Author's Note: The airing of "Manhattan" has rendered this story AU officially. However, I suppose it could have happened. Rumplestiltskin made two great decisions for the sake of Baelfire. To break his foot and become the Dark One. One was a great sacrifice, the other...not so great. But both meant well. And the crippling...that struck me as his purest sacrifice for his son. I just wish Baelfire knew it. And thus a fluff/angst/family plotbunny hybrid was born. Please enjoy and review!

All For You

"Emma! 911, did you get them?!" using his knee as leverage against the floor, Neal lifted and then pushed Rumplestiltskin's body onto the couch, trying to be as gentle as possible. It obviously wasn't enough since his father let out a hiss of pain, barely able to do more than weakly flop onto his side and stay there, just stay there and concentrate on breathing past the bleeding hole in his chest. Neal pushed his feet up onto the couch and then quickly piled some cushions behind his back, trying to slow down the blood flow.

Rumpelstiltskin didn't say a word. He barely seemed to react to the jostling, the pressure. His mouth was a white, tight line, the wrinkles of pain and panic growing around his forehead and brown eyes…he was terrified of losing control, terrified of being helpless, terrified of being helped. Neal didn't want to look at him, didn't want to let any pity sneak its way into his heart. Pity was what had forced him to forgive his father, time and time again, no matter what attrocity he committed. He would not make that mistake again. He glanced over his shoulder and shouted, "Emma!"

"Getting it now." Emma held the cellphone to her ear as if it was glued there, listening desperately for any response as she forced her voice to remain calm and clipped, her face neutral except for the concentrated frown on her brow. It was the actor's facade coupled with the professional's control, her old skills mingled with the new. An Emma very different from the lighthearted girl Neal had once known…had known so very well.

At that thought, he glanced at Henry, her son, their son. The kid was staring at Rumplestiltskin with wide, hazel eyes, his lips partly open, his face quiet and still. It was far too different from the confident, rational boy who had generously forgiven the father he had never known mere hours earlier. "Henry," Neal ordered quietly, one hand against Rumple's shoulder to keep him from falling off, "go with Emma. Wait for the ambulance."

Emma got the message. She shared a meaningful glance with Neal before touching Henry on the shoulder, still holding the phone to her ear. "Common, kid."

Henry jumped slightly, as if startled. He pulled his gaze away from Rumplestiltskin and looked up at Emma, confused, worried, asking her mutely, what's going to happen?

Emma gave him a weak smile that was somehow meant to be reassuring and then guided him out.

Neal took a deep breath as the door closed behind them. With the younger, perplexing generation of his family gone, he realized with dread that his thoughts automatically turned towards the older generation, the man he had once called 'Papa'. It was awkard, tending to a man he had just vowed never to see again, had literally just driven from his apartment. A man who, suddenly, was now mortally wounded, lying helpless on his sofa, bleeding onto the pillows.

When he glanced at the blood, he realized it was spreading in a large red stain through the black shirt, appearing almost purple until it trickled into a sticky pool on the golden cushions, turning red as rubies. Wether he cared or not, (and of course he cared) his father's life was bleeding away. Without wasting any more time, Neal quickly grabbed a towel from the kitchen and came back, opening his father's shirt.

He pushed the material away with his fingers, wiping away the scarlet substance until he found the torn hole gaping in his father's chest. The wound was deep, gushing harder with every heartbeat. Neal bit his lip, pushing the towel against it, careful to keep pressure around the hole, not on it.

Rumplestiltskin moaned. As if suddenly brought to life by the touch, he grabbed Neal's wrist with surprising strength, causing his son to look up. "Bae…"

"Hey," Neal cut him off hurriedly, "just because you're bleeding all over my floor doesn't mean we're getting back together. Just…just leave it, okay?" He was being cruel. He knew it. The last thing his father needed was more distress, more guilt and anxiety.

But Neal wasn't and never would be ready to step back into the world of the man he'd loved with all his heart…the man who'd lost his mother, scraped and bowed, kissing the feet of men who weren't even worthy to touch his…the father who'd made a promise and then let Bael go, turning what might have been a future together into a living failure, a life of abandonment, of hating him but, worst of all…of missing him. Missing him so hard it hurt, every day. Every night. He'd only told his father half the truth…

"Bae…"

The man just would not stop. "We're not doing this now." Can't you give up? He thought fiercely, Can't you just let go? It was easy enough once…just run from me. Let go. You did it before.

Rumplestiltskin subsided into a wimper, but his brown eyes still gazed at Neal. That look of unspoken pain, embarassment, a silent plea to please, please understand…it reminded Neal of other times, when his father literally crawled through the door, crawled in from the darkness outside, his staff broken, unable to make it to his own bed without Baelfire's help. His face was swollen with bruises, his leg literally trembling as nerves screamed and writhed in pain from whatever abuse it had suffered, abuse it was absolutley not meant to suffer. You don't kick a crippled leg.

He would lie weak and pathetic on his cot, panting, whispering 'Bae' over and over again, not really speaking to him at all but just repeating the name as if it was some strange spell or comfort to him. Baelfire would wordlessly get some water, or some bread, or some hot stew.

His father always refused to tell his son what had happened even though he already knew. Scornful villagers, no good scoundrels with fair faces by day and foul names by night who wanted to have fun while making a little extra money had attacked his gentle, crippled father…righteous indignation would burn in Bae's chest, his fist would clench, and all the little boy wanted to do was find those men and make them pay for hurting his poor father, how dare they. Then Rumplestiltskin, alarmed at the bold determination in his son's face, would sit up hastily with a sharp intake of breath, muttering something about how he'd slipped, or he'd been disrespectful, that it was all his fault and he should have known better…and Bae's indignation would turn to shame, just as sharp and just as burning.

Blood was beginning to seep through the towel. The moist feeling brought Neal back to reality. He quickly folded another layer over and pushed a little harder. Rumplestiltskin made a strange sound, his hand clutching weakly at the pillow and it hurt Neal to hurt him…he could admit that. It was only natural. He didn't want his father dead, ok?

He wanted to whisper something to break the silence and comfort his father…but he didn't want to risk starting up any more conversation. He'd only promised him three minutes, after all. He didn't have to give any more.

"You're gonna be okay."

Shoot. Did he just say that aloud?

Rumplestiltskin's eyes flickered with hope again, Neal realized with a sinking sensation. The man was so desperate to heal the rift between them. Had he felt so guilty for so long that he couldn't tell when his unlikely dream had turned into a hopeless illusion? His father had always been clever, even shrewd in his own way. Surely, he couldn't be clinging to a false chance at redemption so…desperately.

But when he met his father's gaze, he saw trust, contentment even…a simple joy of being able to…to what? To look at his boy after so long? The idea wriggled its way into Neal's mind and wouldn't leave. His throat got thick and he swallowed angrily. He wasn't supposed to feel pity anymore, he wasn't supposed to feel anything towards this man…he wouldn't.

You're gonna be okay.

Neal nearly jumped out of his skin as his father's hand hesitantly touched one of his. Rumplestiltskin almost hugged his son's hand to himself against the bloody towel. He was turning pale. "I know…" his voice was broken and whistling, as if air was escaping with it. Startled and alarmed, Neal checked the bandages to make sure. No, it was okay. No bubbling in the chest.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes were still staring at him with that vulnerable hope…he was begging his son, silently pleading again…forgive me, please speak to me…Neal swallowed and looked away uncomfortably, away from those big brown eyes that still managed to touch him in a special place, a place he was sure had died long ago. On the knee-high dresser to his left, he saw the dream net. The one he and Emma had found together in that little apartment where 'Tallahassee' was born as a dream that would never come true.

He'd taken it with him. A few nights after he turned Emma in, he sprinkled it with the little pixie dust he'd had left over from Neverland. Maybe it was a stupid waste, but he'd had a couple low nights and simply couldn't stand the dreams he'd started having. Not just his father letting him go, but Emma too…staring at him with disbelief, broken, shattered trust…'why?'

The dream catcher hadn't worked. Why should it have? There was no magic in this world. He'd thought Neverland magic would be different, but apparently not.

He felt his father's heart beneath his fingertips, beating weakly. Dread was seeping like a cold touch through his stomach, like a fist squeezing on his own heart. He didn't dare to look at his father, didn't dare bring back any more memories, or see what exactly was written on the face of the man who'd betrayed him so long ago and broken his heart. The man he never could and never would forgive. He loved him too much to forgive him.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. Henry ran inside, his shoes clattering on the floor of the apartment with muffled thuds. He was carrying Gold's cane. "The paramedics are on their way," he said breathlessly, panting from his full-fledged race up the stairs, "Emma says they were busy with a riot somewhere else…but they're coming now. Five minutes."

"Right." Great. If he has five minutes. "Go back and wait for them but send Emma up. I need her help."

"I can help," Henry offered, reluctant to leave the action, reluctant to leave his father.

Neal gave him a look he'd never tried before: a stern parental glare. "Henry. Now."

Henry's face twisted into a wry grimace. He was too scared and too worried, however, to argue. He merely stepped over and leaned the cane against the other side of the couch. "We left this downstairs," he explained. Then he was out again. Neal could hear him jumping down the stairs, probably two at a time. That kid better be careful or he'll break his neck.

He glanced at the cane. It was a solid, handsome stick with a golden handle. His father had gone up in the world; that wasn't surprising. He still had his limp though, a deformity he could never hide without constant magical protection.

When he was little, Neal had thought his father had always had that limp, that he'd been born with it. Later, as the years passed, he heard whispers that Rumplestiltskin had done it to himself just before Bae was born, had been so terrified that he'd physically maimed himself to escape the Ogre Wars. He hadn't made much of a bargain, Neal thought wryly, since life as a coward in their war torn village had been almost unbearable.

His father might have been a coward, but he'd been a good man, a kind man. When he changed, well…he'd become someone Baelfire couldn't even recognize. His father became the Dark One, rotten teeth, black nails, skin like a lizard's, hair turned prematurely grey, and eyes…eyes that had once been so warm, full of so much love for Baelfire, burning feverishly in a thin face…those were eyes that Baelfire loved, eyes that bespoke of sacrifice, affection, pride. Those sparkling brown eyes became dead…glazed over by a black film. A different man entirely, one that repulsed and frightened him.

But the hideous mouth still said it cared, the hands still showered him with affectionate touches, the eyes…in the right light, such as the white sun beams that shot down through the forest roof…the light seemed to momentarily strip away the darkness, to clear it a little, and the eyes still shone with soft love for his son, the kind that used to make Baelfire warm inside.

The only thing that had attached him to the monster was the fervent belief that somewhere under that skin, his father was still there. Somewhere. And if he was, then he could be brought back.

But of course, that hope had been shattered. Now, it was even worse. The man whose life he was holding under his hands looked like his father, aged by years of sorrow. But the monster, the beast was still there…it had just retreated inside. Now, his father looked fair, but darkness flashed from his eyes, like when he threatened Emma. In the split second before Rumplestiltskin noticed his presence, Neal had seen the Dark One raging in his face, fury and unreasonable anger and outrage. Danger.

Where's Emma? He growled to himself, impatient and tired of being stuck with the man who was causing him so much confusion and bad memories. As if in answer, the door slammed open. But it wasn't Emma; it was Henry. Neal didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The kid hung onto the doorknob as he leaned in, obviously intending to rush back down immediately. His consonants slurred as he sputtered out, "they're here! Get ready!"

He banged the door shut. Neal flinched as the dream catcher somehow blew off the dresser and awkwardly settled between his outstretched arms, the lightweight wood bouncing off his face.

He sneezed on what seemed to be a cloud of pixie dust.

"She is already with child."

"I'm to be a father?" such joy, such instant love for a child he's never seen, hope for a life he's not yet lived, probably never will live once the Ogres get their hands on him. But there's so much excitement and happiness in that face, nonetheless…it doesn't matter wether it's a boy or girl, healthy or sickly…he loves it already. Any fool can see that. The uniform he wears seems painfully out of place, the metal plates and chainmail looking positively vulnerable when compared to the emotion burning in the man's thin face. And when he smiles, it's the birth of Papa's smile, the one that never failed to bring warmth to Baelfire's heart.

"But your actions on the battlefield tomorrow will leave him fatherless."

Horror. Hope destroyed. But he's not afraid for his life. His terror is far older; it reaches back into the past…into a life he never had, an empty hole in his heart, a feeling of not being good enough, not worth staying with, that it was something he did… it's a pain he never wants his tender babe to feel. One he will not let him suffer.

Rumplestiltskin's always been ashamed of his father, burdened by his legacy, hurt by his abandonment...but not a day goes by that he wishes he could have kept him, that the father he called his own had stayed by his side. Because he loved his father.

"There's no greater pain then regret."

"Where are you going, Papa?"

"To get some water. Go to sleep, Rum."

"You forgot the bucket."

Regret flashes in the man's face. "I'm sorry, Rum." He opens the door. He swallows once and then turns suddenly, impulsively, His hand shakes where it clings to the splintered wood of the door, "you can get along without me. Always have." The regret is gone, replaced by nervous apprehension, his eyes far away as he listens to the night sounds. He's completely forgotten about the small child on the pallet. He's completely forgotten about the fear and knowing wisdom in his little boy's eyes.

"Try abandonment."

The door slams. The child rushes to pry it open, fingers freezing in the cold. He squints against the winter blasts and sees his father in the snow, struggling, screaming, kicking…shadows grab at him…something black and pointed…spilling blood…

The child screams.

"Your actions will leave him fatherless."

He doesn't believe. He delays. Then, he realizes its true. He asks her for help, and she's gone. He rages, slams at the cage. He paces around the wagon, hands clenched, pushing into his forehead, praying for an answer because he can see none. His baby must never lose his father, must never be raised by spinsters only to inherit Rumplestiltskin's legacy of cowardice. He must be with his son. He has to. Because he loves him too much to abandon him. He would do anything, anything rather than that.

"All for him…for our son."

The mallet lies dull and heavy in the mud. He sees it. He realizes what he has to do and sags against the wagon, almost sobbing because there are so many things he will never be able to do again…to run, to leap, to climb trees and walk upright. His foot twitches as he steps forward, as if it knows it will never work again, that he's going to kill it, leave it as a dead lump of agony at the end of a swollen limb that will never bear his full weight.

"Leave him fatherless."

But it's for his baby…for the baby he doesn't know. His boy. His son must never be alone, never abandoned. He will make sure of it. He grabs the mallet and lifts it, barely checking to make sure no one is watching. He stands against the wagon. He lifts it…he can't. His entire body shies away from what he contemplates…it is not natural to maim yourself, not natural to destroy a part of your own body, for any reason whatsoever.

But this is not just any reason.

This is for love.

"Baelfire. A strong name!"

He will never hold his baby unless he has a chair to support his weakness. He will never carry him a-piggyback or protect him by kicking away bad tempered dogs or boisterous children. He will never teach him to swim or make him giggle by kicking the ball farther than his little boy thinks he can ever kick it. He will never take him by the shoulders and say, "by the gods, boy, you are almost as tall as I am."

He will never race him home.

"Fatherless."

He will sit in the darkness of his cottage and spin until his fingers bleed, his eyes fixed on the wheel and his mind fixed on memories, and pray that someday, Milah and Baelfire will forgive him. Because he does this for their child. Their son. His boy.

"And I promise,"

Again, he lifts the mallet, staggering under the weight of it. But he is still crying and that must mean he is a coward and this is going to hurt so much it is going to destroy him but it is for Baelfire.

"I will never, ever leave you."

And he swings it down. There is no time to think, no time to stop the blow. He hears the crack before he even feels it…the paralyzing, burning, splintering ache that flares up his leg and into his chest and seizes at his heart. He can't even breathe and yet he screams, he screams because he just realizes what he has done to himself and what everyone will think of him and he has only one comfort…

His boy will have a father.

So he lies in the mud, clutching at his broken leg, at bones that have been shattered beyond repair. He screams and begs for help, for kind eyes that will understand and ease his heart and (please, please) take the pain away.

But they will never come. He is alone.

But at least, at least,

His son is not.

"All for you."

Neal gasped, sucking in air as if he'd just been pulled out from underwater. Hands were at his shoulders, pulling him back as voices chattered and clean white and blue cotton shirts swirled in front of his eyes. We've got it from here. Please get back, sir. Back. How did this happen? Spun around his ears, but he ignored them.

He looked at his father. Rumplestiltskin had passed out, who knew for how long. The paramedics slipped an oxygen mask over his chin and began tending to the wound, shouting out instructions to each other.

He stood up slowly, his eyes drawn irresistably to Rumplestiltskin's bad leg as the medics lifted him onto the stretcher. Suddenly all sorts of memories, the very ones Neal had wanted to hide from himself, came rushing through. He remembered all the pain and humiliation, watching as his father struggled through town while others laughed or kicked his stick out from under him. The dull, never ending ache that leg always gave him in winter. He remembered how, no matter how bad he hurt, inside or out, his father's face would light up with pure joy whenever Bae had a full meal, a fun-filled day, and a warm bed to return to.

He remembered watching his father spin far into the night, struggling to make enough wool to sell when no one would buy at anything but the lowest prices from the town coward. When the last stars were burning cold in the sky, his father would struggle to Bae's bed, his leg stiff from long disuse and scraping awkwardly over the floor. He would lean over and kiss Bae's forehead softly, every night, just before falling asleep.

Cold wind licked his wet cheeks. Neal covered his mouth suddenly to suppress what he realized was a sob. He tried to look at his father, but all he caught was his silver-brown hair as the paramedics rushed him out. "Papa?' The sense of loss nearly made him stumble.

Emma stuck her blonde head in, "hey, they had trouble parking the ambulance in the street…Henry and I moved some dumpsters, hope you don't mind." She looked at his face and frowned. "You ok?"

"Yeah," Neal paused and refocused, forcing himself to breathe again without hitching.

Emma knew he was lying. Heck, Neal knew she knew he was lying…that was her superpower. But she also understood that honest-to-goodness Rumplestiltskin was his father and that in itself brought up enough issues and questions to make anybody emotionally unstable. She knew he'd come to her if he needed help, but the main priority was to get Mr. Gold to the hospital and make sure Hook didn't try anything.

"Neal," she said, this time gently, "we've gotta go."

Neal felt a rush of gratitude for the way she was respecting his privacy. "I'm coming,"

He bent down slightly and grabbed the stick. His eyes widened and he looked closely at it, as if it was far more than just a simple stick. He held it in his hands and breathed softly on the polished surface for a moment, thinking.

Then he quickly followed Emma out the door.

0000

"Listen, if Cora's taken Ruby then getting her back isn't gonna be that simple!" Emma snapped at Grumpy, who was holding up his pickaxe enthusiastically, like a pagan chieftan calling his savages to war. As the dwarf turned to look at her, the axe's iron head swung around and nearly took a chunk out of an alabaster statue. Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes a moment, trying to ignore such unforgiveable carlessness and the extremely ugly scene that would have ensued.

"Listen, all I know is this," Grumpy hefted the axe into the palm of his hand with a healthy thwack sound, "embedded in the chest is a one-way ticket to heaven…or hell, knowing her."

"Oh I'm sure it would be," Rumplestiltskin had obviously lost patience with the dwarf, and his tone was acidic as he glared at him from across the room, "if you could get close enough to use it without her blasting you across the town line with magic."

"Funny, considering that it's your dagger that got Ruby into this mess in the first place," the dwarf snarled back surlily, chosing to pull an unrelated insult into the argument. Rumplestiltskin's mouth tightened as he glared at the insolent dwarf.

Charming held out his hands commandingly, trying to refocus the group, "giving Cora the dagger is not an option. Alright? We need a plan."

Rumplestiltskin's hand shifted on his cane as he reluctantly let go of his irritation and conceded to work with the townsfolk. "Well, I do have something in the back of my shop that might help, but it will take time to prepare it."

Grumpy was unable to resist a parting shot, "Whose firstborn do you want?"

Rumplestiltskin's gaze locked onto the dwarf and he took a step forward. Neal, standing between him and Emma, tensed. He was ready to grab the man and hold him back in case he lost his temper. Even though that could be potentially dangerous in magic-filled Storybrooke, a town he was rapidly regretting having gone to.

Grumpy stepped back, his eyes wary but unafraid.

"I'd ask for yours, dwarf, if your kind could produce any."

Neal frowned. His father seemed strangely rattled by this Cora witch. He wasn't a man who would take an insult in silence but he could usually laugh it off and say something a little more elegant and crushing and not so full of raw anger.

Grumpy was the one to step forward this time, perhaps remembering a special fairy he had lost long ago, and a religious sister now that he could never have. Seeing what was about to happen, Mary Margaret quickly laid a hand on his arm. Her tone was clear, but soft and compelling. "Grumpy, we need you to show us the electric lines that run down Glass-Hill Street. Please?" she added, her fingers tightening as Grumpy growled in his throat.

The 'please', sweet and soft, did the trick. The dwarf's carefully hidden but huge heart responded to his old friend's need like a sunflower to sunshine. He tore his eyes away from Mr. Gold reluctantly and then nodded grudgingly at her. Margaret followed him out, flashing her husband a brief smile.

Charming turned, "Alright, Gold, you get what you need and bring it to the Library when you're ready. I've got to go make sure Granny stayed put like I told her."

A good idea, Rumplestiltskin couldn't help thinking cynically, that crazy old woman is so wound up by grief she could put a crossbow bolt in anyone's back right now.

As her father marched out of the room Emma sighed, pulling out her cellphone. "I'm gonna go check on coming?" she asked Neal tiredly. The strain of the day as well as her own family problems were weighing heavily on her. As usual, when Neal realized this, he felt guilty. No matter how important August…Pinnochio had told him it was he couldn't help feeling he could have done better by her. He should have done better.

He gave her a watery smile, "I'll be along in a minute."

He saw Rumplestiltskin give him a look like a startled hare, the one that sees a dog rear its head in the bushes. Too fast and clever to be afraid, yet wondering exactly what the beast is doing there…perhaps wary that, if he doesn't keep away, it will hurt him.

As the little bell rung and Emma's dimly lit blonde hair disappeared into the night, Neal swallowed past the awkward silence that always seemed to fill the room when he was alone with his father.

He looked at him. He felt like he should say something…a huge fight was coming and a lot could change, forever. Missed opportunities were flowing by them all the time, like a terrifying, unstoppable stream. "Hey, I…"

"I need to get to work," Rumplestiltskin interrupted him. Completely odd for a man who'd nearly burst into tears when his son refused to speak to him.

He started to limp by Neal towards the dim, dusty interior of the shop. But he was moving absurdly fast, as if he was trying to escape from Neal's very presence. Again, Neal was confused and…even a little hurt?

Suddenly, Rumplestiltskin's dragging foot caught on a vintage wooden crate lying on the floor. He hissed in pain and sharp surprise as he dropped the cane, his hands flailing out for something to grab. He managed to latch onto a chair just in time and pull himself on it even as Neal's hand found his shoulder.

A little too late to be of any help, Rumplestiltskin thought angrily, there's not even enough magic in this cursed village to waste on a sustaining spell for my leg. His face burned with shame as he pulled roughly out of Neal's grasp. His dark eyes were hard and fixed as he stared awkwardly at the floor a moment. His cane had rolled out of reach.

Wordlessly, Neal picked it up and held it towards Rumplestiltskin before the man could summon it with magic. He used one foot to shove the heavy crate out of the path, as if he really cared that the floors were safe for his lame father.

Rumplestitltskin took a deep, deep breath. He'd just had the nauseating feeling in his stomach, the feeling that never got old no matter how long he'd gone without it…the feeling of being pitied because a part of you didn't work as well as everyone else's. Because when you made the slightest mistake (and it was so easy to make mistakes) every eye would be on you immediately, riveted to your malformed body. Eyes full of judgement, disgust, annoyance, and worst of all…pity. Because you weren't strong, because you were less than nothing, because you were a coward.

The only eyes that had ever been any different were Baelfire's. And the only reason Rumplestiltskin couldn't meet them now was his dread and terror that they might have changed and become like everybody else's. He didn't think he'd be able to bear that. But he had to speak, had to produce a normal, human response before his son realized something was up…"Thank you, Bae."

A hand appeared before his eyes, holding the ebony cane. Still embarassed, face tight, Rumplestiltskin reached for it. His fingers brushed his son's as his fist wrapped around the stick. But there was resistance. Neal didn't let go.

Unthinking, Rumplestiltskin looked up into his son's face.

The brown eyes, so like his own, weren't pitying.

They were hesitant, earnest, eager…proud?!

"You know," Neal gently released the cane, never looking away from Rumplestiltskin's face as his father quickly shifted his grip to the handle and thumped the cane on the ground to reassure himself it was there. "You never told me what happened to your leg."

Rumplestiltskin looked up again, for once confused, as if he had no idea why Neal was even thinking about it, why he even cared.

"You never asked," he said finally, his tone flat.

"Why didn't you…" Neal paused, searching for just the right words. Why the heck was his voice suddenly so husky? "Why didn't you tell me?"

Then, a look of real panic flashed in his father's face, a look of, Please no, no more of the past. Please not now, I'm not ready. I never will be. His grip tightened and he started to stand up. "We don't have time. Cora could kill Miss Ruby at any moment."

"Not until she's sure we have the dagger. Please," not knowing what else to do, Neal grabbed the cane again. For a moment, he thought Rumplestiltskin would fight him on this. He hurried on, "I want you to tell me." He suddenly crouched down until he was forced to look up into his father's face, like when he was a young boy sitting by the spinning wheel while his father told him stories of heroes.

Rumplestiltskin gazed down at him, perhaps thinking the very same thing. Slowly, at this close distance, Neal saw and realized just how fragile the cold, calculated mask really was. His father's eyes were frightened; repentant, longing…they held so much burning emotion that had nowhere to go and no way to be fulfilled. Emotions he had held back for so long now that he simply knew no better than to follow their powerful impulses blindly.

He couldn't hold a meaningful conversation to save his life, but he had always known he had to speak to his son. He blindly drove his own loved ones away, but he had always known he had to find them again. He hurt them unspeakably, but he had always known he had to make it right somehow. He had blindly followed his heart for Bae's sake, and he had crippled himself. He had blindly come to Manhattan and been left powerless, helpless before Hook's wrath. And now he was blindly hiding away inside himself, afraid of driving Bae farther away even though hiding himself away was exactly what had driven Bae away in the first place.

Neal admitted that he didn't want that to happen. Emma was right. Deep inside himself, he wanted to give his father a chance. He always had. "Papa…" he whispered.

The word worked like magic. Rumplestiltskin's eyes widened, his lips parted and he exhaled softly, a warm, overjoyed glow sparkled in his face. But then, the frozen look fell away, replaced by resignation. Acceptance. Defeat. "I don't…" he stopped and then pulled his words together again, "a seer told me I would die on the battlefield. So I took a…a mallet and…" with a sad yet sardonic smile, he suddenly touched the lame knee, holding it as if to remind him just how real his story was, "And I came home. There's not much to tell, really. Except that the first thing I saw when I came inside was you," involuntarily, a…was it a sparkle?…came to life in the brown eyes, "you in your mother's arms." The newborn smile that had been creeping up his face suddenly fell, the sparkle died, and the hard look covered his eyes again. He took a breath and straightened in his chair, an invisible signal that it was time to get back to business. "I'd rather not remember anything else."

Neal wasn't done, not by a long shot. "Because you…" he paused, trying to find the right words that were gentle yet strong enough to make his point, "because you crippled yourself…you broke your leg for me?"

"I didn't want to fight." Rumplestiltskin leaned backwards, away from his son in a defensive way. He hooded his eyes and looked up some store shelf, trying to seem nonchalant. A classic evasive maneuver.

Neal got angry at the way his father could talk about something so important and pretend not to care or even mind about it. "All my life, you told me that…you let me and all the others think you were a coward!"

"I was a coward!" Rumplestiltskin suddenly shouted in his face, the brown eyes going wide and wild as he reared to a steady stand far quicker than a normal cripple should be able to.

Neal stood up with him, this time towering over him again. "Why?!" he shouted right back, his own voice going hoarse with grief and a long unspoken exasperation, "For sacrificing your happiness, your chances…for embracing a life of shame and regret and pain just so…just so you could be a part of my life, could take care of me? How, how is that cowardly?!"

"You don't understand…you weren't there." Rumplestiltskin hissed.

"No," Neal forced his voice down, trying to keep calm with this blind, stubborn man, "But because you did that…you were. You were always there for me."

Rumplestiltskin shoved by him as if the room had suddenly gotten too tight and he couldn't breathe. Neal turned to watch him. Rumplestiltskin grabbed the edge of the counter and just stood there for a long, long time. Then, "I just…I didn't want you to not have a father. I never wanted you to feel abandoned," his voice broke. "Abandoned," he repeated again, as if his own mind couldn't take in the meaning of the word without being broken, "and I failed. Everything I tried to do for you failed. I gave you a cowardly cripple, weak and a shame to you…when I tried to fix it, I became a dark sorcerer who killed men before my boy's…before my boy's very eyes." Was that a sob? "And now, an old man who's so addicted, so shackled to magic he can't even give you the answers you seek, can't even give you the assurances that he'll change. I wasted this leg…for no reason, Bae. For no reason."

He turned around suddenly, and his eyes were wet, even in the dim light of his shop. He clutched at the counter as if for support, the cane forgotten and leaning against the wooden panels. He stared at Neal, and his chin trembled with unshed tears in what some men would call pathetic, but what Neal realized was love. "This is what makes this leg…this 'sacrifice' such a mockery, such a failure. It's why I'm a coward. Because I failed. Because I could never give you the father you deserved. I just saddled you with one you could be ashamed of."

"I don't believe that."

Rumplestiltskin flinched as if he'd been hit. Obviously not the words he had been expecting. Neal stepped forward, biting his lip like a child, trying to keep his own emotions under control as he regarded his father with wet eyes full of forgiveness. "Any…any man who would do that for the kid he's not even sure exists, the kid he doesn't even think he deserves…any man who would sacrifice a part himself for the sake of my potential happiness when I'm still nothing but a dream in his heart…I would be proud to call that man my Papa."

Rumpel's face turned tight with emotion. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes, his hands shaking as he suddenly stumbled forward without the use of his cane, reaching out for his son with only one aim in his life to hug and hold and beg for forgiveness and just love once more, whispering brokenly, "Oh Bae…oh gods, Bae…"

"Yeah," Neal caught him effortlessly, annoyed at how easily his husky voice broke into a half sob "knew that was coming." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath…his father smelled like expensive cologne and antique dust and, in an image long gone that belonged only to his best memories…like the smoke from a warm firepit. He smiled happily, feeling his father's heart beat erratically against his chest. Then he relaxed his grip, letting his father to just keep on clinging to him. " Just one, though," he warned laughingly, recalling his reputation as he gently thumped his father on the back, "don't push it."

FINIS