sixteen?"

"Nineteen."

Ruby's grandmother swept in like a hawk to a mouse. "As charming as that August fella is, he's too old for you. And your five minutes are up." She deposited the empty coffee pot into Ruby's lap and ushered her to her feet.

Leroy slapped a note on the counter. "Can I get some service here?"

"Sure thing," Ms Lucas manoeuvred behind the counter. "What can I get you?"

"Two of those little heart-shaped cakes."

"Uh, excuse me..." Marco began.

"Heart-shaped cakes, huh?" Ruby teased as she sailed past them to top up a customer's coffee. The other patrons were watching with amusement, some with annoyance.

Leroy snapped at her from over his shoulder. "Ain't nothing wrong with it!"

"Mmm-hmm."

Ms Lucas smirked. "Now, now. I'm sure this has nothing to do with that brunette from the convent."

"Mr Leroy..." Marco tried again, just as Ruby came sailing past them in the opposite direction.

"She is really pretty!" she sang.

"Paws off!"

"Aw, sounds like someone has a crush!"

"She's a nun, you realise that?" Ms Lucas looked at Leroy with a mix of pity and amusement. "She's not exactly available."

"Oh, spare me! I've already gotten this lecture from Mary-Margaret. I don't need it from you."

Ms Lucas raised her hands, conceding. Ruby, with a sympathising wince, returned to waitressing. Ms Lucas wrapped Leroy's cakes. In the merciful pause, Marco spoke again. "May I ask your opinion on August?"

Leroy finally looked at him. He arched an eyebrow. "Sunny enough, not a lot of rain. Good time for sailing, I reckon." He grabbed the paper-wrapped cakes from Ms Lucas and began to stand.

"No. The man with the motorcycle."

"What about him?"

"You said you knew him."

Leroy scoffed. "No, I didn't. I once caught him snooping around the convent though. The creeper."

Ruby put her hand on her hip. "And like you don't do that?"

"I'm outta here." The force of Leroy's exit slapped the bell above the door so hard it hit the ceiling.

"What a grouch," Ruby muttered.

Marco let out a long exhale.

Of all places, why did it have to be the covent?

The thought of asking… her. It made his stomach turn.

No. He refused to go just yet. He would put it off as long as possible, so help him!

Thanking Ms Lucas and Ruby, he went on his way.

He went to Archie next because he valued his opinion most of all. Unfortunately Archie didn't know August and hadn't an opinion to offer, except that he was please Marco was letting someone help him for a change.

On the way to the sheriff's station, he passed Mayor Mills who snapped that she was 'too busy for town gossip.'

He wanted to ask Sheriff Swan for her opinion but found out upon arriving at the station that she had left town.

Which left only one person to ask.

Her.

The convent was one of the oldest buildings in Storybrooke. As Marco crossed the grassy field toward it, he admired the natural stone walls at its foundation, the deep green columns supporting the balcony, and the salmon panelling. He thumbed off his cap as he passed a statue of the Virgin Mary, nodding to her, and delicately ascended the stone steps.

A line of nuns trotted past him as he entered the building. As he turned down the corridor that led to the chapel, he heard glass shattering – and a sharp, startled gasp. He headed toward the sound and found Mother Superior in the narthex, talking quietly but sternly to one of the nuns. "You need to be more careful, Astrid!"

Astrid was on her knees, picking up the broken pieces of a deceased vase. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

As Mother Superior noticed him, Marco began thumbing his cap nervously. He always got an odd feeling whenever he was around her, as if she were the mother of his child, though he didn't love her or feel any attraction to her whatsoever. His pull to her was a strange sense of gratitude, obligation, and caution. Some days he looked at it more favourably than others; she was either the mother of his child or they were two complicit parties in a forgotten crime. 

"Good evening, Marco." She gazed neutrally back at him, a well-trained expression. Marco knew that his misgivings were not unrequited. "It’s nearly Vespers. Have you come to join the service?"

He’d forgotten about Vespers.

“Oh, pardon me. I should have come at a different time.”

"It's alright. What do you need?"

Marco dropped his chin. He couldn’t help but wonder: Was she as confused by their mutual discomfort as he?

Nothing had ever happened between them, and yet there were days she looked at him as if he were a sinner, others when she looked at him with pity. He wasn't sure which he preferred.

“I only come seeking advice. I won't take up too much of your time." He held up a hand, though noticed he looked as if he were trying to ward off an evil spirit and hastily lowered it.

“Come.” She gestured with her palm. Together they walked through the nave.

The chapel was a masterwork of architecture. Sunlight shone purple through the large stained-glass window above the chancel. Paintings and statues filled every space the walls had to provide. Marco loved old buildings. He loved to sit inside them and feel the influence of artists of old.

But he did not like it here. 

"I was told that a man, who I am thinking of hiring, has been here. I thought perhaps you’d met. His name is August."

Mother Superior blinked. "How odd. You're the second person to enquire after August. The Lord does work in mysterious ways.” She frowns at him. “You want to hire this young man? I must warn you, he seems troubled. A good man, but troubled.”

"I sense that also," he agreed. They came to the front pew. A Sister passed them carrying a bible, which she set down on the altar. Marco’s knees were sore, but he didn’t sit. "Should I turn him away?"

"No, I wouldn't suggest that. I don't believe August's troubles rest entirely with him. To tell you the truth, he sought me out. He was seeking guidance about a personal matter. He... has a family member in town he's struggling to reconcile with."

"His father. He mentioned him. Their relationship sounds difficult." He looked up at a stained glass window depicting baby Jesus in his mother’s arms. “It is a terrible shame.”

“God has a plan for you, Marco.”

Marco hummed. Perhaps this was why he didn’t like to come here. "Well. August may be troubled, but no man deserves to be alone."

“Then there’s something you should know.”

With a conflicted twitch in her eyes, she  sat down and invited him to do the same.

This time, he did. It would be impolite not to.

"I shouldn't speak of this but... Oh, Lord forgive me, I can't keep this from you in good conscience. After I met August, I was confronted by Mr. Gold. He threatened to double our rent if I didn't tell him what August and I spoke of. I didn’t see why it should concern him, but... the look on his face. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together."

"August's father… is Mr. Gold? Oh, dio santo."

They do look like each other, he supposed. They both have brown hair, though August is taller. And Marco had seen them walking together in town, talking softly as if they had secrets they kept from the rest of the world. 

"If it eases your worries, I don't think August is like his father. Perhaps a job would help him." She glanced over her shoulder at Astrid with soft eyes. The young nun had finished sweeping up broken pieces of earthenware and one of her Sisters was helping her tip them into a plastic bag. "We must have patience with others. Everyone has burdens to carry, and burdens are only relieved when people can rely on someone who won't forsake them. Still…" She faced him. "I wouldn't want Mr. Gold to target you."

"I am not intimidated by Mr. Gold."

Mother Superior smiled knowingly. Yes, Marco was very much intimidated by Mr. Gold, as were most people in Storybrooke. It was hard not to be intimidated by the man who kept the roof over his head for an extortionate amount.

"August came to me of his own volition," he added. "If he honestly wants to work, I can't turn him away. Thank you… for your advice." He rose to his feet.

“You are welcome to stay for the service.” She was eyeing him thoughtfully. “I suspect you need it.”

So today I am the sinner. Marco let out a quiet huff. "I am not religious."

And there was no point in praying for forgiveness when he couldn't recall what sin he had committed.

August Gold, he thought as he walked home.

It felt…incorrect.

It was like the sound of a dull saw getting stuck in wood; the way it glides in and catches and needs help coming out.

But perhaps he was wrong.

Perhaps it was like a smooth glide of varnish or a touch-up of paint, something that was not always wanted but just made sense. August Gold.

That was probably how it sounded to everyone but Marco, who could only think of how terribly unfair it was that men like Mr. Gold sire children while he had no one at all.

Marco stood in front of his calendar. With a grumbling sigh, he noted the clutter on his worktable and nudged the pencil from behind his ear and crossed out ‘Lunch with Archie, 12:30.’

August looked up from where he was sanding down a rocking horse that a mother had commissioned for her youngest child. “You have plans?”

“Not anymore,” grumbled Marco. ‘Lunch with Archie’ was a regular slot in his bi-weekly calendar – a regular slot he too often had to cancel. Every two weeks, Marco battled against time, fighting his way through his workload to free a precious hour for a bite to eat and a friendly face.

Of course, that was only if Archie himself was free, and he so often had to juggle his own appointments. If Marco were a superstitious man, he would have believed that there was something conspiring to keep them from spending time together.

August stopped sanding and approached. “With Archie,” he murmured, reading the calendar over the top of Marco’s head.

“An old friend.”

“You should go. I can handle the shop.”

“I don’t know…”

“I know my way around.”

Marco studied him.

“I can do it.” His eyes were bright and earnest.

“Alright.” Marco smiled. “Thank you, my boy.”

August’s eyes shone with something close to tears. “No problem.”

“You seem distracted,” Archie pointed out when, for the third time, Marco had stopped eating. Archie had pushed their lunch later, on account of a needy client and Granny’s Diner had cleared of the usual bustle. It seemed the calm was listening in.

"I'm having trouble with my assistant.”

"I thought we kept work away from lunch," Archie teased. It was a rule they rarely followed.

"This is not about work," Marco said nonsensically. He was thinking about the unshed tears in August’s eyes. "This is a more personal matter.”

Archie cut into a slice of cheesecake with his fork. “Okay. So, your assistant. I remember you asking me about him before. August, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you went ahead with hiring him and now you have reservations?”

“No. August is… wonderful. He’s wonderful.” Marco shifted in his chair. “He’s too wonderful.”

“In what way?”

“He comes before I open the shop. He stays after I close the doors. He knows what tool I need before I ask. He knows exactly how I like my workshop arranged.”

“He sounds like a good employee.”

“No, it’s… Listen here. He made me coffee. With brandy.”

Archie snorted.

Marco leant forward. “Not even Ms Lucas has made me Caffè corretto. He. Did. It. Perfectly. Better than perfect. Corretto!”

“He does sound wonderful!”

Archie was missing the point. Marco lowered his voice. “He lit me a candle.”

“What?”

“All my life, for as long as I remember, I have lit a candle and kept it in a lantern by my bed – to chase shadows away. Because... because I am petrified of the dark. I have told no one this.” He jabbed a finger at Archie. “And you mustn’t either! August lit me a candle. How could he have known?”

“Or maybe..." Archie held up a palm. "...he was just lighting a candle. It’s not unreasonable to assume that he’s observing your behaviour. You’ve worked alone for a long time; you might be showing more than you realise. It could be that he simply wants to be a good assistant.”

“Pah!”

“What's making you uneasy?”

Marco squashed the crumbs on his plate with his thumb.

"Do you think, maybe, that you've been doing things on your own for so long that having someone else around is overwhelming?"

For certain, it was overwhelming. He felt as if he were pinned under a light, and someone were chiselling into him. "He is Mr. Gold's son."

"...Ah. That adds a little perspective."

He didn't look as shocked as Marco thought he would. "You know something."

"I was aware Mr. Gold had a son." He worried his lips. "And... does August seem... level-headed?"

"That's a strange thing to ask."

"Well, I... In the interest of your safety... Mr. Gold implied... Mr. Gold said that he believed his son came to Storybrooke to... to kill him. Of course he could have been exaggerating."

"They have a difficult relationship. I confess, August has not spoken at length about him. I merely...inferred from the evidence."

“What made you decide to hire him?”

"I felt like he ought to be there. It felt right.” He opened out his hands. “Take you and I, for example. We're an odd pair, no? And yet here we are. To me, this feels right. Like instinct. With August, it was... similar."

"Similar. But not the same."

He was granted a moment of reprieve when Ruby came to collect their empty plates and ask if they wanted anything else. Archie ordered another drink, extending the conversation. Marco offered Ruby an acknowledging smile and waited for her to tend to her next customer before continuing. “I feel... pride toward him. As if I... I've had some influence on him."

"As his employer, you've surely had an influence on him."

"No, no. I... I am proud simply at the sight of him. As if I..."

He couldn't bring himself to say as if August were his own son. That wouldn't be ethical. Nevertheless, it was true. He felt as if August were a painting he'd made, as if his very existence was born out of a creative endeavour. 

“He is Mr. Gold’s son,” he repeated bitterly.

Archie was clever enough to grasp what he was grappling with. His face was a picture of caution. "Have you met before?"

"I don't believe so. I know it is silly. I know I'm a silly, foolish old man, but... I can sense he feels something similar. I see it in his face. He has a great deal of respect for me, though God knows what I've done to earn it."

It wasn't just respect. August oozed pain and adoration from every pore. Marco might even call it love. It was alarming. It was heart-warming. Silly, foolish old man indeed.

"Men who lack father figures often find them elsewhere,” said Archie.

“How do I proceed?”

"Talk to him. Ask him what he wants to get out of being your assistant, how best you can support, but make sure you keep a professional boundary. He's your employee after all. You’d make an excellent mentor.”

The word felt misshapen.

Marco also had an urge to introduce Archie and August to each other, though he wasn't sure how to explain this to either of them.

He kept this to himself. He didn’t want Archie to worry more. 

It was a hot afternoon when Marco saw Mr. Gold lingering on the sidewalk facing the workshop.

“Is that your father over there?" he asked August innocently.

August’s wide-eyed expression was enough to confirm it, even if he hadn’t rushed to pretend otherwise. Of course he wouldn’t want anyone to know the truth!

“What makes you say that?”

Marco chuckled, not unkindly. "I've seen you together. It's as plain as the nose on your face."

August’s mouth opened and shut.

“I don’t judge a man by the actions of his father,” Marco added, a touch firm, though that didn’t seem to ease August’s worries. He gestured to the doll’s house they were working on. “Especially not a hardworking, honest man.”

August’s cheeks turned red. They resumed working in silence.

Poor passerotto, thought Marco, so full of shame. If he were braver, he would have words with Mr. Gold. August deserved better than a father that made him feel such terrible things.

One day, August stopped coming to the workshop.

The next, the Dark Curse broke, and Marco remembered it all.

He remembered why he was afraid of the dark.

He remembered the crime he'd committed.

He remembered his son.

Walking into the streets, Marco - or Geppetto, as he knew himself to be now – was hardly able to focus on one thing. This town, whose wounds he’d tended to, appeared entirely different. He was first noticing the alienness of it. Townsfolk were in the streets, faces he recognised from the castle in the Enchanted Forest. People embraced, others rushed about, searching.

He walked, turned in circles, and walked more. A couple of school children ran past him.

“Pinocchio?” He called out. “Pinocchio!” He stopped an embracing couple. “Have you seen my boy?” They shook their heads. He walked on.

A lot of things happened then, in a rush. Marco got swept up in an angry mob. Doctor Whale was calling for the Evil Queen’s head, and he was inclined to agree. On the doorstep of the mayor’s house the mob was quelled by Emma and their Highnesses, who soon dispensed with the Evil Queen by manner of handcuffs. Marco was at the back of the crowd, which parted as the Royals came through to escort Regina away, and Marco shrunk as far back as he was able, terrified of meeting the eyes of Snow White, her prince, and their adult daughter, whom he’d betrayed. There was jealousy in him too for they’d had their reunion and he had not, though under scrutiny it gave way to a greater shame. He deserved it, did he not?

As the crowd dispersed, Marco stumbled back towards the main road, unsatisfied and longing and rageful.

"Geppetto?" came a voice behind him.

Marco turned. Archie. Or rather… "Jiminy."

Jiminy was grinning ear-to-ear. He stepped toward Marco. Marco stepped back, unable to stop himself.

He hadn't seen Jiminy's true face since the night he lost his parents. The memory was as cold and merciless as a crashing tide. He'd gone to the well to fetch more water because he'd heard voices and assumed his parents had guests. When he'd come back...

He looked at Jiminy's face, into his uncertain eyes, and made himself take a step forward and pull him into his arms like he would have had the curse not broken.

"Hello again, old friend."

Jiminy hugged him back, as tense as a coiled spring.

Marco looked at his face again. His parents' absence had left scorches. When he'd grown from a curious lad to a young man who preferred his own company, Jiminy had returned to him in the form of a cricket. Though a friendship eventually formed, the scorches remained. At the sight of Jiminy's human face, they burned hotter. Marco wanted to forget - he did not want to be Geppetto - though it was no longer possible. Perhaps that was the true Dark Curse.

"Archie," he decided. “I’ll call you Archie.”

Calling him that was easier.

It was ludicrous to pin a drawing of a child on the missing person notice board, but Marco did it anyway. 

When he'd been swallowed by the Dogfish, two years had gone by before he was reunited with Pinocchio. Of course, Pinocchio did not age. His wooden flesh was a darker hue, and he was scratched up, but he was still a child. Marco wondered that when he'd placed Pinocchio inside the wardrobe if a part of him believed that he would remain a boy 28 years later. Repeatedly, he reminded himself that it was no boy he was searching for. It was a man. A son he hadn't seen grow.

A man… who would be August’s age. August who knew every tool in the workshop, who knew how Marco liked to use them, who knew how to make Caffè corretto, and who knew that Marco couldn’t sleep without a lit candle because when he did he was terrified he was back in the belly of the Dogfish.

But if August was Pinocchio, he’d remember. Why stay with Mr Gold? Why not find him now? Unless…

Marco drew away from the missing person noticeboard and headed for Granny’s Diner. In front of the diner entrance, the Sisters of Saint Meissa had set up a community table. Archie was there, taking a list of new clients. His cliental had doubled within a day of the table being erected. Mother Superior was also at the table, writing names of missing loved ones, and offering kind words to those who lined up to speak with her. Marco approached her in haste, not caring for those queueing to speak with her.

“Mother Superior - Blue Fairy." He cleared his throat as the Blue Fairy turned to him. “I need to talk to you. Privately.”

Archie watched them, alert.

“I’ll be a moment.” Blue rose and followed Marco around the street corner.

"Is it possible Pinocchio could have still been affected by the curse despite...?" He gestured emphatically. “That his memory could be…”

"I don't believe so, though it’s hard to say."

"Have you seen August?"

"Not for months." Her eyes were widening now, doing the same reassessment of the facts that Marco had done. She smiled slightly. "I hope you find him. Good luck, Geppetto."

He asked all he could think to – Ruby, Ms Lucas, even Leroy – but no one had seen August.

In his home, he sat up waiting with a lit candle on the workshop table.

Waiting for a knock. A scuffle on the doorstep.

He waited until sleep took him.

August did not come.

Mr. Gold lived in a quiet end of town. On the outskirts, it was far from the high street shops and the general bustle. Out here, the houses had large, concealed gardens to match their large forms. It reminded Marco of a wealthy, pump woman wrapped in a fur scarf. He left his car a street away and walked to Mr. Gold’s house. As he walked, his heart fluttered madly in his chest.

What if he’d gotten it wrong? If August was Pinocchio, he would have come home, wouldn't he? In the least, he wouldn’t have stayed with the Dark One. And if August were here, what would he even say?

Are you all right? Are you coming back to the shop?

Are you my son?

He was nearing the house now. It was the grandest on the street and Marco did briefly wonder how Mr. Gold came to live in such comfort during a curse that was meant to make its victims miserable. August’s motorbike was on the driveway, emboldening him. He stepped up to the door and squinted at the patterned glass. He couldn't discern anything within, save for a dim haze. He steeled himself, raised his knuckles to knock - and paused when he discerned voices coming from the garden, just around the corner from where he stood. One of the voices belonged to a young woman's, pleasantly accented.

“I’m being silly, aren’t I?” she was saying.

“No. You’re not.”

That voice was unmistakable. It was August.

Heart hammering against his ribs, Marco carefully climbed down the front steps, keeping his eyes on his feet in case he tripped. He glanced up as a Cadillac Brougham pulled up on the drive and felt a chill run through him.

Mr. Gold got out of his car slowly, eyeing him as if he were a peculiar rat who had scurried into his path. "Can I help you?"

Marco wriggled his toes just to be sure his fear hadn't completely locked him still.

"I..." He choked.

Mr. Gold stalked towards him. What exactly had Marco done for Mr. Gold to regard him with such dislike? Maybe he should remove his cap, apologise for the intrusion, and humbly ask for what he came for. But Marco didn't. Because this was the Dark One and as much as Marco feared him, he did not respect him, and he would not act as if he did.

He raised his chin. "I came to speak with August."

"And what business do you have with my son?"

Suddenly Marco felt very foolish standing there. His cheeks warmed. His knees, which were locked before, buckled.

What business indeed did he have with Mr. Gold's son?

"He's my assistant. I haven't heard from him in days. I'm worried for him."

"He's perfectly well, though I suspect you won't see him again."

"I -"

"You can't honestly hold a man to commitments made under a curse, now can you? If August wanted to see you, I'm sure he would make his own arrangements." Each word was a splinter under his skin. Mr. Gold looked at him with a crocodile's smile. "He's where he belongs. I trust there's somewhere you belong, and you have no trouble getting back to it."

The dismissal was ice cold. Marco walked carefully past Mr. Gold and down the garden path toward the street.

"Oh, before you go..."

Marco jolted so violently at his voice that he nearly lost his balance. Mr. Gold grinned, showing a gold tooth. Regaining what remained of his crumbling composure, Marco faced him once more.

"Expect to find a package at your residence in the next few days. Something of yours I've finally found cause to return."

Marco blinked.

"Think of it as an incentive," continued Mr. Gold, which clarified nothing. "Or as a reminder of whose property you've trespassed on."

Eyes widening, Marco quickened his exit. As he hastened down the sidewalk, passing the tall hedgerow that surrounded Mr. Gold's mansion, he heard Mr. Gold's voice join the others in the garden, and laughter, and the teasing of a family in contentment.

The package arrived a day later. It had been left on his doorstep without a name or note. Marco spent a long time staring at it. It was not much larger than a shoebox. It had been tied closed with twine woven from straw. He toed it, half expecting it to explode.

Slowly bending on weak knees, he picked up the package in both hands and brought it to his workshop table. He proceeded to watch it a while longer. Perhaps something like that shroud of purple magic would leak out of it? Seconds ticked into minutes. Nothing happened. He fetched his whittling knife and cut the string. He slowly eased the lid off.

When he saw who was inside, he wept.

When Archie saw them, his mouth dropped open. He stared at them for a haunted second, and then at Marco, and went back and forth like that until Marco said, "A gift from Mr. Gold."

Archie closed his mouth with a click.

Marco hadn't known what to do, so he'd set them upright on the workshop table, with their backs resting against the doll's house he and August were meant to finish. To an outsider, they looked in place. Their oak-brown skin, scarred by the grain, and their painted eyes. It looked like he'd made them. He didn't know what else to do. It seemed cruel to keep them in a box, though having them on display was driving him to insanity. All he could do was sit and watch them, as if they might speak to him. So he'd called Archie.

"Why?" choked Archie.

"I trespassed on his property. I thought..." He locked his knuckles together and squeezed. "I made a mistake."

"Is there any way of... I mean, do you think they're still..."

"I do not know."

For a moment neither of them said anything. Slowly Archie reached his fingers toward the caricatures of his parents.

"Don't touch them." Marco snapped, and Archie flinched. Marco closed his eyes. "Just - I don't want them to be disturbed. If they are...awake... I want them to be able to see the sunlight."

With a turn of his head, Archie spotted where they had been placed; in a spot where a square of sunlight comes through in the mornings. He shifted his jaw. "Forgive me but... I don't understand why he gave them back to you."

"He is a trickster. He's mocking me."

"The only reason he has them is because of a deal he made with me. I can't imagine him returning them without some kind of exchange. Did you give something to..."

Marco got to his feet. "I've given him nothing!"

"Okay. Okay. Wh… What are you doing?”

Marco was pulling on his coat. “The Blue Fairy. She might be able to fix this.”

Archie was shaking his head. “I already asked, the night it happened. I wished so hard for what I’d done to be undone. She can’t.”

“Perhaps things have changed. Many things have changed.” He took his cap off the coat hook and slipped it onto his head. He picked up Archie’s umbrella and handed it to him. As they exited the house, Archie fell in step with him – almost as if he were still the cricket that used to perch on his shoulder.

The convent hadn’t changed much since the breaking of the curse. The fairies still lived there, though they had opened their doors to visitors at all hours, and townsfolk came and went more frequently. They found the Blue Fairy in the chapel, sat alone on the front pew. When Marco explained what had happened, she looked at him with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Geppetto, but Jiminy is right. Just as I told him all those years ago, I cannot bring back your parents."

"You're refusing to?"

"No. I cannot. It's simply not possible."

"But the magic..."

"There's no magic to undo this. There is no life inside those puppets. They perished that very night. I’m sorry."

Marco struggled to breathe. “No. No, no, no… There is new magic – the purple shroud hovering over the woods. We all saw it. You even confirmed it. You have power. You can do it.”

Blue rose to her feet so she could face him. She clasped her hands delicately in front of her. “Even if it were possible to bring them back,” she said slowly, “it seems magic isn’t quite the same in this world as in ours.”

“What do you mean?” said Archie.

“I cannot access it. It’s as if…it’s refusing to heed my call. I don’t know how Gold managed it, but it seems the magic is content with him.”

It also seemed the Blue Fairy had an excuse for everything. Marco huffed. “How convenient.”

Blue narrowed her eyes. “Do not let selfishness taint your kindness.”

“My selfishness?” Marco parroted.

Archie sucked in a breath. “Okay. Let’s...”

“I was a boy when I lost my parents. You call my wanting them back selfish?”

Blue didn’t break eye contact, but she dropped her chin. “No. Of course not. I meant to say that you are a kind man, but you’ve let your fears and desires prevent you from acting selflessly before.”

“You mean when I saved my son?” Marco’s voice was rising now. “I did what a parent must. I put him first."

"You acted out of fear."

"Of course I did! There was no guarantee that Pinocchio would have survived the curse. He might have turned to a lump of wood the moment it began."

"And there was no guarantee of that either."

Marco tossed his hands in the air. “Pah! You say that now!"

“I made it clear from the beginning.”

“You said you didn’t know…” murmured Archie.

Blue looked at him. “I didn’t.”

"And expected me to except that answer?” Marco said incredulously. “I couldn’t! No one could be expected to accept that! But what would you know? Hmm? You don’t know what it means to be a parent. There is nothing more important than one's child.”

“I’m responsible for the happiness of hundreds of children. I am a fairy godmother…”

“But you are no mother! Children are jobs to you.”

Blue’s voice was deathly quiet. “Do you think me so unfeeling?”

“You didn’t care what happened to Pinocchio. By a twist of fate it was Emma who was meant to break the curse… but had it not been her – had it been some other child – you would have dismissed her the way you had my son.”

Blue inhaled sharply.

Marco raised his brow. “Is it not the truth?”

“I am tasked with protecting all goodness, all magic. I am fairy godmother to many children, Geppetto, I could not choose one.”

“But you did!”

“Yes, I did. I chose yours!”

Marco stared.

“Fairies do not lie,” she hissed. “And I lied. For you.” Her glare burned. “I blackened my heart for Pinocchio.”

Marco dropped his gaze.

Blue continued to glare at him.

The candles bent and flickered. 

“I think we’re forgetting something important here,” stammered Archie. He stepped closer, hands up as if to part them, though didn’t touch either of them. “We’re talking as if the curse isn’t broken. No matter what happened, whether it was right or wrong, there’s no changing it. We should focus on the here and now. We’re free.”

“Then why do I still feel cursed?” Marco whispered bitterly.

Nobody said anything. He glanced between his co-conspirators – oh, though that wasn’t fair of him. It had been him alone who put Pinocchio in the wardrobe and transported him to this world, who ignored the Blue Fairy when she came to break their deal, who snapped at Jiminy when he voiced his protests, who burdened his son with the expectation of raising a newborn. And what did he have to show for it? No son, that’s for sure. A son who must have realised his father’s folly and decided he was better off without him. 

With the saints in stained glass glaring down at him, Marco felt very, very small. He fled. Through the corridor. Out the door. As he went down the stone steps, he heard Archie pursuing him, his shoes clapping on stone, and his breathing heavy.

“Geppetto? Marco. Where are you…”

“I need to be alone now.” He continued across the grass, towards the trees at the end of the convent grounds.

“In there?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

Marco went into the woods.

Dragging a tree home would have been easier with an assistant. But the oak was young, barely large enough to give him enough material for his work. He could make no mistakes. Once brought the tree into his workshop, he’d rid it of its leaves and small branches and cut it down to size. It wobbled with no assisting hands to steady it.

“Oak has heavy graining,” he said aloud, as if August were there. “You mustn’t be too aggressive when routing. Two or three passes with less force gives the best results.”

August would tilt his head and smile enigmatically because he would already know. He knew a great deal. He and Mr. Gold shared a love for antiquities.

Marco fetched his router. “Two or three passes. Like so.”

“Careful with the sawdust,” August might have said, as one time they had been so invested in routing they’d made several tons of sawdust. They were both sniffling, and laughing, at the end of it.

He cut the wood into workable planks. Gingerly, he measured his parents and noted them down in pencil on the planks. He picked up a panel saw, unclipping the blade guard, and began to cut.

“I made my son from pine,” he told the imaginary August. “He was a tricky, mischievous child. He got himself into scrapes and became very dented and scratched. Perhaps I should have used oak. Oak is hardy! Do you know the Italian word for oak? It’s quercia. Imagine that. I would have named him Quericchio!”

He continued like that. It was a week before he was satisfied with the caskets. He’d etched his parents’ names, Donna and Stephen Collodi, onto the lids with a Dremel. On the sides, he carved vague memories of what they liked. Buttercups for Mamma, which always made her smile when he brought them home. And fried eggs for Papa because he always said it was the best breakfast. From a distance, both caskets looked like they were both decorated with flowers.

He left off the year. He couldn’t remember the year they’d died, and he had no idea what year they were born. They simply were, and then they simply were not.

Sat on a recently repaired chair, Marco watched people walk through the streets through the open workshop door. With a quick glance, he checked one of his many clocks. It was approaching the mid-afternoon. When he looked back at the street, Archie making his way toward him. He had brought Pongo, which was kind of him.

A passing woman briefly stopped Archie’s approach. “Excuse me!” She said, with a pleasant accent. “Do you know where I can get a postcard?”

As the two talked, Marco rose from his chair and put it away. He checked his blazer pocket for his house keys. And went to the mirror to straighten his black tie and shirt collar. He didn’t feel comfortable in a suit. He especially didn’t feel comfortable with his bald head showing, but there would be no hats at a funeral.

As he returned to the workshop, Pongo pressed his snout to Marco’s trouser leg. Marco scratched the dog behind the ears.

Archie was looking back at the woman he’d bumped into. “Have you ever seen that woman before?”

Furrowing his brow, Marco glanced at the woman, who had crossed the road and was entering the post office. “I haven’t.”

Shaking himself, Archie said, “I’m sorry. Thank you, by the way. For letting me know you’re okay. And for inviting me. I know that must have been difficult.”

Marco shrugged. “It wasn’t.”

Of course he’d invited Archie. Archie was family. He was just worried that Archie wouldn’t come.

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He passed Archie a spade and together they went to the cemetery.

They found a spot near a grove of apples. As Archie pushed the tip of the spade into the earth, Marco placed his hand on the fold of his elbow to still him. “Enough,” he said softly. “This isn’t right. We can’t hold a funeral without Pinocchio here. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“My apologies. I shouldn’t have invited you here without thinking this through. I know you have a lot of clients now.”

“I may have clients, but you’re my friend. I wouldn’t miss this.” Archie set the spade into the earth and rolled down his sleeves. Pongo, nose to the ground, padded in circles around their feet. "Why don't we ask Emma Swan for help? She’s in business of finding people."

"How could I face asking her after what I did?"

Archie pulled his lips tight. "Guilt makes us do strange things."

"Like wishing yourself to be a cricket?"

“Exactly.”

"…I believe he’s angry with me. That's why he hasn't come home. He's angry, as is his right."

"We won't know for sure until we find him."

It began to rain. Archie opened up his umbrella and held it over Marco’s head. Marco bent and picked up the caskets.

“Maybe I should take them for a while,” Archie offered cautiously. Marco hugged the caskets tighter, as if he were a boy refusing to part with a comforting toy. Archie looked on kindly. “I can look after them while you talk to Emma. It’s the least I can do. I owe it to them.”

Marco studied this face of the man who had killed his parents, who’d joined him for lunch at every opportunity, who’d perched on his shoulder and bickered with him. He asked himself if, after all these years, he finally had it in him to forgive.

“I’ll take care of them,” whispered Archie.

Marco gave him the caskets.

The sheriff’s station was by no means an imposing building, yet Marco was locked in place at the sight of it. He didn’t know how long he was standing on the doorstep before Snow White and Henry found him.

“Hey, Marco!” Henry said, coming to his side.

“Ah, hallo Henry.” Marco ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Are you okay?” Snow asked.

“Yeah. You look really pale,” added Henry.

“I, um…” Marco spluttered. He couldn’t look at either of them. Not the Queen he betrayed nor the son of the infant he made an orphan.

“You’re looking for someone, right?” Henry guessed. “You need Emma’s help!”

“Of course. Your son.” Snow’s eyes widened imploringly, and Marco wanted to flee. "I know what it's like to be separated from your child. The pain... There's nothing like it. Come on."

Then her Highness was holding his arm, talking to him softly, and Marco couldn't find the courage in him to tell her that he was the reason she was separated from her child to begin with. He didn't deserve Snow White's kindness.

Snow brought him into the sheriff's station. Henry, ever the cheerful young boy, chattered to him all the way and another time Marco might have encouraged it, at that moment he could hardly focused on what the child was saying. “It’s okay,” Snow whispered to him as they approached the sheriff’s desk. To Emma, she said, “I was coming to drop off Henry and he was on the doorstep. I think he’s been there for a while.”

"I didn’t want to bother you. I know you are very busy," stammered Marco. He took off his hat and squeezed it in both hands. He could only just manage to look Emma in the eye. “It’s my boy. I’ve looked for him everywhere and it's been weeks since you broke the curse. I thought he’d turn up by now but..." He shook his head. "I know I should have come sooner…”

“It’s alright. I'll do what I can to find him. What can you tell me about him?”

Marco told her his son’s name.

“August,” Emma whispered.

“August is Pinocchio?” Henry was grinning. "Of course! I can't believe I didn't put it together sooner. That’s why he wanted to help me with Operation Cobra." He looks up at Emma with pride. "He came to Storybrooke to help you believe, Emma. Because if you believe in something hard enough, then…”

“…then it’ll come true,” finished Marco. He felt nauseous. “That’s – That’s what I used to tell him."

“See? I told you it would be alright," said Snow and Marco's guilt made him weak in the knees.

His mind reeled. "August… is Pinocchio? But that can’t be. August is Mr. Gold's son." It wasn't true; it was a plea to whatever manipulates fate in this land to spare him the grief of this. “He’s Mr. Gold’s son. I… was certain of it." He could taste the mistruth of it. Fool. Rincoglionito! August is Pinocchio. He'd known it, felt it, been moments from reuniting with him and he'd abandoned him once again and, once again, he'd done it because he was frightened. He'd faced the terrible Dogfish and been defeated. He'd been tricked.

"He told me this whole story about him and me coming through a portal here together through some tree," Emma was telling Snow. Marco's teeth clicked as he tightened his jaw.

Tricked or rightly punished?

As the women discussed the matter, Marco fumbled his way to the couch by the cell and sank into it. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “That poor passerotto.” He rocked back and forth. "My poor boy.”

It was inexcusable. It was incomprehensible. When Emma sat beside him and asked him why he'd thought August was related to Mr. Gold, his answers felt ridiculous.

"You were cursed," Emma reassured. "You had no reason to think different."

No reason? Marco wanted to weep. He had every reason. He wasn't simply Pinocchio's father, he was his maker. He'd spent hours transforming pine to child. He'd meticulously carved the shape of Pinocchio's face. He'd chosen the shade of blue for his eyes. He should have known and when knowing he should have been steadfast in his belief and let nothing come between him and his child.

The Evil Queen began to laugh.

"Something funny?" said Emma drily.

"Gold. He told me he 'acquired' a son.  August is probably chained up in a basement somewhere."

“You knew about this?” Before he knew it, Marco was on his feet. The cell bars were in his hands. His cap was on the floor. “What do you know? What has Mr. Gold done to my boy?” He felt Emma take hold his elbow.

The Evil Queen snorted. "How would I know? That man's motivations are beyond anyone’s understanding."

"What else did he tell you?" asked Emma.

"That was all. That he had acquired a son. I was too busy worrying about my own son's abduction to think about his."

"He is not his,” Marco snapped. He didn't know what he'd done to anger the Dark One that he would take, first, Geppetto's parents and now his son. He wouldn't stand for it. He was going to bring Pinocchio home if it was the last thing he did.

Emma reminded him that Mr. Gold was too powerful to face. Not that he needed the reminder after the Blue Fairy had confessed that he was hoarding the magic. Marco had no immediate plans on facing him. All he needed was an opportunity.

He was a patient man. One develops a talent for waiting after living in the belly of a giant fish for two years.

An opportunity arrived. A drive empty of a Cadillac. An absent sheriff.

So Marco drove to Mr. Gold's house. In the passenger seat, Archie was wringing his hands. “You really think he’s here?”

As they pulled up opposite the house, Marco spotted a young lady leaving. He watched cautiously from his car as she went in the direction of town. When he was sure that she wasn't coming back, he stepped out of his car and approached the door. Archie followed closely behind. Marco rattled the door handle. It was locked. He cursed himself silently. He should have brought his toolkit.

“You aren’t considering breaking and entering, are you?” hissed Archie.

“Merely entering, not breaking.”

“Geppetto!”

Marco waved dismissively. He squinted through the patterned glass. A figure was moving within. “Pinocchio? Is that you?”

There was no reply. The figure was hard to make out. It might not have been a person at all.

"Perhaps I should speak with him. We'd gotten quite close while you were..." Archie trailed off, clearing his throat. Marco nodded in agreement. He remembered well - that day he'd sent Pinocchio to school and Jiminy had promised to watch over him, and he didn't see either of them for two years. "Not to mention I... I am acquainted with Mr. Gold. I believe we're on somewhat friendly terms. If he does return while we're here, he might respond a touch better to me. I hope." Rolling his shoulders, he approached the door and gave it a firm knock. "Pinoke?" He called softly. "Are you in there? Pinoke!"

The shape moved closer to the patterned glass. Marco held his breath.

"…Jiminy?"

"Hey, Pinoke!" Marco could hear Archie smiling and watches as he wipes his eyes. "It's been a long time. What are you... What are you doing?"

Behind the door, Pinocchio let out a self-deprecating snort. "Nothing."

"Well, it's good to hear your voice. But, gosh, you sound a far cry older than when I last saw you! You're in your thirties now, right? You must be as tall as a pine tree! Why...Why don't you come out?"

"...I can't."

"Is something stopping you or do you not want to?"

There was no reply.

Archie looked over his shoulder at Marco. His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "Okay, Pinoke," he told the door. "Nobody is going to make you. But... You should know that your father and I miss you a lot. At least tell us you're safe."

"I'm safe. I promise."

Taking a deep breath, Archie turned his back on the door and descended the steps to join Marco's side. He was shaking his head, and Marco was trembling. "We can't force him. We have to trust he knows what he wants." 

As Archie reached for him, Marco drew a sharp breath and pulled back. "It's my fault," he hissed. "I did this."

"Geppetto, we have to go."

"No. No, no... Just. One moment." Marco walked up the steps, to the door between him and his son, which felt as wide as the twenty-eight years they were apart. How angry Pinocchio must be. His boy. His poor, precious boy. "It's okay. I - I understand. You need time. However long you need, you have it. When you're ready to come home, I'll be waiting."

He could wait. Come to think of it, he didn't have much luck searching for Pinocchio, but he was very good at waiting. Pinocchio always found him.

Two years in a Dogfish. Twenty-eight years under a curse.

Oh, yes, he could wait. He could do anything for his boy.

As he waits, his days spin in the same, monotonous way. He fixes one broken thing after another. Time is as meaningless as it had been under the influence of the curse... Until Emma Swan returns to Storybrooke and starts time for Marco.

With a phone call.

"Hey, Marco." She sounds breathless. "It's about August."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Marco is still on the phone with Emma when he feels the earthquake. It rattles the tools hanging on the workshop walls and jostles the loose clamps on the worktable. It knocks him sideways, and he stumbles to cling to the nearest stable surface, which happens to be the top of a heater, on full, scorching his hand. He pulls back with a sharp intake of breath and drops the phone to catch himself on the worktop with his uninjured hand. As the shakes settle, he grabs the phone and presses it to his ear.

"Hello? Emma, are you still there?”

In the background, a short distance from the phone, a stranger says, “What the hell was that?”

Marco very much agrees with the sentiment.

“I don’t know,” replies Emma. She sounds like she’s in a great deal of pain. “Marco, you there?”

“I’m here!” He hurries to the kitchen to run his hand under cold water. "You were saying about August. He ran away?"

"Yeah. He's headed to the woods." Marco could hear the stutter of a vehicle restarting. "I’m going to find him but he's not doing great, and he won't ask for help. I have a feeling the only person he'll listen to is you."

Marco swallows. "I went to speak to him while you were away. He would not see me."

"He thinks you're ashamed of him."

Unable to speak, Marco shakes his head despite knowing Emma can't see it. He would never be ashamed of his child.

"I'll text you my location," says Emma.

“Alright. I’ll be there.”

Emma ends the call. Marco dries his tingling hand, and pulls on his woollen finger-less gloves to hide the injury before grabbing his coat and cap. He does it all automatically, his thoughts occupied completely by his poor son. His son, who desperately needs his father.

Marco had answered the phone, but it’s Geppetto who leaves the workshop.

Residents swarm the streets like a frightened flock. Geppetto goes as fast as he is able, which at his age is not fast at all, and he must twist and turn his inflexible body as people run past him to avoid a collision. The earthquake has set off vehicle alarms, which are blaring loud enough to hurt his ears, but his trained eye sees little damage to Storybrooke's infrastructure.

A man steps into his path. Geppetto skirts to get around him, but the man seizes him in both hands and shakes him in a fit of hysteria.  “Did you see it?”

It takes a moment to recognise who has hold of him. It’s Billy, who works at Marine Garage. They often swap tricks of the trade.

Billy waves his arms to the trees in the distance. “Out there! For a second, I swear. I saw it – like a lightning flash. It was magic, I swear, and then – and the ground shook and – and...! The Evil Queen is going to escape, I’m telling you. We’re not safe here anymore!”

Before Geppetto can reply, Billy flees.

Magic. The magic which Mr. Gold brought. The magic the Blue Fairy said he had been hoarding. Something terrible is happening and Pinocchio is caught in the middle of it.

He hurries on. He knows he’ll need help, so he goes to the most reliable person he knows. He heads to the Psychiatry Office, only slowing when he reaches halfway up the office stairs and his knees begin to ache. He takes them two at a time, until he makes it to Archie’s office. Archie is picking a framed diploma off the rug where it had fallen when Geppetto bursts in. "Geppetto, hey.” He takes a step towards him. “Are you alright?"

He can barely get the words out through his ragged breathing. "Pin - occhio!" he gasps. "He escaped Mr. Gold and now he’s – he’s lost!" 

"We'll find him.” Archie sets the diploma onto his desk and quickly grabs his coat and a lead from the rack. He whistles. “Come on, Pongo!”

Pongo leaps out of his bed and flanks Archie’s thigh as they leave.

They take Archie’s car, but they’re barely a tyre into the woods when they’re halted. Ahead is a queue of vehicles. Drivers honk their horns. Some have opened their windows and are shouting at those in front. No one is moving.

Archie leans over the steering wheel. “What’s with all this traffic?”

“They’re running.” Geppetto opens the door and gets out, heading for the front of the traffic jam. Others have gotten the same idea and a crowd is gathering at the place where the blockage is. Archie falls in step next to him and they dip and weave their way to the front. As the gathering of people grows denser, Geppetto resorts to using his elbows to get through. “Out of my way!” he snaps.

“Pardon us. Excuse me,” murmurs Archie.

At the front, there is a huge animal rescue van parked sideways, obstructing the road. On the top of the van stands Prince Charming. At the front of the van is Snow White, and Geppetto feels a wave of shame so powerful it pushes him back into the disguise of the crowd.

"Everyone, calm down!" David calls from aloft the van. The crowd murmurs in collective offense.

“Don’t tell us to calm down!” Leroy snaps. His brothers jeer in solidarity.

“Think for a second,” David continues, raising his palms imploringly. “It was an earthquake. Nothing worse than what we’ve faced in the Enchanted Forest. We’ll survey the damage and rebuild.”

“But what caused it?” a voice calls out.

“I saw!” says another. “Magic. Like the shroud that appeared three weeks ago."

Someone else speaks up, "I saw it too! It must be the work of the Evil Queen!”

Frightened gasps ripple the gathering. Geppetto steals himself and pushes himself to the front. He’s wasted too much time already.

“Regina is locked up,” reasons David.

“Yeah, but Rumplestiltskin ain’t!” Leroy snaps, “If you ask me, this has got the Dark One written all over it.”

Slipping through the front row, Geppetto continues on past the van.

Snow moves to stop him. “Marco,” she pleas. “You can’t abandon Storybrooke now. We’ll need your help with any repairs.”

“And I will help,” Geppetto vows. “Just as soon as I find my boy! He’s out there right now. The savior told me. I have to find him.”

Snow expression turns to one of astonishment. She glances at David. “Emma is back?”

“And where the hell has she been?! Some hero she is!” growls Leroy and the residents grumble.

David addresses the crowd again. “Alright, alright! That's enough. A group will come with us to find Emma and August. I need the rest of you to turn around, unpack your cars, and figure out how much damage there is. So long as we’re in this world, Storybrooke is our home – our kingdom – and we don’t abandon our home so easily. Is that clear?”

There’s a collective grumble.

“Good,” barks David. He climbs down from the top of the van, sliding down the hood to Snow’s side.

Snow smirks, twitching her nose. “Love it when you do that.”

David grins. “Slide down the hoods of vans?”

“Make speeches.” They exchange a tender smile before turning to Geppetto. “Where’s our daughter?” asks Snow.

With a nervous tug to the bill of his cap, Geppetto leads the way. Following is Archie, Leroy and his brothers, Doctor Whale – who Emma had apparently called as well – and Ruby and Granny Lucas, who'd both insisted on coming when they heard August was missing. They walk along Route 66 until they find Emma leaning against a grey Cadillac, her palms braced against the side of it.

“Emma!” calls Snow. She and David run ahead the moment their daughter is in sight.

Emma looks at them with surprise. "David. Mary-Margaret.” Her expression shifts between relief and concern. “Are you okay?"

"We felt the earthquake, we came out here to investigate. We didn't know you were back in town."

"Yeah. Well. I’ve not been here long." Emma spots Doctor Whale. “Whale, can you check on Henry? He’s in the car.” She continues walking without pause, on a trajectory to Geppetto, who steps forth to meet her in the middle of the road. However, as he moves, his perspective of the grey Cadillac shifts so he can see past it to where a man in a black suit is stood by the edge of the road, frowning at the woods.

It’s Mr. Gold.

Geppetto’s chest fills with righteous fury. “You!” He’s marching towards him before his sense can catch up - his sense, which he bats away the moment it does. Mr. Gold turns and raises his brow at him. “What have you done to my boy? Where is he?”

He gets within a foot of him before Mr. Gold stops him with the head of his cane. "Perhaps if you watched your wares more closely, toymaker, they wouldn’t keep scuttling off.” He jabs Geppetto hard in the chest and Geppetto stumbles back a step.

“Hey!” Emma gets between them. “Enough. This isn’t helping.”

Geppetto doesn't listen. He bristles, glaring at Emma. “What is he doing here?”

“Offering my assistance,” replies Mr. Gold.

“And for what price, you snake?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. This is simply a minor venture to regain what already belongs to me.”

To regain August. Geppetto feels as if he’s looking into the mouth of the Dogfish. “That’s why you… My – My parents.”

“You should be thanking me. Haven’t you always longed to reunite with them? To put them at rest?” Mr. Gold’s eyes flick to Archie, who is standing by Geppetto's side. “And, you, to make right the terrible accident you caused so many years ago?”

Archie inhales sharply.

The Dogfish is trapping him in its terrible darkness. This time, Geppetto won’t be defeated. He raises a finger. “Stay away from my boy!” He’s aware, faintly, that Archie is holding the crook of his elbow, and pleading into his ear to think. His nervous voice is nothing but chirping. “You don’t go near him, you hear me! You’re the reason he’s lost now!”

“Me?” Mr. Gold says lowly. He chuckles, but there’s no amusement to it. “Oh no. I think you’ll find that you are to blame for this. You…” Mr. Gold points at him, "...let him go. You’re the reason he was lost in this world.”

Mr. Gold crowds closer.

Archie backs away. Geppetto and Emma do not.

“You caused all of this," growls Mr. Gold. "And now... he won’t forgive you. He hates you. He will never, ever forgive you -!” Geppetto flinches as Mr. Gold raises his cane.

"Hey!" Emma draws her gun. “I said stop!”

“RUMPLE!”

Mr. Gold freezes, holding the cane above his head, and stares at the person who shouted. It’s the young woman who lives in Mr. Gold’s house. She’s staring at them, mouth open, looking horrified. She’s breathing hard from running down the road to reach them. Next to her is the Blue Fairy, whose face is set in a glower. “Belle…” whispers Mr. Gold. It’s the closest to afraid Geppetto has ever seen him.

“What are you doing?" Belle – Geppetto can hardly believe her courage – steps right up to the Dogfish. “He's just an old man. He's defenceless!” She presses her hands to Mr. Gold’s chest. “Please.”

Mr. Gold tightens his fist around his cane and takes a step back.

Emma lowers her gun. "Look, I don't care what's going on with you two, or whatever fairy-tale crap is behind this. Right now, we all want the same thing and that's to find August. Until that happens, I want peace and order. Anyone who can't do that is getting thrown into a holding cell. Got it?"

"Crystal clear, as usual, Miss Swan," drolls Mr. Gold.

Geppetto nods. His throat is dry, but he feels invigorated. He’d faced the Dogfish head on, and the Dogfish had backed down.

Blue comes over to him and takes hold of his wrist. “Are you alright?”

For a second he is stunned by her familiarity when they had been so harsh to each other the last time they spoke. He nods, tugging his arm free. He’s about to ask what she’s doing with the Dark One’s lover when he’s interrupted by the sound of twigs snapping, coming from the woods. His heart leaps, but the man who emerges from the forest is not Pinocchio. He’s a young man dressed in grey. He has brown hair and a furrowed brow.

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Tracks go on for a least a mile, but it’s pretty damn quiet in there. He’s either left the woods or ditched the bike.”

“Storybrooke isn’t that big,” replies Emma. “If he’s left the woods, he’ll have come back around by now.”

“Or he’s ditched Storybrooke completely,” mutters the man in grey, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“He hasn’t,” replies Emma firmly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time he’s bailed.”

“I guess I’m going on faith."

Belle is staring at the stranger with awe. She whispers to Mr. Gold. “Is that him?”

“Yes,” Mr. Gold replies softly, pride in his eyes.

The stranger in grey nods at Blue. “Hey.”

Blue smiles in return. "Hello again."

The man glances twice at Geppetto, his brow pinching. Geppetto imagines his expression is doing the same. Who is this man, who everyone seems to know?

“Dad!” Henry runs past Geppetto, startling him, and stops in front of the stranger. “Did you find August?”

“Not yet. I'm sorry.”

“Why is August out here?” Ruby asks. She and all the others who came with them from Storybrooke move closer to listen.

“He ran away.” Henry spins to Geppetto, his eyes wild. “But you’re here so he has to come back! He always, always comes back to you.”

Emma takes hold of Henry’s arm to get his attention. “Henry. Take it easy, okay?”

“I don’t need to take it easy. We need to find August!"

“We’re going to,” promises Emma.

David says, “What do you need?”

“He could be anywhere in those woods by now. We need to spread out.”

Mr. Gold scoffs. “You aren’t seriously considering bringing this parade with us?” He motions to the group, Leroy and his brothers, Doctor Whale, Ruby and Granny Lucas.

“You got a better idea?” snaps Emma.

“While I might not have as much experience hunting down despondent men as you, dearie, I know for certain that August doesn’t want to be seen. This crowd is more likely to drive him away than to help us find him.”

“Then we split up.” She turns to the others. “Just one thing. August… looks a little different to how we remember him.”

“What do you mean?” asks Geppetto, confused.

“What, don’t you know?” Mr. Gold says snidely.

“Rumple,” chides Belle.

Emma shoots Mr. Gold an unimpressed look before answering. “He’s a puppet.”

Geppetto feels a wave of anxiety. In the corner of his eye, he notices Archie and Blue glancing at him and returns the looks. His boy has turned back to a puppet.

“Is that, like, a metaphor?” asks Leroy.

“No, I mean he’s actually a puppet. He’s made of wood.”

"That explains why I can't track him," murmurs Ruby, and when the others look at her, she folds her arms and adds, a touch defensively. "You try tracking wood in a wood."

Leroy looks confused. “Why is Scruff-On-Wheels made of wood now?”

“He’s Pinocchio,” says Ruby. “Keep up. The whole no lying thing."

“August is Pinocchio? I thought he was the Dark One’s kid.”

The man in grey scoffs, raising both his hands to his scalp.

“Of course he isn’t!” Geppetto snaps.

“Jeez. Alright, Gramps.”

Henry lets out groan. “Everybody, quit messing around! We have a serious mission here!”

“Right,” agrees David. “We’re losing daylight. Spread out. No more than four people to a group but no less than two. I don’t want anyone else getting lost.”

To begin with, the search party keep to the path, the parts of it August’s motorbike had not destroyed, stepping over the ruts and dips, but the moment the tracks veer off the path they become much harder to follow. The group splits up as instructed and spreads out.

Henry's father crouches in the undergrowth between split brackens and tells his son with glee. "I’ve spent some time tracking."

"Really?" Henry says excitedly. He has not left his father's side. His face is bright with admiration. It makes Geppetto's heart hurt. "You gotta tell me more! Where you a bandit like Snow White?"

“Not exactly.” He touches a hand to the earth. "Here. You can see where the motorbike came through."

"Right. He went that way." Snow says.

Geppetto goes on ahead. At first, Archie keeps up with him but soon Pongo slows him by stopping to sniff every split bracken and fallen pinecone, and without knowing quite how it happened Geppetto finds his nearest companion is Henry's father, the stranger in grey.

"So, uh..." The man itches his nose with his knuckle. “You’re August’s dad.”

It seems the man had sought him out. Geppetto watches him carefully. “I am. And who are you?”

“The name’s Neal.”

“Are you a friend of my son’s?”

This, for some reason, makes Neal snort. “Honestly? I have no idea. Sorry to tell you this, but I don’t think your son has friends. If I’m the closest he’s got, well... let's just say we're not exactly on the best of terms right now.”

"Yet you are here," Geppetto says hopefully.

"Yeah. Here I am." Pongo begins to bark and Geppetto nearly misses what Neal says next. “You really sent him through that portal with Emma, huh?”

Geppetto halts. Luckily they have walked far from the others and with Pongo’s barking, they are out of earshot. “...He told you?”

“Not without a fight.” Neal levels him with a thoughtful gaze. “He told me you're a good man.”

“I confess I’m not sure if I am. All I know is that I was certain Pinocchio would be lost forever if he had remained in our world when the curse was cast. I don’t regret saving his life, merely the cost.”

"You did right by your kid," Neal says after a moment. "That's more than most people do."

Geppetto nods in gratitude. He needed to hear that, even if he’s no longer sure he’s done ‘right’ by Pinocchio. “I just wish he can forgive me for being such a coward.”

Neal glances up the hill to where Mr. Gold and Belle are walking hand-in-hand. They appear to be having an intense conversation.

“He will," Neal says roughly. "He loves you, you know?”

Pongo is still barking and the two of them turn to see what is troubling the animal.

"Down, Pongo!" Archie commands. Pongo glances at him, though quickly returns his gaze to the tree. In the branches sits a brown and white dove, which tilts its head and coos at them. Neal lets out a short, amused huff, and whistles a melody. The dove takes flight. As it swoops down, Neal raises his arm to give it a perch. Pongo stops barking and lets out a puzzled whine.

"Hey Cleo." Neal pats his pockets and gives a sheepish shrug. “I don’t have anything on me, sorry.”

The bird preens Neals’ sleeve.

Neal waves Emma over.

“You find something?” Emma frowns as she gets closer. “What’s with the bird?”

"She's August's. Mine and August's. No email or phones in the Enchanted Forest, so it was pretty standard to send a note with a dove. August took it pretty seriously."

Snow, who had been walking just behind Emma, comes closer to admire the dove. She looks delighted. "Charming and I used to send each other letters with a dove just like this one."

David smiles with nostalgia.

Neal raises his eyebrows at Cleo. “Here’s the deal. The jerk who trained you has gone AWOL.” He clicks his tongue. Cleo looks at him intently. “That’s right. Find jerk.”

Cleo takes flight.

“We’re trusting a bird?” Emma deadpans.

“She’s more reliable than UPS.”

Cleo flaps her wings noisy as she flies from branch to branch and, at last, low to the ground. She leads them through the scarred land to what remains of August’s motorbike, a crumpled heap of metal, on it's side on the ground. 

Geppetto chokes down a sob. "No. Oh, no…”

Snow covers her mouth with her hand. Archie is eyeing a pyramid of rocks with a puzzled furrow in his brow.

“August!” shouts Emma, looking around.

"Pinocchio!"

In the branches above their heads, Cleo coos. She flaps her wings noisily and takes flight again.

“Over there,” says Neal, continuing past the wreckage. The party crashes through the woods behind him. Cleo drops down from a branch and disappears into the tall foliage. There is a clear path through the growth where the bracken has broken. Stems are bent back, fraying, and the leaves are pulp. Geppetto feels his hands grow ever more sweaty as he follows the bird.

"Stop!" Emma puts her hand in front of him.

Just in time.

Because one more step and Geppetto would have lost the ground from under his feet.

“I guess now we know what the earthquake was,” says Emma.

They're looking at a ravine that did not exist yesterday.

The ravine is not small. Ruby and Ms Lucas, Doctor Whale, Leroy and his brothers all manage to find its edge and walk to meet them. When all of them are together again, they walk alongside the ravine until Cleo, that clever bird, stops. She scratches at the edge of the ravine with her feet, knocking a couple of pine needles down the crevice. David passes Emma a flashlight. She switches it on as she approaches, carefully kneeling down at the edge, and shines it down.

“He’s here!” She shuffles closer. “August!”

“Hey,” comes August’s sheepish voice.

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know. Stuck in a rut.”

Geppetto tests the ground with his foot. The ground is steady. Emma looks up at him as he crouches. The beam from the light highlights the sheen on August’s leather jacket. "Pinocchio!" 

“Hang tight. We’ll get you out.” Emma pushes herself away and Geppetto follows her back to the others. “He’s jammed pretty tight. If we could get down there and help him…”

“Can’t you just…” Neal flourishes his hand. “...get him out with magic?”

This question is evidently directed at Mr. Gold, who sucks in his cheeks.

Fighting down his pride, Geppetto glances at Mr. Gold. He is loathed to beg him for help, but with his boy down there what more can he do? “Please. If you truly feel anything for him, help him. He’s my son. I would be forever in your debt.”

“I have no use for your debt, old man.” Mr. Gold says quietly. He averts his eyes. "I can't get him out... because I don't have the power." He turns to Neal. "I don't have magic. I haven’t had magic since the curse was cast."

Geppetto glances at Blue, who looks pleased by this relevation. He's enraged with her. She had been wrong the one time he'd needed her to be right. He drags a hand over his face. There's no time for this. There has to be another way to get to August! He looks to the ravine’s angular edge and thinks, trying to tune out the irate voices as an argument breaks out.

"You promised you would help Henry," says Emma.

"I will help Henry."

"Henry?" Snow interupts, "What's wrong with Henry?"

"I'm fine, Grandma. Really, I am."

Henry. Geppetto glances at the boy. Of course!

“You manipulated us.” Neal growls. “You lied. Again.”

“We don’t need his magic!” Geppetto interrupts, getting everyone's attention. He turns to Emma, grinning. "We’ll rescue August the same way we rescued Archie and Henry out of the mine."

By the time the truck arrives at the ravine, everyone in the search party is gathering in a cluster nearby, talking amongst themselves about all the revelations the day has brought. Ruby, a much more delicate driver than he, takes over and reverses the truck closer to the ravine’s edge until Geppetto waves for her to stop. He instructs her to extend the arms on the back of the truck, so the crane hangs closer to the ravine while the truck remains at a safe distance.

Emma clips on the harness and Geppetto clips her to the crane. “Good?”

“You’re secure.” He almost manages to stop his voice from quaking.

“Hey. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” Emma looks down into ravine, tests the bounce of the harness, and starts her descent.

The group murmurs apprehensively behind him. Snow and Neal hold a hyperactive Henry back. David paces up and down nearby. Leory and his brothers look ready to rush forwards at the first sign of trouble. Ruby leans out of the truck cabin to watch. Belle is chewing her lip. Mr. Gold stands in isolation, his hands clenched tightly on his cane. Geppetto stands as close to the edge as he dares. 

“We’re secure!” shouts Emma. “Pull us up!”

Geppetto signals to Ruby, who hits the switch, and the crane whirrs. As Emma and August near the brim of the ravine, David grabs Emma’s hand to haul her up and Geppetto grabs August’s. He pulls and August tumbles to his knees on the dirt. Geppetto is by his side in a moment, placing a hand on his shoulder, and rubbing comforting circles. “My child, my child…”

Slowly, August raises his head and looks at him. Geppetto stares at him.

He’s… He’s hurt.

There are gashes on his face, blood on his gloves, and his arm isn’t attached to his shoulder. He’s holding it to his chest. Because it isn’t attached. The socket is damaged.

“Oh, Pinocchio," gasps Geppetto.

August jolts, his shoulders hiking to his ears like a tortoise trying to retreat into its shell, and Geppetto immediately realises how harsh he’d sounded.

"Everything is going to be alright," Geppetto feels tears come to his eyes. He pats his son's shoulder, but the touch isn't enough. He needs to hold his boy, so he wraps his arms around him, reaching a hand up to clasp the back of his head, cradling him to his chest as if he's still small. “I’m here now. I’m here. I won't leave you, my child.”

“I’m so sorry, Papa," August whispers into his chest.

It truly is Pinocchio. His child. His son. The man his heart recognised before his mind did. “There is nothing to apologise for," he whispers hoarsely, dropping a kiss to the swirls carved atop August's head.

"Boy, you weren't kidding!"

Leroy’s voice is an axe to the peace. Ruby swats him on the arm.

Everyone is staring.

"August, you alright?" David says. August nods minutely. "You don't need a... hospital or something? A doctor?"

“Oh please,” mutters Whale, with brows lofted high. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

"He needs me." Geppetto touches one of the scratches on August’s cheek and exhales fondly through his nose. Should have used oak. “Let’s go home.”

“Home.” August swallows around the word. He takes a step – and buckles. He muffles his grunt, but Geppetto hears it and braces a hand across his chest for support.

"Have you hurt your leg?" asks Geppetto, looking down at August's ankle.

"No," replies August, staring at his feet as he sets them flat on the ground.

Mr. Gold is watching them, his expression vaguely unhappy but otherwise emotionless. August glances at him and hurriedly away. Raising his chin, Mr. Gold takes a step toward them, but luckily David intervenes.

"Hey," he snaps. "Back off. You've done enough."

"Everyone, let's give them some space," adds Emma and, oddly, looks sympathetic toward Mr. Gold. She rises and the crowd reluctantly moves back, though the staring does not stop. The only one who looks away is Neal, who shoves his hands into his pockets, and begins walking away with a shake of his head.

“You’re gonna lock him up too, right?” Leroy points at Mr. Gold with his eyes.

“On what charge?” Mr. Gold says impatiently.

“Uh, being the Dark One?”

"That isn’t fair!" Belle exclaims. “Rumple has done nothing but keep his head down since the curse broke! He isn’t the Dark One anymore!”

“No offense, sister, but why should we believe you? We all saw that magic! He caused an earthquake! He could kill us all. None of us here buy that crap about him not having magic.”

“She’s telling the truth.” August pulls free of Geppetto and stands tall. “If you want to know who’s really to blame, you’re looking at him. You can blame me. The truth is that I'm the cause of all of this.”

Neal stops walking and looks back.

“Pinocchio, no…” breathes Geppetto.

August inhales deeply. “I was given a task… to protect the savior and to make sure she believed so on her 28th birthday she could break the curse. And I failed. I failed."

Geppetto wishes more than ever that he’d never made Pinocchio take that damned vow.

“I'm the reason Emma didn't believe," continues August. "She didn't believe in the curse, or in herself, because I wasn't there to make sure she would."

Emma protests, "August, that’s not…"

"I'm the reason Neal abandoned you." He halts her words with a glance. He moves his eyes away, slowly, until they rest on Mr. Gold. "I'm the reason you can't use magic." Mr. Gold's expression doesn't change save for the slight tightening of flesh around his eyes. August looks to everyone else. "And that only scratches the surface of the lifetime of mistakes I've made, so if you want anyone to blame you can blame me."

"No." Geppetto closes his hand around August's. "Blame me. Because the fault is mine."

This feels like the moment before an accident, the moment a machine jams, a clock stops. Inevitable. He untethers himself from August, putting himself squarely between him and the crowd, because this is not his son’s burden to bear even if he believes it is. He raises his eyes, and finds Snow White.

“The wardrobe I built for you to transport Emma to this world…”

Emma double-takes.

“I used it to transport my son as well.”

“No,” Snow says slowly. It’s denial, but barely. There’s anger in her eyes. “You didn’t. The wardrobe only had enough magic for one person. You know that.”

"That was a lie. I made the Blue Fairy tell you that. I would have refused to build the wardrobe if she hadn’t. It could transport two."

"What?" hisses David.

"You risked us staying cursed," says Ruby. "All of us."

He’s aware of how they must be looking at him, incredulous and betrayed, but what he sees is the way Ruby’s hand tightens around her grandmother’s arm, the way Ms Lucas draws her protectively close. He sees Leroy and his brothers shift closer together, and Leroy's hand tighen to a fist. Henry is shaking his head, tears in his eyes. Blue shifts closer to Archie and rests her hand on the lapel of his trench coat. Archie gives him a sad smile. Geppetto forces himself to look them in the face, all of them, because if his brave boy is telling the truth, then so shall he.

"That's right,” he admits. “For my boy, I would do anything."

Leroy looks accusingly at Blue and Archie. “You knew about this?”

"It's the truth," says Blue. "Forgive us."

"I could have gone with her...?" whispers Snow. The corners of her eyes glisten with unshed tears. Emma looks at her and swallows. David moves his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

"There is no apology I could give that would make up for it." Geppetto takes off his cap. "But I am sorry."

Snow raises her eyes to meet his. The tears linger, but they don’t fall nor do they extinguish the fire in them. “Get away from me,” she says calmly, “before I do something to you that I’ll regret.”

"You better do as she says," David murmurs, unsympathetic.

Silently, Geppetto nods. Slipping his cap back on, he turns and walks to his son, trying not to flush from the pressure of all the betrayed eyes watching him. His son is what matters now. If he is feeling the pressure, then what must his poor child be feeling? He must take him away from here.

“Vienni,” he tells August, placing a hand on his son's back. He rubs circles and coaxes him in the direction of the path. August pauses to look over his shoulder at Mr. Gold, of all people. There is kindness there that Geppetto is uncertain how to process so he dismisses it. It can wait. What he wants now is to get August to the workshop where he can tend to him.

“Vienni,” he says again, raw.

They follow the destroyed path home.

Once they are back in the workshop, August finds a seat by the worktable and slowly drops into it. He’s avoiding Geppetto’s eyes and holding his amputated arm close to his chest. Geppetto hangs up his cap and coat and approaches him carefully, like he’s approaching a bird prone to flight.

“Let me.” Geppetto takes the arm and sets it on top of the worktable.

August unzips his leather jacket and shrugs out of it. He attempts to unbutton his black shirt one-handed, and Geppetto scoffs lightly, undoing the rest and helping him out of it. He folds the shirt and jacket and takes them into the lounge, so they won’t get covered in sawdust. He wonders when his son developed such a fondness for black. When he returns to the workshop, August’s head is bowed and he’s hugging himself around the waist, his fingers clenched in the fabric of his vest. It’s as though he’s attempting to coil into a ball. When Geppetto places a hand on his shoulder, he uncoils and looks at him. Geppetto takes the opportunity to assess the damage to his face.

“I have just the thing.” He goes to the cabinet where he stores sandpaper and sanding sponges. He takes out a couple of sanding sponges, each with different grits, and goes to the kitchen.

“Papa?” calls August when Geppetto drops a bucket into the sink. “Can I help?”

Geppetto has to grip the countertop. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Just stay where you are.”

Please don't go anyhere.

He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a steadying breath, before he opens them and turns on the faucet until the bucket is filled partway with warm water. He slings a dish towel over his shoulder and returns to the workshop with the bucket.

August is standing and quickly sits back down as Geppetto makes his way over to him. He sets the bucket by his chair and dips the sanding sponge with the heaviest grit into the water. He wrings it out so it’s damp, not dripping. August reaches for the sponge. Geppetto motions him away. August is more than capable, but he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t relieve his son of this one, simple burden.

“Please,” he begs. “Let me.”

Frowning slightly, August set his hand down in his lap.

Geppetto places a hand atop his head to hold him still. On closer inspection, he realises he might have been a touch optimistic. He runs his thumb across August’s cheekbone and along a sharp-edged scar. “This one is too deep to sand away,” he says regretfully. “It will have to stay.”

“Good,” August murmurs.

“Good?”

“I could do with the reminder.”

Geppetto swallows. He rubs the sponge in circles across August's cheek. “How about you tell me… what is going on between you and Mr. Gold."

August closes his eyes.

"It’s alright. Whatever it is - if you owe him a debt – I swear I will resolve it.”

“It’s not like that." August opens his eyes and looks up at him. "I care about him, and he cares about me too."

Geppetto feared he would say that. "Pinocchio, he's... he's a vile man.”

“I know he’s hurt you. I’m not happy he did it. But he saved my life.”

He explains then, haltingly, about his flesh returning to pine, of how he feared for his life, and in fear he planned to use magic. He tells him about a son Mr. Gold lost many years ago, whom August masqueraded as, and of a father's apology to an abandoned son.

"I did it to save myself, but when he apologised…” He closes his eyes. “I realised I needed to hear those words. I realised I was so angry with you, and that I needed to hear you say you were sorry..."

Geppetto opens his mouth to say it, but August looks alarmed.

"No! No, don't. Please. You're my papa. You're a good man. And Mr. Gold is..."

"...and Mr. Gold is not." Geppetto lowers the sponge. The work is not done, but Geppetto can't continue. August’s face is pale from the sanding.

"I needed him to say it... so that I could stop being angry with you, and then it just - " He breaks off, shakes his head. "He let me stay. He gave me a room. He…” His voice gives way to watery laughter. “He told me off for staying out late! He made me soup." His gaze slips to some faraway place. The laughter stops.

Geppetto couldn’t picture it. This person his son is describing is not the same person who delivered his calcified parents in a box to spite him. How could it be?

August continues, quieter. "He took care of me. Ever since I came to this world, no one has ever taken care of me."

"No one?" Geppetto croaks.

Horror creeps into August’s expression. He's staring at Geppetto, eyes wide. “I didn’t know. I didn't know how angry I was. I tried not to be. I promise. Papa. I swear I tried. I tried so hard."

Tears are running down Geppetto's cheeks. What has he done to his poor boy? "You are allowed to be angry. I did an awful thing to you."

"You were doing what was best for me."

Why must his boy defend him so? It isn't right for a child to protect their parent. Quickly, he dries his hands on a rag and takes hold of both August’s shoulders. "Listen to me. I was selfish."

"No."

"I was cowardly."

"N-no."

"And I lied."

August turns away.

"And I did something no parent should ever do. I burdened you. To burden and abandon your child... there is no greater shame. It was not fair of me to ask you to look after the savior, to put the expectation of breaking the curse on your shoulders. You are allowed to be angry. You..."

The words dry up in his throat as he recalls what August said a minute ago. I promise I tried not to be. His heart thuds hard against his chest, like an axe meeting wood. It's worse than he thought.

He takes hold of August's cheek, turning him so they're looking at each other. "Oh, passerotto. You are allowed flaws. It was wrong of the Blue Fairy and I to expect you to always be brave and honest and unselfish. It was wrong to tell you that you weren't real if you were bad."

He could see the doubt in August's face, so he ushers him to stand and beckons him to the workbench to where nervous whittling projects lay unfinished.

"Here. The most beautiful carvings have flaws."

August exhales a laugh which sounds almost painful.

Geppetto inches closer. “I should have told you every day from the day I made you… You were always real to me. Whether flesh…” He places his hand over August’s heart. “Or pine. And I have always been proud of you. Whenever I look at you, I am proud. Even when I was cursed, I knew... I knew I was proud of you."

"You were?"

"I could feel it. My heart knew you, my child." He rubs August's chest. He's struggling to speak. "Now I… I must beg your forgiveness for making you believe different. For being a coward. I am so sorry, son.” He tries not to sob, but it’s inevitable. “I’m so sorry.”

August hugs him.

"My boy, my beautiful boy!” He hugs back with all his might. “Can you truly forgive me?"

“I forgive you, Papa,” breathes August. “A thousand times."

The work henceforth is easier. Geppetto switches to a sponge with a lighter grit and an even lighter one after that until August’s cheek is as smooth as possible while maintaining its shape. The smaller scratches are gone, and the largest has narrowed like a wound in the process of healing.

"You were always getting into scrapes,” he teases. “Do you remember when you burned your feet? A pile of ashes in the middle of my floor. Your legs - stumps!" He smiles. At the time, it had been a terrifying, infuriating ordeal. He'd shouted at him. "The second pair I made I think... were much better than the first."

There’s a hint of a smile on August’s face. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left matches lying around.”

“Hmm. You’re right, of course. I was much unprepared to have a toddler underfoot. Certainly not what I had in mind when I brought home the pine that morning.” He rewets the sponge and pats August’s face dry with the towel so he can inspect it. “Much better.” He gestures to the broken shoulder socket. “Let’s see what we can do about this.”

The socket is damaged and must be remade. They work together, as if August had never been away. It is not an afternoon’s work. With August’s missing arm and Geppetto’s burned hand, they only have a pair of hands between them. They take their time. There is no need to rush. Geppetto has no deadlines to meet. He welcomes the slowness, how it stretches the time spent with his son, and longs for it to last forever, as if he could cram the missing 28 years in the space of a single project. Nightfall forces them into weak light until exhaustion forces them to stop. August lights him a candle before he goes to bed, and he is there in the morning with Caffè corretto.

It is late the next day when Geppetto reattaches August’s arm. "There," he says once it’s done. "How's that?"

August makes circles with his elbow. "Perfect."

As Geppetto wipes and puts the tools away, August shrugs his jacket on. “Are you going somewhere?”

“There’s a lot of work I need to do. A lot of people I need to make amends to.”

"I must make amends too. To Snow White and the Prince most of all, but others too. You, my boy, make me brave enough to do it. We can make things right, the two of us. Together. What do you need?"

Though he means it, he feels an uncomfortable uncertainty. He's an old man. He's long since become set in his ways and he has forgotten what it means to be humble and do right, and change is a terrifyingly painful prospect, like a porcelain doll breaking free of a mould. Pinocchio, bless him, appears to sense this for his voice goes carefully gentle and his smile is kind.

"I need my conscience."

Archie knocks on the door twenty minutes after Geppetto got off the phone with him. He brings Pongo, who puts his paws on Pinocchio’s chest and licks laughter out of him. It’s several minutes before Pongo lets him free and Pinocchio is able to stand and embrace Archie.

"Hey there, Pinoke.” Archie’s voice is thick with emotion. "I said you'd be as tall as a pine tree!"

"You're quite a bit taller yourself.”

Archie titters. “It’s so good to see you! I was so worried when we found you in that ravine and…” He trails off, shaking his head. “That doesn’t matter now. I’m glad you’re okay. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Pinocchio looks at his feet. “I didn’t do too well after I left you. You were right. This world is full of temptations.”

Archie looks at him kindly. “I know. It’s alright.”

“I need your help. Your guidance. Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

As they take their seats in the lounge, Geppetto goes into the kitchen and makes coffee, listening to the softness of their voices as if it’s 28 years ago. He disturbs them only once, to give them their drinks, and then takes himself down to the workshop so they can talk in privacy. He whittles to past the time. Some hours later, Archie comes down into the workshop. Geppetto sets down his knife and block of wood, which he had been working into the shape of a dove.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” says Archie.

He bats a hand. “I’m fine.”

Archie chortles very quietly. “I wonder how long your nose would grow.”

Geppetto rubs the beak of his whittled dove with his thumb. The burn on his hand is flaking now. Not painful, just a nuisance. He rises. “I would like to have my parents' funeral soon. Tomorrow morning if possible. Now Pinocchio is back we can say goodbye as a family.”

“Of course. I’ll fetch them right away.”

“Wait. Jiminy.”

Archie looks over his shoulder with surprise.

Geppetto’s throat dries. There is a lot to make right. Perhaps he can start here. "I must apologise."

Archie frowns.

"I shouldn't have asked you to go along with putting Pinocchio into the wardrobe. I shouldn't have used the death of my parents to bully you into keeping my secrets." He moves closer. "You know I... I've never been able to truly forgive you all these years, though lately I’ve been thinking about where I would be, who I would be, had you not chosen to find me. I fear I might have been a very lost man had you not been there.”

“That hardly makes up for…”

“It doesn’t, no, but you have tried to make up for it and it was deeply cruel of me to spurn you. You are, after all, my only friend.”

Archie swallows thickly.

“I was, I think, a much better friend to you as Marco,” Geppetto continues. “You’ve spent my life treating me well. Now I would like to spend the rest of it doing the same for you.”

Archie dips his chin as he composes himself. When he looks up, his smile is unmatched.

The funeral is a small affair. Afterwards, Geppetto feels hollowed out. It’s as if he had been made of anger and now the anger has drained away. He is of the age where he’s incapable of finding an independent sense of meaning, so he takes to observing his son.

Or perhaps that is nonsense. Perhaps he wants what he’s always wanted.

To not be alone.

Pinocchio is working on a project. He is leaning over design papers on the kitchen table with a pencil tucked behind his ear.

“What are you making?” Geppetto asks, coming to peek at the paper he is so fixated on. It’s something narrow and fairly flat, like the fin of a fish. Perhaps a new tool. A palette knife, maybe.

“It’s a gift,” he says with an enigmatic smile.

“And what material are we thinking for this gift? We are out of pine.”

“Not quite,” he replies softly. “How are the saws? Do they need sharpening?”

“A little clean won’t do them any harm.”

“I’ll do it.” Pinocchio rounds the table in the direction of the workshop. Abruptly he staggers, clutching the table to stop himself falling. He hisses. He’s holding his leg stiff, and his head is bent back in agony.

"What's happened? Are you alright?" Geppetto allows no protest. "Let me see!"

Pressing his lips tight, Pinocchio tugs up his jeans leg. Like broken bark on a damaged tree, his wooden skin mid-way down his thigh has chipped away and under the jagged line of split wood is human flesh.

Pinocchio sits on the work table as the Blue Fairy studies his leg with a stoic consideration. Below his thigh, his skin is inflamed, veins pushing at the surface under the stress. All the way down to his Achilles is swollen. Geppetto had made him sit down and had taken off his shoes and socks for him. It’s just the right leg affected.

Blue brushes the seam where the wood is digging into the skin and, like catching rain off a leaf, she comes away with light clinging to her fingertips. She curls her fingers and the light seeps into her palm. “Congratulations,” she offers.

Pinocchio huffs, amused, choked.

“Congratulations?” Geppetto repeats incredulously.

“Papa, it’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t! You’re in pain!”

“You know what they say…” He smiles evens as he presses his head back in agony. “The truth is painful.”

Geppetto looks to Blue. “Can’t you speed up the process?” He implores. “Or stop it?”

Blue, as usual, takes his brashness on the chin. “This can be easily stopped by Pinocchio’s own actions.”

“If I’m dishonest,” says Pinocchio.

“Your magic made him real in an instant!” Geppetto points out.

“You wish and wish and wish for the same thing over and over, Geppetto.” Blue gives a sigh. She looks at her fingertips a moment longer before tucking her hands together in front of her and giving Pinocchio her full attention. “This small amount of magic you’ve given back is not enough for me to transform you fully into a human, however it’s a start. If you choose to continue on this path, I am confident I will gain enough magic to complete the rest of the spell, if you have not transformed all the way yourself. This, however, presents its own problems. It still isn’t certain to me how magic will work in this land. It has already behaved unexpectedly.”

"Then I'm running out of time,” Pinocchio says through ragged breaths. A crack appears on his thigh. His flesh pushes against the seam of bark.

Geppetto's jaw hangs open. "Running out of - What do you mean, passerotto?"

"There's something I need to do. And I need your help." 

"Anything, my boy."

“My gift. It’s for Mr. Gold.” Pinocchio glances at Blue. “You know what I’m planning, don’t you?”

“I'm aware of what you hope to achieve. I've spoken with Belle - a kind and determined friend you've made there, Pinocchio," she adds, with a touch of pride. "Excellent choice."

Geppetto notices how the comment puts shame in Pinocchio’s eyes and grumbles with disapproval.

Blue spares him a glance. "I do not mean to be insensitive. I'm happy you've grown wiser. But if you plan to transfer the magic inside of you to another object, I fear it is much too late.” She flourishes her hand, and her fingertips light up. “It is already escaping.”

Pinocchio grins. “Then it’s time for a little improvisation. Papa. My gift. It needs to be carved from enchanted wood.”

Geppetto… is utterly lost. “My child, there are no enchanted trees in this world.”

“No,” agrees Pinocchio. He’s looking past him.

At the wall.

Where the saws are hung.

And the realisation makes Geppetto go weak in the knees. “No!” he hisses. “You cannot ask that of me.”

"It won't hurt. Not as much as this anyway.”

"I won't do it. I cannot. I will not!”

"I can't do it on my own." He can’t, but his tone of voice says he will try.

A tremor grows through Geppetto. “I… I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“You don’t have to do this, Pinocchio,” Blue adds.

“You told me to be brave."

Blue scowls. “This is not bravery, this is foolishness!”

“I call it faith.”

“You wish to save the Dark One’s soul." Her expression changes little, yet her distain for Mr. Gold is plain. “Rumplestiltskin has done many terrible things in his lifetime, much worse than what you’ve done. You shouldn’t compare yourself to him.”

“You don’t think he deserves a second chance?”

“I don’t think he’ll take it. I gave him his second chance. I’ve told you this story. I gifted his son a magic bean so they could travel to a realm without magic together, and the Dark One abandoned his son for his power.”

“He regretted it!” Pinocchio cries. “He’s tried to fix it!”

“And in doing so, he condemned us all to our current fate! If not for him, Regina would never had the means to enact the Dark Curse! Every step he takes is dogged by his selfishness. I know you mean well, but some people cannot be redeemed.” She inhales, holds it, and exhales. “But if this is what you choose... I will not stop you.”

Geppetto gapes at her, and then at his son. "All this... For Mr. Gold? Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

There are no words. He could order him not to, but Pinocchio would not listen. He could refuse, but Pinocchio would do it anyway.

“In light of this, I need to prepare,” Blue says. “I must warn the other fairies that magic is returning proper. The residents will need to be informed as soon as possible.” Automatically, Geppetto walks her to the door and opens it for her. On her way out, she fixes him with a stern-eyed look. “It is vital…that you tell Snow White.”

She leaves the house and hastily crosses the street.

Geppetto clings to the door.

“Shall we tell Snow White?” Pinocchio asks softly behind him.

“I will tell her.” He is already reaching for his coat. “You must stay here and rest. Do not do anything until I get back. I won't be long.”

He has only been to the Blanchard loft once before, as Marco, to fix a rotten banister. Back then, the apartment nor its owner left no impression. Now he approaches the door with trepidation. Hat already in hand, he knocks.

David opens the door, looks at him for a second as if he’s deciding whether to slam the door shut in his face, before he props his elbow against the door. “Marco,” he says calmly. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to warn you. Pinocchio is turning back into a re – into the man he was before.”

David lifts his eyebrows and looks over his shoulder at Snow.

“When that happens, all the magic contained within him – the magic Mr. Gold brought in that purple shroud – will all be released. It has already begun. The earthquake, the ravine – it all happened because the magic is escaping him. I do not know what else might happen, but for certain the Dark One and the Evil Queen will return to full power.”

There’s a pause. Both of them appear shocked.

“Thank you for telling us,” murmurs Snow. "We'll figure something out."

It’s an acknowledgement as well as a dismissal.

“And I…”

Don’t be a coward.

“And I wanted to apologize again. I know it changes nothing. You have every right to be angry.

David watches him until Snow says, “Let him in.” David pushes the door all the way open, a gaping entry into a room that’s too bright.

Geppetto shuffles on the doorstep. He doesn’t want to go in. He’s scared to. He could tell them that he has to get back to Pinocchio – it wouldn’t be a lie, though it was dishonest and cowardly – and being the good people they are, they would let him go. Geppetto knows when something is broken for good. This is not, but if he walks away now it will be.

He goes into the apartment. They make him coffee. He sits at their table opposite Snow. David leans, armed folded, against the kitchen island in silence.

“Do you want to know how long I held Emma before I had to give her up?” asks Snow very calmly.

He waits. He’s sat at her Highness’s table before. He knows how to listen.

“Sixty seconds.”

He’s sat at her Highness’s table before. On the council. He’d sat and been dishonest. He sees now how much that dishonesty has cost an innocent woman.

“I was still bleeding,” Snow continues, a tremor of anger in her otherwise steady voice. "I didn't even have chance to breastfeed my baby. The first precious moment a mother bonds with her child and I missed out. I will never be able to do it. And you will never understand what that is like."

She is glaring at him. He’d known, of course, that she was a bandit for a short time and a warrior, though now he can see these aspects of her character in her face. She touches the handle of her mug, and he expects her to throw its contents at him. But she doesn’t. She lets out a short sigh and expels the warrior with it.

“I understand why you did it. You were giving your son his best chance.” She covers her mouth with her hand, drawing a breath through her fingers. “…I forgive you.”

“And I forgive you too,” adds David quietly. He hasn’t moved from his defensive position by the kitchen counter, but his stance is friendlier.

“I… I did not expect forgiveness,” Geppetto says uncertainly.

“Holding onto anger will only drag out how miserable we are. The curse is broken. We need to start acting like it.” She smiles then, a struggling smile but a smile no less. “Marco. Your curse is broken.”

For Geppetto, the curse didn’t end when Emma Swan saved them all. But now, when he returns home to see his son in his workshop, he finally feels as if it has.

Pinocchio is obsessing over his design. He'd done the same as a boy. He’d became that way after Geppetto and he had escaped the Dogfish and Geppetto had thought it was trauma, a child needing his father’s encouragement. Now he knows Pinocchio is seeking perfection.

“I’ll help you,” he announces upon entering the room. Pinocchio looks up, startled at first, but soon beaming with a brilliant smile. Geppetto lets out a half-hearted grumble. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Pinocchio doesn’t stop smiling.

“Vienni.” He gestures for him to pass over the design paper. “Let’s make your gift for Mr. Gold.”

Chapter Text

___

It's been three days.

Three days since finding August in the ravine. Since the argument with Neal. Since all of Gold’s plans unravelled like yarn from a dropped skein.

Now Gold sits in his shop at his wheel and spins, unsure of what else to do. He watches the threads weave together and tries to forget. To forget all those weeks spent with August. To forget his terrible, misguided argument with Neal. To forget how he'd treated Belle that very same day, when all she'd done was stay by his side.

But he cannot.

In the woods, once August and Geppetto left, Prince Charming, ever the hero with a penchant for talking, made a speech about unity or some similar, ridiculous sentiment, and he and the others had ambled back into Storybrooke to nurse their bruises, to hold their loved ones, to whisper and gossip about what they had just witnessed. Baelfire was gone, and Gold didn't know where.

This left only him and Belle. Gold was turning over August's words in his head and asking himself how the day had gone so wrong so quickly. Mere hours ago everything had seemed within his grasp - his sons, his family, everything.

Belle slipped her hand into his, jolting him from his thoughts as she squeezed his fingers. "It's going to be okay. I'm with you."

But Gold was distracted. Things felt different. There was a charge in the air that wasn't there before.

Palatable. Almost metallic.

Gold breathed it in, along with the smell of wet moss and soil. Breathed it and felt the muscles in his weak leg swell and slot into a comfortable place. He looked down in surprise and then eased off on his wrist, where he had been pushing his weight into the topper on his cane, and rotated out the ache in his wrist joint. He adjusted his stance, finds his mouth curve into a confident smile as he straightened his back. 

"Maybe this is for the best," Belle said. "August, I mean. Being with his... father."

He looked sharply at her.

"Rumple?"

Just as it's supposed to be, came a twisted thought. He was never yours to begin with.

He was a fool. He’d had what he’d really wanted, hiding in plain sight, and he’d been so enamoured with his new toy that he hadn’t seen it. Magic, right there for the taking. If he'd had it, he would have been able to make Baelfire stay. His heart misguided him once again. What good was a heart really?

"Perhaps you're right." He looked past their joined hands, at his leg which was supporting more weight than it can usually bear. He let her go and stepped closer to the ravine, to the edge of it, and looked down into the darkness. 

"What is it?" asked Belle.

"It's coming back." Gold bared his teeth. "My power."

It was a small bit of it, cornering on the edge of the ravine, beading like dew on the foliage. That was what created this ravine. Compressed magic, forced out in one powerful blast. It was such a tiny amount, but Gold could feel how powerful it will be once he gains it all back, once it’s his to control.

"Rumple." Belle sounded afraid.

He blinked and found her eyes, her blue, blue eyes. He hadn't noticed that at some point he'd crouched in the mud. Belle had flung herself to her knees next to him. She looked upset. Wordlessly, he touched her face to comfort her, rubbing dirt on her cheek.

"You don't need magic," Belle said. "You don't need it, Rumple."

"Magic is power," he explained carefully. "With it, my leg… I’ll be able to protect you. We need it.”

"No. You just want the power." There were tears in her eyes. "Right now you feel powerless. You're upset, but getting your magic back won't change anything. It won't bring August and Baelfire back."

Gold scoffed and pushed to his feet. His legs worked without protest. 

She got up too. There was dirt on her knees. "I’ve been wanting you to see that you have something better than magic. Please, see it now. Don’t let this ruin your progress."

Oh, he could see. He could see the hidden meaning in her words, the truth she'd confessed without meaning to.

He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You knew. You knew August possessed my power. And you kept it from me." There was something else too. He could tell by her expression. "What else are you hiding?"

She shook her head.

"Belle," he said sternly.

"It wasn't like that. He wasn't possessing it. He didn't know until I told him!"

So she truly had known.

"How long have you been keeping this from me?" He took a step toward her.

She took a step back.

He took another step toward her and abruptly his knee was weak again and he had to strike the ground with his cane to stop himself from falling.

"Rumple!" She was by his side again, reaching for him. "Are you alright?"

"It's not enough,” he growled. He struck the ground again in his frustration.

But then something occurred to him.

It was August who held the magic. All that was rightfully his was trapped within a marionette, and if what had happened earlier this afternoon was anything to go by, August was losing his grip on it.

Power, right there for the taking. Gold could have it all back. August wasn't strong enough to stop him. If Gold played this right, all he might have to do his command him to give it up. After all, a good boy must obey his father, and August did so ever want to be good.

As if hearing his thoughts, Belle stood toe-to-toe with him, cupping his face. "You don't have to be that man anymore. You're not that man anymore. Look at all you've done without magic. You found your son, and you found a man who loves you like you're his father. You found me. I know you need courage, but you can get courage from those who love you. From your family. From me."

He spread his hands. They were alone in the woods. Didn't she understand?

"There is no one," he hissed. Nobody loves me, thought Gold. That was why he lost everyone. Deep down, there was nothing about him worthy of love. Everyone leaves.

"You promised me you wouldn't give in to your hate!"

Gold avoided looking at her face. He knew it hurt her to hear it, but she didn't understand. He could see, almost as if one of his prophecies was laid out in front of him, how his undoing will come to be. Magic, returned. Regina, in full power. His Dark One knife, discovered. 

The knife. He needed to get it before someone else did.

"We'll talk about this later," he said. He looked around, got his bearings, and brushed past her.

She followed. "I'm going with you, wherever you're going. You shouldn't be alone right now. I don't want you to be alone, Rumple."

He didn't notice her reaching for his arm, but when her fingers brushed his elbow, he tore away from her. "Go home, Belle!" he snapped, pushing his way through snapped ferns and over-turned earth, ignoring his guilt when he heard her cry.

He found his path, walking with purpose through the woods until he came to a lake, where there was an old fishing cabin. This was the place where it all began, where he and August first wound their web of lies. He lingered for a minute, turning it over in his mind. Would have all this been better if Gold had put an end to the game that very night?

He went into the cabin to retrieve a spade. From there, he continued past the lake and found where the water fed into it from a shallow stream, and followed this upward, against the current, until he came to where three large stones created a natural dam. The stones were coated in moss and a tree sprung up from the narrow space between them. There was a shrub nearby, and in the clearing between them Gold pushed the tip of the spade into the dirt.

He didn’t have to dig long before he found it. The knife was bundled up in cloth. He knelt to pick it up and unwrapped it just to see it – to see his name engraved within its blade.

Rumplestiltskin.

He ran his thumb along the inscription and felt it sing.

---

The straw for the thread Gold is spinning runs out and, with it, Gold is brought back to his shop, away from the turning of the wheel and away from the memory. He halts the wheel's motion and begins the work of re-threading it.

Three days. Three days of hearing nothing from Neal, from Belle, and from August.

In the other room, he hears the shop bell sound out. Someone has entered. Gold grits his teeth and calls out. "Didn't you see the sign on the door? The shop is closed." He snatches up his cane and wrestles to his feet. His ankle aches in protest, but Gold pushes himself from the back room and into the shop proper. "Didn't you hear me? I said..." He sees who is standing in his shop. "Well now! This is certainly a surprise. What do I owe this little intrusion?"

Mother Superior - ha! - lifts her chin like a defiant tween. Her eyes are hard.

"I came hoping to speak to Belle."

"She isn't here," Gold grits out, angered by the reminder. Despite her reassurances that she wasn't leaving him, circumstances had inspired Belle to reconnect with her father.

"Then I will go elsewhere." The fairy turns to leave.

Gold takes a step forward. "What do you want from her?"

Blue stops, hand on the doorway, and looks back at him with the same smugness she'd had while under the Curse. Mother Superior, indeed.

"I hardly think that concerns you," she replies.

"It does."

He takes another step.

"I simply wished to thank her for being so good to Pinocchio," says Blue, smiling tightly. "Is that satisfactory?"

Gold doesn't believe her for a second. "That isn't the reason you came here."

"I assure you it is."

The Blue Fairy never betrays her emotions on her face, but when Gold takes another step closer, she slips her wand from her coat sleeve into her palm.

He chuckles darkly. "You came to see if I had my power back."

"You continue to assume everything is about you."

"Lying blackens a heart does it not? Seems we have something in common after all. That wand is useless."

Blue sucks in her cheeks. "And what does denial do to a heart? You still blame me, and all fairies, for you losing your son. But you chose to leave him, Rumplestiltskin. That is no lie. I gave you a chance for you and him to be free. Think of all the trouble we could have been spared had you taken it!"

Gold bares his teeth. "Get out."

The door chime rings, shrill, and the Blue Fairy leaves as quickly as she might if she still had wings.

---

There's no one guarding the prison when Gold pays Regina a visit.

Her Majesty is asleep. She is sat upright, her skull pressed uncomfortably against the cell bars. Gold stalks toward her, feeling much like he did when he hunted and killed his tormenters. He wills the dregs of his magic into his fingertips, where he wakes a flame. He brings the flame close to Regina's face, who frowns in her sleep, and then all at once she wakes. She gasps and leaps away from him. Gold laughs.

"Hello, your Majesty," he says snidely.

Regina is pressed against the wall, eyes wide.

Ah, that's what he likes to see. Fear. He's missed it.

"Gold," she breathes.

"Say my name."

Regina swallows, eyes on the flame. "Rumplestiltskin."

Gold sneers. "Threw herself off a tower, did she?"

"What?"

"That's what you told me. My Belle threw herself off a tower. That she died." He curls his fingers into a fist and crushes the flame. "But she wasn't dead. You imprisoned her. For twenty-eight years."

"She got over it," spits Regina. "Maybe you should take a leaf out of her book."

Oh, Gold will make her suffer for this. She hadn't seen how his darling Belle struggled to adjust after she was free. She hadn't felt the pain Gold had felt all these years thinking Belle was dead. Regina was going to pay. Slowly. Painfully. He draws on the little magic he has. It's feeble, hesitant, like trying to lick droplets from an empty glass.

And Regina is still talking. "Why, now we're positively besties."

Gold stares at her. "What did you say?"

Regina smirks, regaining some of her composure. "Oh dear. Is there trouble in paradise?"

"Belle? Came to see you? Why?”

"Wouldn't you like to know." Regina gets to her feet, hands raised. "But if you have your power back, that means so do I!"

Gold lifts his hands, ready to counter the attack.

A lamp flickers and fizzles.

They hold their poses for a silent beat and then they both look with frustration at their hands. At least Gold has the satisfaction of watching Regina's smirk fall.

She lets out a frustrated growl. "What is going on?"

"This magic is one we have to draw from its source, like water from a well."

"What source?!"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

She presses her lips tight. Shakes her head. "Coward! Resorting to parlour tricks! You haven’t any real power at all!”

"Soon I will, and when that day comes, dearie, you had better watch your back."

---

His home is empty, so Gold finds comfort in the sanctuary of his shop. He returns to his wheel, and spins, and spins, and spins.

Sometime during the spinning, he can’t say when, he slips into a half-formed sleep. He can still see the wheel turning and feel the little puffs of air against his hands as it is pumped through the wheel, but his consciousness is elsewhere.

In an old home which smelt of fresh timber, a home with a spinning wheel, turned by smaller hands, and two spinsters who praised how quickly he picked up their teachings. A place from memory. The women, who raised him from childhood to his early adulthood, weren’t not related to him, but he referred to them as his aunts – Aunt Tilly and Aunt Glynis.

In the dream, he's spinning. Through the window, he can hear children playing.

“Why don’t you go play with them?” prompts Aunt Glynis, nudging him between his shoulder blades to coax him toward the door. He digs in his heels and stays by the wheel.

“I don’t want to.”

Had this been reality, his aunts would have let the subject drop at his first protest. He was, after all, so very good at spinning and given how poor they were, it would have been unwise to encourage him away from the business. In this dream, they give voice to the pity in their expressions.

“What are you frightened of, Rumple?” asks Aunt Tilly.

Rumple chews his lip. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Rumple,” chides Aunt Tilly. She brushes a curl from Rumple’s forehead. “I do wish you weren’t so hard on yourself, dearie. You’re enough the way you are.”

Gold wakes with his cheek on resting on his knuckles and a throbbing ache in his neck, spine, and ankles. Tomorrow has crept up on him.

Four days, he thinks and curses himself for counting. He rubs the marks out of his cheeks. His ankle is so stiff he can't move from the chair for a long time.

When he manages to coax himself up, he makes rotating motions with his leg to get it used to moving. Then he rises, grabs his cane for support, and limps into the shop front to pace a line between the shelves.

He hobbles two steps before the pain is unbearable. He rests his hand on a shelf and sighs in frustration. When he lifts his hand, he knocks something. He looks.

There, rocking, is a little wooden swan, a keepsake from many, many years ago, when a young boy had crept into a dwarven cave to visit a lowly prisoner kept there.

Gold picks it up. It’s not neat. It was hacked into existence, rough on the surface where the knife ion out chunks. Though not sanded, it was hastily painted with a thick resin. There’s a small thumbprint where the maker picked it up before it was dry. Made in secret, hasty to deliver.

The bell above the shop door rings. Gold’s eye twitches with irritation. Had he forgotten to lock the door last night? He must have done.

This thought is soon swamped as his muscles go tense. There are prickles on the back of his neck. Behind him, he can sense the pulse of something powerful standing in his shop. 

He puts the swan down carefully, closes the cabinet door with the air of a man who fears nothing. Resting his fingers against the glass, he half-turns and says, "I'm certain I locked that door."

"You did."

Gold's heart stutters in his chest. He would know that brazen, cocky voice anywhere. He glances down at his leg, shifting a little more of his weight onto it than he is used to, and finds he can stand taller without pain. “You should be careful where you go, sunshine. You’re leaking -”

He turns and his final word becomes half-formed, cut in half by the sight of August’s face. It’s the oddest thing. August is wooden, but only in part. On the left side, from his forehead through his eye and down to his mouth, the wood has split. Like how lichen covers a tree, skin has risen from the crevice. His left eye is human, blinking at him through the gap, like a baby bird peeking through a hole in its egg.

Gold closes his mouth. He recovers, squaring his shoulders. "Well, you're looking significantly less wooden than when I last saw you, Mr. Booth."

"So it's Mr. Booth now?" drawls August. He tucks his lockpick back into his jacket. He's wearing it open for a change, the zip partway down, a loose white shirt underneath. Despite the artwork of his face, he looks happier, more relaxed.

"The ruse is finally over." Gold puts on a smirk. "It was rather fun while it lasted. I'd say we had all of Storybrooke fooled at one point."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" 

"Pretend that none of it meant anything."

Gold presses his lips tighter, a shadow of a smile. He can't help but gaze at the human part of August's face, where his human eye gleams. "It's a shame it had to end,” he concedes. “By the looks of things, you'll be human in no time."

August cocks his head, looking at him thoughtfully. "That's new." He laughs quietly. At Gold's frown, he explains, "You prefer me made of wood."

"No," Gold corrects. His voice comes out hoarser than he expected, and August's eyes widen. Gold rubs his lips together, considering. It's not that he prefers August as a puppet, exactly, though he can't deny the disappointment he feels now August is transforming back. He liked knowing that August could never lie to him. He liked that August couldn't...

Leave him.

It isn't right, but he'd hoped that the incident in the woods might have isolated August from the rest of Storybrooke and encouraged him back into Gold's home, where they can be despised together. Except August had turned to Geppetto, not him. August had chosen Geppetto.

Now he has returned. Dare he hope? Has this not ended after all?

With his feet, Gold moves delicately around the shop. With his words, he moves delicately around the subject. "You've reconciled with your father, I take it?"

"I have."

Gold glances at a shelf, thumbing the trinkets collecting dust there, and permits a brief outward expression of regret. For a second he closes his eyes and inhales sharply through his nose. Opening his eyes, he picks up an old pocket watch and rubs his thumb over its glass face.

"We have a lot to work through," August continues, and Gold hears the creak of leather as August shifts. "He said I was always real to him." He phrases it like a question.

Gold turns to face him fully, settling his hands on his cane. "You don't believe him."

"I know he's telling the truth."

"But you don't believe him," Gold says again, kindly, so that August can hear that he understands the doubts that love can bring when offered freely where it had once been withheld. The message is received; August smiles.

Gold had meant to be kind, but finds his kindness momentarily swamped by a possessive hope. If there is still discord between Pinocchio and Geppetto, perhaps Gold need only take careful action to bring August back to him. He’d have August and, once puppet had transformed fully into a man, he’d have magic. It wasn’t all he desired, but it was a start.

Then again, he is still uncertain as to whether August is the boy foretold in the Seer's prophecy. If anyone were to be his undoing, August would certainly be a strong candidate. Then there is Henry to consider.

August breaks eye contact. "I've learned..." He huffs out a laugh. "...that belief is not as easy as I thought it was."

Humming, Gold lifts his shoulders higher as he crosses to the other side of the shop. "You've always championed belief, even when you were a boy."

"It was all I had. Faith that I could be rea - that I could change. Become human."

Gold hums. He goes back to the cabinet, retrieving the wooden swan.

August stares. "You kept it."

"It was given to me in payment."

"I didn't think you remembered.”

“Not at first.”

“When did you realise that...?"

"That I'd met you before? The night I told you about Belle. You told me to have faith." Gold gestures with the wooden swan. "The day you gave me this, you told me it was so I had something to believe in."

August's eyes widen. "I did?"

"Now who has the poor memory?"

"I remember it differently. I remember trying to decide if I'd been brave or selfish. And then, everything else happened. The Enchanted Tree, carving the wardrobe, and there was no time to think about it so I convinced myself I imagined the whole encounter. I thought I’d dreamt it.”

"I assure you it was real."

August reaches for the wooden swan and Gold lets him take it. He tilts it, studying it, frowning at it.

Could this be enough? Could Gold ever be enough?

“I hurt you when I said I didn’t want you," Gold says. “I didn’t mean it. Not one word. Come back to the house. We'll have a meal, like before. We can talk everything over. Stay with me.”

August lifts his eyes from the swan. "Are you asking for me... or are you asking because you want the magic?"

Instinct tells Gold to lie. If he told the truth, August would turn away from him like so many had done before. Except there's an unfulfilled debt; Gold has robbed deceit from this young man. For weeks, August could only be truthful. He deserves his honesty returned. Themselves made equal.

"I want you. And I want magic."

He expects August to recoil, but he doesn't. Rather, he nods as if Gold and he were discussing the weather.

"I never would have asked you to change," adds Gold.

"But I need to." He puts down the swan on the shelf nearest to him.

"August," pleads Gold, and perhaps he might have had something more to say, but then August is wincing and biting down a groan. He's staggering, reaching for the shelf to keep himself upright. Gold grasps his arm and upon the touch he feels an energy surge. He withdraws his fingers, gazing at them.

August eyes him. "I don't have long."

"You've come for my help," Gold guesses, pleased. He smiles helplessly and without meaning to, he neatens August's necktie and as he does his fingers touch the cracks forming in August’s wooden throat, and Gold feels more and more elated, more powerful, knowing he can have August and more.

But August shakes his head. He pushes himself upright and takes a step back, away from Gold's hands. "I needed to talk to you and I needed to do it while you would still believe what I had to say."

"I don't understand."

“I have something for you.”

For the first time, Gold notices that August has been holding something long and wrapped in cloth. Gold blinks as August holds it out to him. He takes it, drawing away the fabric and letting it fall to the floor. It's a long, narrow scabbard made of wood. It's smooth to the touch and Gold traces the golden squirls and lines decorating it.

"The patterns are made by maki-e, a Japanese decoration technique," explains August, "and the wood is coated with lacquer to make it strong and waterproof."

"It's remarkable," murmurs Gold. It's just as beautiful as any of the antiques in his shop, but he doesn't understand why August would give him such a gift or what it means. "Why a scabbard? One without a blade no less."

"You already have a blade."

Here, Gold begins to suspect. He glances up from the scabbard.

"I don't know where you've hidden it, but I know you have it somewhere," continues August. "Place it inside. The scabbard is made from enchanted wood. It'll absorb the knife's magic and keep that magic contained. The knife will become just as it was before the curse broke. No one will ever be able to use it to control you or use it to take your power away from you."

Gold shakes his head. He's flattered - nay, he's moved - by August's attempt, but this won't work. "The Dark One curse is very powerful magic. Breaking it, even suppressing it, is impossible."

"There was something that came close once," replies August. "True Love."

Gold stares.

"Belle told me." August shrugs one shoulder. He seems now very shy. He tucks his chin toward his collar, watching Gold from the side.

Gold looks down at the scabbard, trailing his fingertips along its edge. On closer inspection, he could see shapes in the pattern and he's certain he can see Belle and Baelfire. How much time must it have taken to craft this? The thought, the devotion, and the simple pleasure of making. Indeed it was made with love.

More than that, it is made from enchanted wood. There is only one place August could have gotten it - and at this realisation, Gold inhales sharply, glancing up, and he almost touches August again, wanting to bring the pad of his thumb to the tip of August's nose, which he can see now has been smoothed and reshaped by a professional hand. Gold fears the touch would be unwelcome and, in any case, he can't move. He's lost all his strength in the face of this gift and, helpless, he looks at it again. This sacrifice, the intention behind it, gives the trinket more power. It is courage, it is selfless, and it is true.

August loves him. The proof Gold had been so afraid of losing is right here in his hands. He can hardly breathe.

"You want magic, it's on its way." August is saying, and Gold only hears it after the fact, too stunned to reply. "It's up to you what you do when it arrives, and now nobody gets to take that choice away from you. You're free to choose your fate without fear."

It's only after the bell above the shop door rings that Gold is able to pull his gaze away from the scabbard.

By then, August is out the door. Gone, once more.

---

Gold can count on one hand the numbers of times he's been to Snow White's apartment. The stairs creak as he climbs them.

He knocks on the door to Snow White's apartment before entering, uninvited. Emma has her hands braced on the back of a chair and - this almost halts Gold's steps - Neal is leaning, cross-armed, on the kitchen countertop. They both recoil when Gold enters.

"What are you doing here?" snaps Neal.

Gold takes a step. Something in the air cracks and fizzles. He stops, frowns, and looks down at the rug laid across the wooden floor at his feet. With the end of his cane, he flips over the edge of it and sees an magical ward etched into the wood. "I see the Blue Fairy has paid you a visit as well. But unfortunately for you, and fortunately for me..." He steps over the ward and onto the carpet. "There isn't enough magic here for that to have any effect on me."

Emma hides her disappointment well, but not well enough.

"You'll also need something better than that, when the time comes," adds Gold. He's offended that the fairy thought such a ward would do any good. He's the Dark One. "That mark wouldn't have protected you from a dwarf, let alone me or Regina."

"I'm not taking any offers of protection from you, so save it," says Emma.

Neal bats an arm. "He's just here to gloat."

"Actually, I'm here to see Henry."

"Now's not a good time," says Emma.

Gold glances at the staircase leading to the loft. The boy must be in his room. A little out of character for a sociable, energetic boy like Henry. But then, he's had his life changed very suddenly. Gold thinks he knows what the problem is. "Ah," he murmurs. "Allow me. I think I know what to do."

Emma's frown deepens.

"Not a chance," mutters Neal. "Get the hell out of here."

There is no winning this fight with Neal, so Gold is forced to negotiate with the savior. He holds her gaze. "I promised you I would help Henry and I've never broken a promise to you. Have I?"

Neal scoffs.

"No," agrees Emma, "but your promises always come with a lot of surprises. I'd rather just cut to the dragon this time."

"If Henry is going to be in pain for a long time, he might want a little advice from someone who knows what living with pain is like. Just a thought."

Emma and Neal exchange a glance. They seem to come to a silent, mutual understanding.

"We'll be listening," says Emma.

Gold goes up the stairs and finds Henry's room. The door is shut. He knocks with his knuckles.

Henry shouts from within, "Go away!"

Gold enters the room. It's a plain, but organised room. On the shelves, Henry's toys are lined up in neat rows, and his books are stacked by color. There's a lump in the bed, under the covers. Gold sits next to it.

"I said go away," growls the lump.

"You won't tell your Grandpa what's wrong?"

There's a pause. "You're not my Grandpa. You're Rumplestiltskin. And I don't want your magic!"

"I'm not here to use magic on you. I did, however, promise your parents I would help you," Gold settles down on the edge of the bed, "and I happen to know a great deal about living with pain."

There's a long silence from the bed. Then the blankets shift and Henry's head lifts out of it. His hair is a nest. There are tears in his eyes. "You do?"

Gold pats his leg. "My injury. Though it was many years ago, it still hurts sometimes. I've had to live with that pain while I've been here."

Henry shuffles out of his cocoon of blankets and sits upright in bed. "Does it hurt now?"

"Yes," replies Gold. "Some days less so than others. The better days can be deceiving. When you feel like you can, you might try to do everything you couldn't on a bad day, and then the next time the pain is worse for it."

"I think that's what I've done." Henry blinks with exhaustion. His hair is slick with sweat. "I feel a little better now I've taken my medication, but I can still feel it."

"You might not be able to do all the things you used to do. After I... When I did what I did to my leg, I would sometimes forget that I couldn't run or walk as far as I had once done. I would try. Bae wanted to play and I would try for him. But then I'd be in bed for days after. Massaging the area can help." To demonstrate, he reaches down and rubs circles up and down his calf, starting at the ankle and travelling up to his knee, and back down again. "You may have to do it for longer than you think."

Henry watches in silence. Then he begins to run his hand up and down his shoulder, and then down to his side and back up again, copying Gold's circular motions. "What else?"

"As you can see, I also use a cane, which helps take the pressure of my leg. Have you been given anything like this?"

“Do you think I’ll get one? Your cane is awesome!”

Twisting the cane in question, Gold finds himself smiling. He much prefers this metal-headed cane to the wooden crutch he’d relied on in the Enchanted Forest, but he’d never thought either as “awesome.” No one else had either. In the Enchanted Forest, he had been called cripple, and had his crutch kicked out from under him, more times than he could count. He grins slyly at Henry, "It is, isn't it?"

He lets Henry admire the cane, watches him softly as he turns it in his hands, as he eases himself out of the bed with a determined slant to his mouth and walk paces with it. He lifts it like a sword, and Gold laughs.

"Just like your mother."

Once tired, which happens a lot sooner than it used to, Henry sits down on the bed. “Mr. Gold? How did you get hurt?”

“There was a war," replies Gold, voice soft. "I was able-bodied, so I was told to fight. But while I was stationed at the training camp, I discovered my wife was pregnant with our child, and I was afraid that if I stayed and fought my son would grow up fatherless. Just like I did.”

Henry looks at him with surprise.

“My father…” left me. Gold reshapes the sentiment, unable to face it. “I lost my father when I was only a few years younger than you are. I couldn’t let my son…” He stops himself again. No reshaping this time. He had let his son grow up without a father, regardless, just as the Seer told him he would. “I wanted to come home, so I made sure I wouldn’t be able to fight.”

Henry’s eyes grew wide. "You... did it to yourself?"

"Yes."

"So you could see your son?"

"Yes." Gold looks at his hands, his fingers curled on his knees, and closes his eyes against the shame.

“That's really, really brave!”

Gold looks at Henry in astonishment.

Henry's expression is earnest. “You did that for Baelfire? Does he know? Have you ever told him? Only a hero would make a sacrifice that big!"

"He knows the story," Gold manages, still staring in astonishment. It had been impossible to keep the story from Bae. Everyone let him know he was the son of a coward. "The point is, Henry, that... what I did... Whatever I intended, it didn't work out well."

Henry drops his chin. "I guess not."

He looks dejected. Whatever had happened that night of the accident, both son and mother were taking the blame. He suspects that Henry's stubbornness, a heritable trait apparently, had led him to take drastic action to stop Emma from escaping her fate. Henry's intentions had led to dire consequences. 

Gold isn’t sure how to continue from here. He can’t assume that what helps him forget the pain in his leg will give Henry the same relief. Gold has never helped anyone without magic. "I'm sure this world has other methods of managing pain," he says at last. "Perhaps we can try them together."

Henry's eyes light up. "You wanna spend time with me?"

Gold smiles gently. "If you'd like that."

Henry grins. "Of course!"

"Then, when you have your next appointment, I'll go with you."

"Thanks, Grandpa!" Henry leans over the blankets and hugs him. Gold is left staring down at his small head of brunette hair and unsure where to put his hands. Henry looks so much like Bae had, back in the days when Bae used to hug him without hesitating. Gold trembles. Tears spring to his eyes as he cards his hand through Henry's hair and returns the embrace proper.

Henry shifts in his arms, ready to be released, and Gold turns his face so he can dash away his tears. "You, ah, get some rest." Gold finds the floor with his cane and stands. "I'll see you soon."

He leaves the room feeling like he's floating. He closes the door and goes down the stairs and as he reaches the bottom he sees Miss Swan and Baelfire looking at him with faint expressions of surprise. Gold tries to feel smug, but the feeling sours seconds after arriving. He nods to them and goes to the door. Neal interjects his route, but only to open the door for him. Gold steps into the corridor, turns to look his son's face again, unsure when will be the next time.

Neal leans one bent elbow against the door. He itches the back of his head and clears his throat. "That was... That was real good of you."

"It's the least I could do."

"I didn't know you had that in you."

They look at each other. There's a furrow in Neal's brow, not quite a frown. He looks like he doesn't know what to make of him. Gold swallows. He wants to ask for forgiveness. He wants to hold his boy again, but then Neal pulls back.

"Thanks for coming," Emma says, watching them both.

Gold bows his chin and leaves. He hears the door close behind him. He hobbles shakily to the stairs, sits down on the first step, and then presses his face into his hands and sobs.

It's a moment of weakness. But no sooner as he began to sob did he hear footsteps coming up the stairs. With his leg, he is much too slow to get up, and around the bend in the stairway comes Prince Charming and Snow White. They're carrying shopping bags. Gold can see a hot water bottle in one. Supplies for Henry, no doubt. The pair are giggling at something, flirting with each other like they are still in the infancy of love, but they both go silent and pause mid-step when they see him. They gawp.

Gold sniffs. There's no point losing more of his dignity trying to scrub away his tears like a teen. He gathers himself up and stands. "Wipe those expressions of your faces. You look ridiculous."

He goes past them.

Of course, it isn't enough they leave him be. The pounding of heavy boots follows him down.

"Wait!" calls Charming, "Wait. Come on."

Charming is quick on his feet and catches up to him as the stairs level out to take their next bend. Gold stops once the floor is level, presses the end of his cane firm into the floorboards, and turns part-way to face Charming.

"Something I can help you with?" he asks impatiently. His tears are drying on his cheeks, itching his skin. He resists the urge to wipe them.

"Look, I... I've never seen..." He stops.

"All the makings of a King's Speech," Gold snipes and goes to leave again. "Now if you'll excuse me."

"Dammit, Gold, just hold on. This might sound crazy, but you and I have known each other a long time. I know you better than you think."

"Oh, I doubt that."

"Doubt it all you want but it's the truth. I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I'm worried about you."

Gold arches an eyebrow. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

"Like or it not, you're family and family look out for each other. If you won't talk to me, talk to someone else. Anyone. It'll do you good."

Gold scoffs at the phrasing, but as he continues down the stairs, he can't help but wonder.

---

At another door, in another apartment, Gold hesitates. He raises his knuckles to the door and pulls his lip between his teeth. He knocks on the door once. He considers walking away, but he holds himself.

The door opens a crack.

"Mr. Gold?" Archie holds the door between them like a shield. "Wha-What are you doing here?"

Gold forces the words to come. "...I thought we could continue on from my last session." It feels like a lifetime ago when he'd come to Archie for advice about how to approach his estranged son. Things had been so much simpler back then.

"Oh. Well, I..." Archie exhales sharply. He lifts his chin. "I'm going to have to refuse."

Gold is taken aback. He'd suspected things might be different this time, but he hadn't expected Archie to outright refuse.

"I'll find you someone else to speak with," continues Archie. "But it can't be me."

"Who else is there?" asks Gold. He imagines going through this with someone else and shakes his head. He holds up a placating palm. "No, I don't want to speak to anyone else. Why not you? What's the problem?"

Archie blinks with astonishment. "Wha - The problem? Mr. Gold, I... It's because frankly, I'm... I'm finding it very difficult to remain neutral about all this!"

Gold has no idea what to say.

Archie sighs. He joins Gold in the corridor, shutting the door to his office, and Gold has a feeling the door won't be reopened to him. "I have to say this, not as a therapist, but just as myself. Pinocchio means a great deal to me. I, to an extent, feel a fatherly connection to him. That doesn't give me the right to call him my son!"

"No, no, no. I'm not here to talk about that. It's about..." Gold stops speaking. Archie has stopped as well. They both look at each other in silence. 

Archie's expression is tentative. "What is it?"

If only he could say it. How would he explain? Where to begin?

Two potential boys. A prophecy of his demise. If only there were words to describe how he's feeling. It no longer matters which boy the prophecy speaks of. Not when Henry had looked so much like Bae in his arms. Not when August handed him a gift crafted of love. Gold will not let anything happen to them. His decision is made. The path toward his destruction is set before him. His undoing is inevitable. 

"It doesn't matter," says Gold and retreats completely.

---

Gold knocks on another door. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the flowers which grow under the shop windows and the door. A moment ago he'd seen a hand turn the sign in the shop door window from OPEN to CLOSED. He knows someone in still inside. He knocks again.

Eventually, Belle's father opens the door and scowls at him. "What do you want?" He speaks lightly, carefully, though his anger is plain to see. He still has a faint cut across the ridge of his nose from the time Gold abducted and beat him.

Gold tries to see past him. "Is Belle here?"

Moe, or Maurice, or whatever his name is, slaps his hand on the door frame to bar Gold's entrance. "No."

"Is she in the back?"

"No."

"I'd like to speak with her. I'm asking nicely."

"You don't have the right to do anything. You took her from me."

"She volunteered, and besides you were going to marry her off to a man she had no feelings for."

"It would have been a better match for her than you."

Gold longs for his magic, so he can kill the man with a snap of his fingers. He'd always hated people looking at him in the way Maurice is doing now. It's no secret that Gold isn't good enough for Belle, but he knows her well enough that she would have been unhappy if she'd been paired off with that oaf Gaston.

He thinks about Henry, cradled in his arms, looking so much like Bae. He pushes down his indignation. "Just... tell her I came by... and that I'm sorry," says Gold.

He leaves. He gets into his car and drives in the direction of his home, until he has a thought. If Belle isn't with her father, there is one other place she is likely to be. He curses himself for not thinking of it sooner. He turns the car, detouring down another road, and circling back to the town. He parks on the street opposite the library and approaches it on foot with hope batting its terrible wings in his chest. He looks through the window.

There she is, lovely Belle. She's carrying a stack of books and smiling. He takes a step closer, but then he sees she isn't alone. The wolf-girl is there too, and so is Emma, Snow, and Cinderella, and three more young women Gold doesn't recognise. There's baked desserts and drinks in red cups. They're all talking and laughing.

He can't disturb her. This is her place.

He turns and walks away. He goes home, at last.

---

The house is as quiet as the silence on after a battle's end. Gold walks up the stairs to August's room. All his belongings are still here. He hasn't come to collect them. There's a stack of papers on the desk. He pulls the sheet off the pile and reads a story August had left unfinished. 

Gold goes to the room he set aside for Baelfire, a room which will never be occupied.

Then he settles into his own room, in a bed which is cold and overly large, and falls into a restless sleep.

---

When Gold wakes, it's to a hand carding through his hair. He startles, capturing the gentle hand and opening his eyes.

"Belle," he gasps. She's lying next to him, wearing her silk nightdress. She'd come home last night and lay beside him all night. They sit up and embrace each other.

She strokes his hair. "Oh, Rumple. I've been so worried about you. I was beginning to think you wouldn't reach out, but then I saw you outside of the library."

"I didn't want to intrude. But I thought you were with your father?" He pulls away so he can look at her beautiful, beautiful face. 

"I was. I mean, I tried. It... didn't quite work out. I spent the last two nights at Ruby's. Having a... a 'girl's night.'" She grins as she says it, and Gold smiles with her. "I'd never... Before. My father's servants were forbidden to talk to me, I had no sisters, and my mother died when I was young."

"Were you having a celebration last night?"

"A little pre-opening party. I'm re-opening the library, and I'm starting an online proof-reading and editing service."

He looks at her with all the love in his heart. Carefully, he takes her hands in his. "Belle, my darling. I'm sorry for how I treated you. Please forgive me."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have kept secrets from you."

Gold shakes his head. "No, you were right to. You know me better than anyone. I wouldn't have reacted well." He kisses her fingers. "There's something I need to tell you. Come, let's get dressed and I'll make us breakfast."

Once they've dressed, they eat together at the dining table and after they've eaten, he takes her by the hand and guides her up out of her seat.

"A long time ago, I met a Seer who gave me a prophecy. She foretold that I would lose Baelfire, but she also told me that I would one day be reunited with him." He leads her down the steps into the basement. "She told me that a boy would lead me to him, but that same boy would be my undoing."

Belle frowns. "Undoing?"

"Her exact words." As they reach the bottom of the steps, Gold switches on the light. "Now I've found my son, except... two boys led me to him. Both Henry and August had a hand in the happy reunion, and I can't say for certain which of them the Seer was refering to."

"But August isn't a boy."

"He was the day our paths first crossed."

Belle lets go of his hand, and he takes a step away from her. She eyes him cautiously. "What are you doing to do?"

She's right to be cautious.

He goes to one of the shelves. Next to the book he's been meaning to gift to August, is the scabbard, wrapped in cloth. He takes it and carefully unwinds the cloth. He presents it to Belle.

She looks at him for permission, he nods, and she takes it carefully from him. "It's beautiful," she says, without taking her eyes off of it.

"Quite the talented man, that August."

"He gave this to you?"

"It's made from enchanted wood, and... with True Love." He keeps going without pause, though his cheeks burn when Belle's eyes snap up to his. "August believes it capable of removing the power from the Dark One knife, to contain that power in the wood, just as he contained the magic in Storybrooke. The only way to remove the Dark One curse is if someone kills me with that knife and the power goes to them. If this scabbard does indeed do what August claims, then the Dark One curse will die with me."

"Rumple..." murmurs Belle.

"It's coming true, Belle. What the Seer foretold." His eyes begin to water.

"Does undoing have to mean death?"

"What other meaning is there?"

Belle looks at him softly. She closes the space between them and brings her hands up to hold his face. "It could just mean change. An undoing of who you were - to be who you're supposed to be. From what you're telling me, August has given you a choice. You can choose to be good. You can use this scabbard and free yourself of your curse forever. It'll be the Dark One's undoing, not yours."

"I... Belle, I'm... I'm afraid."

"Oh, Rumple. I'm here." She embraces him.

Gold shudders in her hold. He loves her so much it hurts. He pulls back and takes her smooth hand in his. He presses a quick kiss to her knuckles and strokes them. "Whatever happens now, I want to be the man you deserve," he murmurs. "But you can't make me that man. It's not fair to expect beauty to change the beast." He chuckles sardonically. "But that's always how the fairy tale goes. Good conquers evil."

"You're not evil," insists Belle. "There's good in you. I've always known that."

He catches her hand and presses his lips to her palm. "I know, and I'm so lucky to have you. But I'm surrounded by heroes. None of them understand what it means to have done the things I've done. None of them can help me." He looks at her face. "You have always seen the best in me. I'll always be grateful for that, but I think what I've always needed is to be shown the way. I need someone who understands what it's like to be tempted by darkness. Someone who knows what it means to struggle against it. Now I have someone. If August can change, then I can as well."

Belle smiles, tears in her eyes. "Oh, Rumple!"

"Please be patient with me. There's a lot I need to do. But first, I must make things right with Baelfire."