Title: If Only
Author: Winter Ashby (rosweldrmr)
Disclaimer: Once Upon a Time © Edward Kitsis & Adam Horowitz
Rating: T for language
Warnings: F-bombs
Time Line: Season 1 finale, the scene where Belle shows up in Mr. Gold's shop.
Summary: He should have known what was waiting for him when he turned around. He should have know it would be her. But it wasn't real. It couldn't be. He was standing in his shop looking at empty air and imaging her. Because she was what he needed, and he was nearly insane with the want of it. She would be perfect, if only… [Rumple Gold/Belle]
Authors Notes: I've wanted to write this since I first saw the Season 1 finale a few months ago. I couldn't help it. Bold text are lines from the episode.

"Excuse me. Are you Mr. Gold?"

"Yes I am, but I'm afraid the shop's closed…"

He should have recognized her voice the instant he heard it.

He should have known what was waiting for him when he turned around.

He should have know it would be her.

That accent, those eyes, that face, her hair and hands and fuck, fuck, fuck! He can't do this. Not now. Not now.

Not fucking now.

Not when he's so close. Not when this is almost over. Not after years, decades, lifetimes, centuries of deal-making and scheming and manipulating. Not after a year of being locked in a dungeon volun-fucking-tarily. Not after 28 years of being trapped in time. Not when he was so close to being able to beg Bae, on his hands and knees, for forgiveness and give him the dagger and let him destroy it, and all that he had become, was, could have been, wasn't, would never be, should have been, wanted to be…

Not when he was so close to finally being able to make up for mistakes made so long ago.

He couldn't allow himself to crack, to break and splinter apart with the 'what if's'.

True love's magic bottled in his pocket, and all he could think of was her. The only love in his whole miserable existence that was true. And he'd managed to fuck it up, so fucking spectacularly.

And now she was gone. Even her body, mangled and decayed as she was, was left to rot in a land without people, trapped in a tomb with no one to mourn her, for even he had never had the courage to visit the place where she lay.

Gods, that train of thought really, really was not going to help him keep. it. together.

Maybe he should have confided in someone, anymore, about her. The miracle of a woman that looked into the cold, cruel, darkness of his soul and saw warmth and hope and light.

He'd told the false Prince once, briefly, of her existence in the land before. And even that had felt like a betrayal. Just the vaguest of hints of who she was so fucking painful, he nearly buckled from the weight of it.

All that kept him going after he'd lost her, pushed her away, sent her to her death, were his deals, and Bae. Bae, who he had been trying to get back to for centuries.

But not talking about her seemed like just as much of a betrayal. The life she'd had, the love and light and kindness in her heart and soul should have had the chance to flourish and grow and spread, like a flowering vine.

Keeping the memory of her shut away, locked inside himself, with nothing but a chipped cup for comfort was selfish and cowardly and made him feel ashamed. And it was in those moments, when he looked too closely at who he was, that he was glad she couldn't see him now. For what would his sweet, lovely Belle think of the monster of a man be had become in her absence?

In Storybrooke, sometimes, he considered talking about her. Through the anonymity of the curse, the fracturing of being both him and him from before and now and then and… when was it?

Ah, yes. Now was now. And then was then. And now, now… she was standing in front of him looking so much the same, and so different. Now he was lamenting this inevitable split of his unstable mind. Pressed and bent under the pressure of too many years and lives and things lost.

Now, he was Mr. Gold. But he was also the memory of Rumplestiltskin, the humble spinner, and The Dark One, whom had cost him his son, and Rumple, the imp who lost the only woman worth fighting for. The only person in 300 years who offered him acceptance, and was brave beyond comprehension, and kind beyond reason, and wise beyond her years, and loyal. So loyal.

He wasn't the same man who had lost his wife. Or the same man who had lost Bae. Or the same man who lost her. Or the man who didn't remember a single one of them. Now, he was some strange conglomeration of the four. A man who knew these losses, felt the pain and isolation and heart-numbing emptiness of a life without them or grief of them. Now, he knew, he was capable of great change.

Now, he was finally the version of himself he'd seen all those years ago when he'd taken the sight from the seer girl in the woods. Now, he knew, really, honestly, truly knew that he would succeed. He would find Bae. And he would take all that he was, or used to be, (the conjugation of the verbs of what or who he was still confused him) and let it transform into something new, all over again.

That was who he was, the man who lost her and the man who never knew she even existed. And this love, this fundamental split between there and here is what drove him mad. Because he knew he loved her, he could remember clearly the feeling of her hands on his, her lips on his, her tears and eyes and fuck, fuck, fuck.

This wasn't productive.

He needed to get. a. grip.

He needed to ignore this figment of his imagination and get this over with. He needed to walk around her, not reach out, and not fall down the rabbit hole of 'if only's' that her visions so often sent him down.

Because, Gods, she was perfect. She was what he needed. Now and then and before and in the very near future. She would be perfect, if only…

If only.

God, if only, fucking only.

If she were still alive, and here with him. This would be so much easier. She always gave him hope and purpose and direction. She made him better, she made him want to be better. And Gods, but he wanted to be better now. He wanted to greet Bae again as a better man.

He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything in all his long years of life. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be the kind of father Bae deserved, the kind of man Belle deserved, the kind of man who was worthy of their love.

But he can't. He can't. He can't breathe, or think or function when she's standing there. Like she's real. Like she exists in this cursed world. Like she never left him decades ago, like she could make it all better, like she could still love him.

But there was something about this vision of her, his hallucination that was so different from all the previous times. In the past, when he was too tired or drunk to suppress his memories of another life, another place, another man, another monster, when he would forget that he was just a simple shop owner in a small town in Maine, he would see her.

Sometimes she would appear to him in her gold dress, that made him think of spinning and straw and her lips on his, her breath warm against his cheek and hands smooth over his hair. He would remember, imagine, wish for that feeling of draining. Like the electricity of magic, the surge, the rush, the rolling rumble of power that coursed through him was rushing off, into the air. Ethos and atmosphere and fog and the power that he had caged inside him, in his chest, was freed. And he could feel it begin to drain away like water or sand slipping through his fingers.

He longed for that feeling now. To just let it all go. Because it wasn't the same now. He still had magic in him, carried it around like dead weight. It was still there, reaching and clawing and trying to break free.

He knew, as soon as Emma broke the curse, and kissed Henry, with the pure, true love that only a mother knows, the curse would be broken. Because, after all, that is how it was designed, created. To allow only the product of true love, to give a kiss of true love, and shatter the bonds that held them from each other. And in that instant, the magic that was still caught inside him would burst free, and cling to the residual magic of the broken curse. It would well up and force him down and back and to his knees, a slave to the power, as he always was before.

That's why he held True Love's potion in his pocket and tried to remind himself he was headed to the well. He needed to bring magic to this place so he wouldn't be consumed by the magic that was in him as it tried to absorb the broken curse. And once there was magic, he could find Bae, and give him the dagger, and help him destroy it.

Because sacrificing what he didn't have in his world wasn't enough. Finding Bae in this world without magic, when he had been carried here with the rest of them wouldn't mean anything. Giving up magic when there was none wasn't enough. He needed to bring magic to this place without it so when he showed Bae what he was willing to lose, he would know, understand, what that meant.

And if he burned this whole world to the ground, he didn't fucking care. Let them be consumed by beasts and creatures and wars and spells. Let them take all that magic that used to reside inside of him and destroy this world with it.

All that he cared about, knew to be true, was that if he stood a shadow of a chance at making amends with Bae, it was going to be by choosing him over magic. Sacrificing his curse when he had no power would mean nothing to Bae. He had to see. And the only way Bae would really understand how much he loved him, and how sorry he was, was if in a land filled with magic, he would choose to be a lame, penniless, friendless, pathetic spinner if it meant getting his son back.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan. It's what he'd seen so long ago, what he'd been working for all this time, why he'd gone through so much trouble, arraigned people's lives like pieces on a chessboard. Why he'd rejected Belle, pushed her away, because he couldn't afford to be redeemed. Not then. Not when he still had years to go and plans to make.

If he'd lost his curse, became a man, all those years ago – he would have been giving up on Bae. And he couldn't do it then, couldn't give him up. But now, now that they were both in the same world, at the same time, he had no more use for this power, this curse. And he would have given anything, traded everything to just let it be true.

Let her be real.

But she wasn't, would never be. And he was very nearly insane with the want of it.

Now, he was Rumple Gold. Shop owner, magician, lawyer, deal-maker, gardener, spinner, and procurer of hard to obtain things. And he stood stock still, an unimaginable power in his pocket, and could only see her. Hear her.

Her strange clothes were were so different than the blue dress he so often imagined her in when he pictured her coming to him in this world. Though, in his darkest hours, when he would conjure images of her in this world, of this world, garbed in modern dress and smelling of feminine shampoos and hands soft from lotions, she was still so different from what he imagined now.

Perhaps it was because he was at his end, or the prospect of magic jumbled his heart and head and throat so that he could not form words.

Could not speak.

He just stood, dumb and mute and feeling so much like he'd lost all control because she never, not even in those drunken, damaging, disturbed dreams did she ever, ever call him 'Mr. Gold.'

"I was, ah, I was told to find you and tell you..."

And he was moving before he realized he was. Because fuck the curse. Fuck magic. Fuck being a father and finding Bae. There was nothing. NOTHING. in all the realms that he cared about in that moment, except her.

"...that Regina locked me up."

His cane was heavy in his hand, and the wooden table of his work bench was cool under his palm. He had to remind himself what was real. Was he real? Did he care? If he had gone insane, and finally sucumed to the wild ravings of an unsound, fractured mind, did it matter? As long as she was here with him, and she looked and sounded so much like she ought to.

And he felt like he was standing, stumbling, staring down into some great abyss. He was on one side, and Bae, the other. He'd chosen magic over his son once, and now he was in danger of of choosing something else over him again.

No. Not something, someone.

Belle.

Or the memory of her, of the delusional ravings of a madman in the approximate memory-hazed hole-in-his-heart shape of Belle.

But she couldn't be real. This wasn't real. He was just standing in his shop looking at empty air and imaging her, standing there. Looking so real and vulnerable and lost and scared. And did it matter? Did he care that he'd finally lost his fucking mind? Did he care that he was choosing a figment of his imagination over his son?

"Does that mean anything to you?"

And at her words, he shatters.

Breaks.

Splinters.

Frays.

Disintegrates into a great chasm of grief and longing and love and hate and joy and disbelief and relief and fear and hope and despair.

Can this really be happening? Can this be real? Can she be real?

He's imagined this so many times. He's hoped and wished and prayed to Gods that don't even exist in this world. He's longed for this. For her. For this second chance, to make it all better. To make the right decision he should have, so long ago.

But he doesn't really believe. He can't. He won't. He can't. Can't bring himself to think that this is anything other than a psychotic break.

As he draws closer, he can see the fear, anxiety, panic written plainly in her eyes. But she stands firm. Brave as ever.

And he nearly weeps.

He reaches out and shaking hand. He has to know. He has to try. He can't not.

He can't not.

He can't not.

He can't...

Her shoulder his firm and warm to the touch.

"You're real." he whispers. Just the ghost of a thing. Like the words are a spell.

He withdraws his hand and he's not sure what to do next. Because this wasn't supposed to happen. He never saw this.

But then again, he hadn't seen her coming the first time either. That deal he struck with her father, he'd seen only wisps of in his mind, jumbled and elusive, and he knew – always knew, it was part of the plan. His plan. Bae's plan.

He knew he had to go to Lord Maurice and broker a deal. But he never knew what he would ask for in return. And when he was standing there, the smoke of another Ogre war smoldering the charred remains of children, he looked at her – the girl in the war room and there was nothing he wanted from this village, this man, this war. Nothing, except to take her away from it.

Take her away from the front. Away from hunger and death and disease and blood. Away from war. Away from men who would hurt her, use her, defile her. He wanted to save her innocence. Capture it like a butterfly in a jar. He needed it. He needed that sweet bravery, he needed to preserve it, to protect it.

He needed her.

He had not seen what he was supposed to ask from this village, and so for the first time in nearly three hundred years, he did what he wanted, not what he needed to do to further his master plan. It was impulsive, and reckless, and selfish, and foolish, and right.

Gods, but it was right. She was right.

She was right.

She was real.

She's real. She's real. She's real.

Under his palm, he can feel her. He can smell the town on her coat and see the dirt in her hair.

But there's something about the way she looks at him...

"You're alive."

Regina.

Regina did this.

To her. To him. To them. To Belle.

Belle who was kind and good, to a fault. Who would never hurt anyone. Who made him better. Who saved Robin Hood, his woman, and their unborn child. Who saved her family, her friends, her entire village. Who saved him. Who make him worth saving, redeeming.

Thirty years.

Thirty years she'd been a prisoner, locked away and held captive, and he knew all too well what Regina did with her prisoners. Thirty long, desperate, lonely, agonizing years of regret and grief and heartache.

And Regina took her, stole her, ruined her. She lied to him. She looked him in the eyes and told him her father was cruel. That she threw herself off a tower. That she was dead. Mangled limbs and wind-torn screams haunted him still. He cherished a cup, above all things, imbued with the memories of her. When all the while... all. the. while. she was alive.

Alive.

Alive and held captive. Alive and a prisoner.

Because of Regina.

Because of him.

Belle, who never hurt anyone, who was never part of this. Belle who never knew of Cora or Regina or the past and future that he'd created with and for them. She was outside that molding, twisted manipulation that would eventually lead to a curse and world he couldn't reach. Belle had nothing to do with it.

And Regina had taken her anyway.

Locked her up. Denied her home and family and freedom.

He spent hours, days, weeks at the great window of his own spire while he watched the long winter months and felt nothing but the cold and wind and shame. And in those long hours spent mourning and regretting and hating and loving and missing, he thought, honestly, truly, really thought about ending his own life. He would hold his dagger in his hands, feeling the weight and power of it, and he considered driving it into his own chest, and feeling the power drain off him.

But more than that, he imagined throwing himself from a tower, just so he could know the pain, the fear she must have felt as she tumbled and pirouetted through the sky like the mockery of the graceful thing that she was before her frail bones and soft skin met with the unyielding, frozen ground. Forever silenced. Forever mourned and grieved and loved.

And all of it, for nought. Because she wasn't dead. Because he should have known she was too brave for such a cowardly act.

He should have known.

"She did this to you." he seethed.

And in that moment, the magic he held in his pocket was more than just a way to save himself, to find his son. It was retribution. It was revenge. It was power and strength and vile condemnation.

She would pay. Oh she would pay with blood and tears and pleas for mercy. She would pay with death, with life, and above all – with pain.

He would have her know pain, feel pain, love pain the way she'd never loved another soul. He would show her nothing but torture and darkness and agony.

He was going to fucking destroy her. Everything that she was. He would rip her still-beating heart from her chest and make her watch as he crumbled it to ashes.

"I was told you'd protect me?"

And he broke, all over again. As crystalline as when he thought he'd found Bae.

"Oh, yes."

He leaned heavily on his cane, unsure of how to embrace her as the man he was now. But he drew her to him, and twisted his fingers in her coarse tweed coat. Her hair falling like tangled spiderwebs over his hand. He breathed her in. The smell of the wind and the forest and something astringent, like disinfectant. She smelled nothing like she used to, in his dark castle. When she stunk of sweat and dust.

But underneath it all. Under the layer of this cursed world, and the magic of the previous, she still smelled like Belle. Feminine and wild and something a little like what a waterfall smelled like.

And he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop his lips from quivering, his body from shaking, his voice from trembling, or his heart from breaking.

She was alive. Alive and here. Alive and in Storybrooke. Alive and in his shop. Alive and in his arms.

This is what he'd been imaging, wishing, hoping, hallucinating for longer than he could remember. Even when he was cursed as Mr. Gold and had no memory of her, he still dreamed of her, still longed for her, still loved her. As surely as he'd coveted, cherished, protected a chipped cup in his shop. Because even when he didn't know who she was, he loved her.

"Yes, I'll protect you."

He thought of nothing in those fleeting moments, as he breathed her in and held her against his chest. He didn't think of revenge or his son or the curse or magic or regret. He only thought of the feeling of her heartbeat against his sternum, the sound of her breathing, the pressure of her hand against his back.

And he held her.

He held her and touched her and loved her and fucking hell. She was real. This was real.

Real. Real. Real. Real.

She was alive and he was holding her and his son was alive and he was going to find him. And she was alive.

Gods above, she was alive.

And he nearly burst with joy as he held her and thought of nothing but her.

"I'm sorry," her words broke the spell he was under, as she gently placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back, "do I know you?"

He was bereft with the loss of her. The loss of her warmth and smell and heart beating against his chest. Because even though she was alive and real and here, she was a stranger.

He was a stranger, to her. Where he looked at her and saw life and hope and second chances, she saw... what? A man? A broken man? A lame, broken, weeping man?

What must this seem like to her? What must he seem like to her?

He hated this curse and this world and everything about this life that he should never have had to live.

"No, but you will."

What did she know, what did she remember. Who was this cursed girl who wore Belle's face? He wasn't sure. But it didn't matter now.

Not now.

Not when he was so close. Not when Emma would soon break this curse. Not when his Belle was nearly home.

He would take True Love's potion to the well. He would bring magic to this world. He would find his son. And then he would show him he'd found another way. Not hiding in a land without magic, like Reul Ghorm made Bae think was the only way. Not a dark curse like the Blue Fairy made him think was the only way. He would show Bae what Belle had taught him, the same lesson he taught to Snow and Charming.

True Love was the most powerful magic in all the realms. And it could break any curse.

So, he would find his son and then he would kiss Belle. True Love's kiss. And he would show Bae that he was choosing to be a better man, the father he'd lost so long ago. He would tell him about the curse and that he'd spent everyday for the past three hundred years thinking of him, trying to get back to him.

And hopefully, it would be enough.

It would just be a little longer.

But he was almost there. They were almost there.

"Come with me." He said and held out his hand.

She looked up at him with those blue eyes that he loved, those lips that he loved, that nose that he loved. She looked up at him, at the stranger he was, and nodded.

She took his hand. Without question. Without hesitation. Without fear.

Because even without her memories, she trusted him. She may have even loved him, as Mary Margaret and David had loved each other.

After all, what he and Belle had, as brief and fleeting as it had been, was just as powerful as what Snow White and Prince Charming had.

The stuff of legends.

A love for the ages.

True Love.

The reference to Rumple being 5 different people comes from an interview with Robert Carlyle at Paley Fest.

Soooo, let's just pretend that the rather abrupt change in tense was purposeful for tone and mood, k? Also, his 'plan' about what he was going to do is actually the plot of another AU fic that I'm writing. Maybe that will be a sequel to this one at some point, who knows.

Oh, and I'm on tumblr now if you want to high-five me. I still have my LJs but they are long since neglected.

Also, this is unBeta'd so if you see any mistakes, please let me know. Thanks.