Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The truth comes to him, finally, bittersweet and strange.

Belle is sitting across from him, her eyes like the sky of a spring morning, bright and fresh and full of hope. She is smiling at the strangeness of her hamburger, at the taste of the sauce tart on her tongue.

She has a candy bracelet hanging from her wrist, all pastel shades of pink and purple, a gift from one of the town children who adore Storybrooke’s new librarian. Rumplestiltskin has only been there once, although he watches other people pass in and out. He told her that it would be her place, and so it shall. He will not not set foot there again without Belle’s invitation.

She is not so skinny now. Here, with the winter sunshine streaming through the windows of the diner, she glows with health, her cheeks pink and her skin warm.

He watches her, discreetly, carefully. He forgets his own meal several times and must snatch up his own burger to take bites he cannot taste, as though each mouthful were a move in a game of chess.

The realisations come slow and quiet, and hang there in his mind. He wishes they were impulsive thoughts, quickly conceived and discarded, but these are words from somewhere deep within, from whatever core he possesses, the last tiny piece of himself under all the years and the weight of the magic. These are the truth.

That should she ask it, he would carve out his own heart, slice it free with his own dagger, and give it dripping into her fingers.  Even if she gave it to Regina. Even if she threw it away.

That one day, perhaps soon, she will realise that True Love, heady as a draught of wine and a terrible source of power, is not the only love in this world. That there are men who are not monsters, who will love her with no secrets and no shame.

That she can be happy, if only she rid herself of him.

Belle catches his eye and smiles, such a sweet thing, and it cuts him sharply.

That he loves her, and everything he has ever loved is doomed.

The days slip past, and it grows colder.

People begin to decorate their homes, moving still like puppets, celebrating a tradition not their own. In all the curse-years, Rumplestiltskin remembers that he never bothered with all the trappings of this Christmas. He has never brought a tree into his house and covered it with baubles, or wreathed his house with tiny blinking lights.

Perhaps it is because he could imagine Bae loving this holiday, the wreaths and the candles, the cookies and the cocoa, the first snow welcomed with joy rather than fear of the cold and the hunger which accompanied it. That somewhere deep and instinctual, beyond the reach of the curse, the guilt remained.

His boy is reflected now in Belle’s unexpected smiles, her curiosity, how charmed she is by the Christmas lights that glow in the dusk. He walks beside her every night, taking different streets, ignoring the soaking of his shoes and pant cuffs, and the nagging pain in his bad knee, all to see how her face lights up at each display.

“Red helped me pick out a tree. And she tried to teach me how to make eggnog, but I don’t think it was supposed to taste like that. I was dizzy after half a glass.”

Belle grins at him playfully. There are snowflakes caught in her hair.

He smiles gently.

“There is a subtle art to it.”

She threads her fingers with his.

“Could you teach me?”

“Of course.”

They walk hand in hand all the way back to the library, and Rumplestiltskin is waiting for Belle to step inside when she turns suddenly, determination in her eyes and the planes of her lovely face, and she kisses him fiercely, bravely. Freely.

His numb lips tingle with the force of it, the unexpected warmth of her mouth on his, and then she is slipping around the doorframe with a shy smile and a wave.

He is deeply happy for a moment, ankle-deep in a snowdrift and caring not one bit if anyone is watching, when he catches something white out of the corner of his eye, like a shred of cloth caught on the wind, and dread clutches at his stomach as his thrice-damned foresight chimes in his skull. Beware.

It is a dove, bedraggled and windblown. The moment he releases it from inside his coat it explodes into flight, glancing off the mantlepiece and crashing, pitifully, onto the floor. It tries to stand on the polished floorboards, throwing its wings out for balance, shaking in every feather.

It has fulfilled what he asked of it, all those years ago, and the magic that keeps its bones knitted together is fading away. The dove dies, confused, its eyes reflecting the light like tiny jewels.

It carries no message. Its very presence is an omen of what he fears. Things are changing back in the old world.

Killian Jones has left Neverland, and any man who lives so long is pared down to a single bitter sliver: one obssession. One desire. Rumplestiltskin should know, he has lived it. It possesses him still.

Hook is coming for vengeance and blood. And he will not hesitate to tear the heart from Belle as Rumplestiltskin once did from Milah.

He sits in the darkness with the tiny corpse of his messenger, ignoring the snow as it melts off his clothes and the chill as it burrows into his skin.

His face is calm and still, his eyes impossible to read.

But there is a slight tremor in the fingers laced so tightly about the head of his cane.

And there is a pain in his heart with no remedy.

Chapter Text

In the end, it takes only a few moments to destroy everything that they share.

Rumplestiltskin is already waiting outside the library when Belle emerges, a knitted hat pulled low over her curls, with two takeaway cups of Granny’s hot chocolate. At her smile, his heart nearly fails him. For a moment, his right hand twitches to pour the hot liquid into the gutter.

But right now, even as he watches her approach, he can think of ten ways Hook can hurt Belle without killing her. With a little imagination, he can think of a hundred. Last night, his mind conjured thousands, bright scarlet and the shock of white bone, burnt flesh and her charred lips pleading, screaming for mercy, a charnel house turning about and about inside his head as he sat in the dark.

In the end, there is really only one choice.

They walk, and drink their chocolates, and discuss little things. The books that Belle has ordered for the library. The people that still dare to come to his shop now that they remember who he is. He keeps his voice even and steady. He resists the urge to dash the cup from her mittened hands.

Even so, she suspects, because she is Belle.

They have paused to admire the Woodcutter’s cottage, the front yard full of Christmas trees and fat snowmen wound about with bright scarves, when she lays her fingers gently on the sleeve of his coat.

“Is there something wrong, Rum?” She asks, scanning his face with her gentle blue eyes. He hates to see how worry casts tiny lines on her skin; it reminds him too vividly of the day the curse broke, that gaunt, frightened creature wrapped in rags, asking if he would protect her. He could burn this whole damned town to the ground for that alone, for making Belle afraid.

He stares blindly at the festive display, avoiding her eyes like the coward he is.

“I received a message yesterday, after I met you. Someone is coming to Storybrooke that I had hoped could never find a way.”

“Who?”

“An enemy. I killed the one he loved, and he means to make me suffer in return, in any way that he can.”

Belle’s hand tightens sharply on his wrist at the thought of his crime, but she won’t step away. Her voice wavers only a little as she leans forward earnestly.

“The Prince would help us. And Red - she likes you, she told me. She doesn’t care that you’re the Dark One. You have friends in this town, Rumplestiltskin. Just ask for help.”

“You have friends, dearie. No one here would lift a finger to help me.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it? The man who let me out of the hospital, Jefferson, he knows you. He told me to go to your shop -“

“We were business associates, Belle, nothing more. He was hoping I would become so angry at seeing you alive that I would kill Regina. He hates her almost as much as I do.”

Belle stares at him, horror growing in her beautiful eyes.

“What do we do?”

“I promised that I would protect you.” Rumplestiltskin says quietly, taking the empty cup from her limp hand.

“And that’s what I am doing.”

Belle looks at her cup, and then back into his eyes. Realisation makes her stumble, her hands curling around her stomach defensively.

“No!” She cries, and shocked tears are running down her face.

“No, don’t do this! Don’t do this to me, Rum, I don’t want this!”

She throws herself at him; caught off guard, he drops his cane as she slams into his chest. They both fall against the fence, shaking off clumps of ice. Belle claws at his back like she’s drowning, her face turns up to his in desperation, and he is stroking her hair telling her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love.”

“Don’t make me forget. Please, please, I don’t want to forget.” She whispers, and her tears are freezing on her cheeks. Rumplestiltskin is shaken to the core by her reaction. He expected - anything, anything but this naked grief, her complete collapse. He holds her tightly, and all at once she stops fighting him, her body calming in his arms.

He can make a potion so strong that it can subdue the True Love of Snow White and her Charming. Their broken, tentative, patchwork love has no chance against his magic.

Belle steps back from him, and her eyes are the eyes of a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she tilts her head in doubt and embarassment.

“What- what happened?”

“You fell. You slipped on the ice. I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Oh, no,” she assures him, brushing her clothes self-consciously. Her shy smile smites him viciously.

“Thank you.”

“It was no bother.” He cannot make himself sound normal, he has to force the words through the pain in his throat.

Belle looks uncomfortable.

“You’re not- are you crying?”

The wind is burning his cheeks, and his glove comes away wet from his face.

“It’s nothing. Just the wind. It stings, sometimes, at this time of year.”

He talks his way to a standstill and they stand awkwardly for a moment. Belle is the first to make a move.

“Okay. Well, goodnight then.”

Rumplestiltskin cannot bring himself to speak. He nods, sharply, and regrets it at once as she backs away from him. He watches her until she is just a shadow behind the falling snow before he allows himself to double over and clamp his leather glove to the ache in his chest, below skin and bone. He could not allow Belle to pay the price for his own sins.

He must accustom himself to it quickly if he is to be ready for Hook and whatever he brings to this battle. Unobserved and alone, he spits blood into the snow at his feet, and rakes more over the telltale stain with his cane.

Then Rumplestiltskin turns his weary feet towards home, and the snowstorm covers his tracks as though they had never been.

Chapter Text

Happy takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door to the pawnbroker’s store, jumping at the chime of the little bell that heralds his arrival.

The place is dim and dusty, and so cold that he tugs his coat a little tighter about his shoulders. He told none of the other dwarves that he was summoned here; Happy knows that Grumpy would be furious if he found out.

“Hello?”

Normally it takes Happy no effort at all to seem friendly and joyful and optimistic; but his voice cracks and wavers. There are so many shadows and dark corners in this place, and he has heard the whispers about the store’s owner. But when the note appeared on the table in Granny’s - and this is the Dark One, how can he refuse - and perhaps Rumplestiltskin has heard from Snow White! That would make his trip worthwhile, if he could tell his brothers that she were on her way home.

So he takes a step forward, and another, and avoids the eyes of the little painted dolls that watch him from the counter. He touches nothing, but Happy cannot avoid splaying his fingers against the glass of one of the display cabinets which holds Stealthy’s pickaxe. He bends his head in remembrance of his brother, how no dwarf could walk as softly, or had a heart as great -

“Mister Hope.”

Happy has always been easily startled but here, his heart nearly bursts from his chest in fright, and in his scramble to turn he dislodges an old leather ball from its perch on a wooden chest. It bounces twice and begins to roll away, and Happy’s fingers are inches from its surface when the Dark One hisses, “Leave it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I only came because of the note that you left me…”

The Dark One moves quietly towards Happy, his face inscrutable, his eyes black and glittering like the huge fire diamonds the dwarves found in their mines - so dark a red the true colour could only be seen in daylight, like distant fires in the night.

“Yes. I have something of yours that I have been meaning to return.”

Rumplestiltskin turns away, such an elegant movement despite the cane, and Happy follows, although a part of him thinks that he is being very foolish, following a dragon further into its lair rather than running.

“Ah. Here it is.”

And he places onto the counter Happy’s old beer stein, the one that Snow broke in her anger and forgetfulness, and later replaced when she returned to herself and to her family. Happy cannot forget that the reason for Snow’s terrible imbalance of mind was due to the man opposite him, but perhaps -and Gold’s face is so mild, with not a flicker of emotion- could this be some sort of apology?

Happy can’t help smiling as he reaches out to touch the tankard, and the Dark One returns it, but his is thin and bitter and terrifying as the spell lashes out to engulf Happy in dark tendrils of smoke.

For a minute, neither man moves. Rumplestiltskin is watching the dwarf very carefully, with his knuckles white about his cane, and Happy blinks and looks around in surprise at where he is.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry! I’m not sure…what I was doing in here.”

Happy backs towards the door, away from the Dark One, clutching Snow’s present in his hands.

“Thank you for the…it’s a lovely shop…I have to go and meet someone.”

“I know.” Rumplestiltskin says, and he doesn’t move from his place as he watches the dwarf’s haphazard retreat.

“I hope you…I’ve really got to go…Merry Christmas!”

And then Happy is gone, the bell jangling wildly as the door shudders in its frame, and Rumplestiltskin lets the counter take the weight of his bad leg at last, as he sighs.

Belle steps down from the library door and pauses, feeling a little lost. Isn’t someone supposed to be meeting her?

She checks her watch, but she can’t remember who she is waiting for, only that she is. It’s getting cold now that the sun has gone down, people are hurrying past in their dark coats and gloves and hats, and no one stops for Belle where she stands confused and shivering on the steps of the library.

She tries to remember, but there is only a blur of impressions, half-formed thoughts, a figure waiting for her in the snow. A dull, throbbing pain is growing behind her eyes, and Belle, rubbing her gloved fingers across them, turns to go back inside when someone calls her name.

There is a man standing on the sidewalk, with two cups of Granny’s hot chocolate, and a smile that brightens the evening.

“Nicholas!” Belle says, smoothing back her hair, the headache easing itself away under her hands.

“You’re late.” She tells him with a mock-frown, taking her drink and then returning his radiant grin. He always makes her feel happy, for as long as she has known him. It’s impossible to be sad when he is near her.

“Shall we?” Nicholas asks, gallantly taking her arm.

And they begin to walk, like they have every night since Nick discovered that Belle loves Christmas lights, talking and laughing while the snowflakes fall.

Ruby throws herself down opposite Belle in their favourite booth, scowling at the morning sunlight pouring through the front windows of the diner.

“Gods, I need coffee. Get me coffee.”

Belle has her usual iced tea in front of her, indifferent to the cold that has Storybrooke in its grip.

“Late night?” She teases, and her happiness is so obvious that Ruby feels some of her irritation at the world lift. Belle always affects her that way. Ruby suspects magic of some kind.

“You should come out with me. I bet you haven’t danced in a long time.”

Belle laughs at Ruby’s wheedling tone, and shakes her head until her brown curls dance.

“Come on,” Ruby pleads, “you could even bring your beast, if you want to. I would love to see him intoxicated.”

Belle blinks in confusion, and Ruby’s devious grin slowly fades as she watches.

“Belle, what-“

But Belle is looking past her shoulder, and her face is transformed with happiness.

“Nick!” She cries, and stands to hug the man - no, the dwarf, they smell different to men - and now it is Ruby’s turn to stare in utter confusion. 

“Happy?”

“Hey, Red.” He gives her his easy grin, with Belle still wrapped in his arms.

They look like more than friends. They look like a couple.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Ruby finds herself on her feet, suspicion and fear and yes, anger rolling in her chest. If there’s one thing she has learnt from being a wolf, it’s how to smell a rat.

“What are you talking about?” Belle asks, dropping her arms and stepping away from Nicholas Hope, staring at Ruby as though she is the crazy one in this diner.

“What happened to Gold?”

Belle looks up at Nicholas, and then back at Ruby, and that is true bewilderment in her eyes, she is not lying when she asks, “Who is Gold?” as though all those years of imprisonment and torture and sorrow never happened at all.

Ruby snatches up her jacket and slams her way out the door, leaving Belle and Happy together, reeking of enchantment. She sets her jaw and stalks towards Gold’s Pawnshop, ready for some answers.

Rumplestiltskin did not expect to be facing a furious wolf-girl so early in the morning. It certainly doesn’t improve his mood when Jefferson comes striding in after her, leaving his daughter waiting outside on the sidewalk.

If Charming wasn’t in his back room right now in a coma, no doubt he would be here as well, being just as annoying.

Rumplestiltskin doesn’t know at what point his shop stopped being the dreaded lair of the Dark One and became a place that people could just waltz into uninvited, but he doesn’t like it.

“What the hell have you done to her-“

“She’s with Happy, of all people -“

“You did something to her, why doesn’t she remember you-“

“You took away her memory, you m-“

“Enough.”

He makes that word command and reprimand and warning at once, and it threatens to unknit the fibres of their beings. He will not be called monster, not for this. He finds his hand halfway to press against the pain of his heart, and instead clenches it into a fist.

They are silent, thankfully, but still glaring at him. Grace’s winter coat is bright as blood through the glass.

“I am protecting her. If you want her to remain unharmed, then you will pretend that everything is as it should be.”

“But-“

“It is done, and you cannot undo it. Leave her be. She is…let her be happy.”

The wolf-girl growls, narrowing her eyes.

“Why did you take her memories of you?”

“Because I had to.”

“Answer the question.”

Jefferson’s face is grim, taut with anxiety. He is not here as Belle’s friend, Rumplestiltskin realises, he has a personal stake in this. Outside Grace twirls around the pole at the front of his shop, singing to herself as the wind tugs her hair.

 Rumplestiltskin meets Jefferson’s eyes, and smiles slightly. It seems so long ago, the baby smeared with gore, the greatest storm for a hundred years tearing apart the forest about them.

“Grace.”

But he does not say the name, that is only what they hear. What he says is her essence caged in a sound, all the days of her life from the night she took her first breath in his arms, and Jefferson gave him her name without even guessing at its power.

The child opens the door and walks towards them, her eyes wide and blank. She did not hear him call, but every drop of her blood thrills to him. Grace is in his power.

Jefferson grabs at her arm as she skips past, and misses. The child stands by his side, unafraid. Rumplestiltskin loosens his clenched fingers, and Grace takes his hand immediately, trustingly. Jefferson blanches, white as a corpse, as he understands the meaning of this.

Rumplestiltskin addresses Red, without taking his eyes from Jefferson swaying on his feet in horror.

“You will keep quiet because you want the best for Belle, and because with Hope she will be safe. Jefferson will keep quiet because if he does not I will take back Grace as once I gave her. Do you understand?”

The wolf-girl wavers, her eyes flicking between the four of them.

“Is…is that a deal?”

Rumplestiltskin releases the child abruptly, and Grace backs away.

“Papa?” The child’s thin whisper brings Jefferson back to life. He shivers, and pulls her to his side.

“No. It is a promise. Now get out.”

Rumplestiltskin watches them leave, and then begins his work.

His house has been protected since the moment Belle set foot beneath its roof, but now he extends his hand towards the library, and wards off all evil, including himself.

Then he does the same to his store, and the hospital, and Granny’s, and Snow White’s apartment. Key places in the battles to come, that will need his protection even if they do not desire it.

For if Cora is with Hook, then she will tear down this town brick by brick.

If any of the townspeople come to complain, then he will tell them the truth. A promise made to their Prince Charming. Let them believe that their fair lord has a hold over the Dark One. It will make their dreams no darker, and it may prove useful in any case.

In the end, the only building unaffected by his magic is Regina’s house. He wonders if she will consider it an act of war. It is difficult holding so many strands inside his mind, keeping the wards unwavering and strong, but if he treats them as thread …

He walks home in the darkness, and spins and spins and spins until gold is pooling on the floor.

It calms him, and helps him order his mind. But every so often, the thread in his hands and the thread in his mind snag on her face, and it takes a mighty effort, each time, to begin anew.