Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon A Time.

Chapter 1

He stumbled out of the inn, ignoring the yelled curses of the woman he shoved out of his way—Emma Swan—on his path out the door.

He remembered everything.

He wished he didn't.

Rumpelstiltskin bent over, taking deep gulps of air with hands clenched tight on his cane. He was not going to throw up here. He was not. He could dimly hear the werewolf's grandmother inside cautioning the Savior against crossing the feared Mr. Gold while simultaneously painting his character in the blackest of lights, unaware that he was still within earshot.

He took one final gulp of air and then took off, taking larger strides than usual until he was sure he was composed enough not to go staggering about the street like a drunk.

His quick and mechanical pace led him down to the front of his yard, his atrociously colored house looming before him like the gates to hell.

He was torn...one part of him wanting to run as far away from this place as possible—another was seized with a desperate desire to rush in and behold his beloved miraculously returned to him from the dead.

He walked slowly down the gravel path. Halfway through, the lights by the portico turned on, and the front door burst open, a lithe brunette dashing out and practically leaping the last few steps to meet him.

She threw herself into his arms, laughing, and kissed him on the cheek, unmindful of his lack of response.

"You're early," she said gaily, accompanying him arm in arm inside the threshold, before tugging him in the direction of the kitchen. "Just in time too. I've got dinner ready, let's eat while it's still hot."

"I'm not really hungry today, dearie. I think I'll just go to bed." Gently, he disentangled himself from her hold and stepped back.

Frowning in concern, she closed the distance and scrutinized him, finally seeing his pale face, feeling the clamminess of his skin. "You're sick!" she said in shock. "But you never get sick!"

"There's a first time for everything," he gave her a wan smile. "I'll just head up then. Night, my dear." She nodded, hovering over him until he climbed up the stairs.

"Good night, Papa."

**T**

He locked the door behind him, aware that Belle—his daughter—No! It's not real!—might check up on him later, his hands shaking with the urge to smash his cane on every breakable object located in his bedroom.

He restrained himself, barely, with the knowledge that Belle would definitely come up to check what the ruckus was all about, and he cannot afford for her to see him right now.

That encounter took all the remnants of his control, and all he wanted to do right now was howl, destroy everything around him—or take out his pistol hidden in the dresser and track Regina down so he could put a bullet between her spiteful black eyes.

He dropped down on the side of the bed, holding the long end of his cane tightly as if it was the only thing keeping him from utter mayhem.

He needed to organize his thoughts, remember the master plan. He can't let himself get distracted.

Belle was alive. Was with him. This was good. She's safe and sound with him, he can protect her better. He'll never let Regina get her hands on her again. All other matters were inconsequential.

The Savior was here, and the time has come for the wheels to set in motion. This dream world will slowly begin to fracture around the edges and there is nothing that Regina can do to fix it.

Then after he'd led the Queen into a merry dance, he'll have the Savior break the curse, and he can finally bring back magic. Afterwards, he can chop off dear Regina's head with a rusty spoon and dance over her corpse, or else get really, really creative.

He unclenched his hands over his cane and cradled it instead. He can do this. He just needed to put a figurative distance between Belle and himself so that he can treat her the way he'd always treated her for the past twenty-eight years, as his much adored and cosseted daughter.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts, and opening the door, he saw Belle on the other side hopefully holding up a bowl of chicken soup.

"I don't have a cold dearie."

"Just try it," she begged. "A couple of spoonfuls. You can't go to sleep on an empty stomach. You're too thin already, come on."

To appease her, he gingerly took the bowl from her, careful not to let their fingers touch, and promised to try finishing it all. Before she could go away though, he called her back, a hesitant look on his face that faintly alarmed her. Her father had never been hesitant about anything in his life, and being sick seemed to have brought out an unexpected side to him she had never seen before.

"Belle...are you happy, here?"

What kind of question was that? But he was looking at her with such a serious expression so she replied simply, "Of course I am. How could I be anything else?" hoping it was enough to convey her sincerity.

He nodded and closed the door with a soft click. She stood there for a while, her brows knitted in bewilderment, before padding down to the other end of the corridor to her own room.

**T**

Long, long ago someone made a prompt on tumblr about this, only they wanted Belle to be a Goth. But I didn't want to make my Belle a Goth since I didn't have the first idea on what being a Goth is like, so I made this. We'll see what comes next.