A/N. This story is named for a song that Robert Carlyle has said he listens to when he's preparing to play Rumplestiltskin: Kasabian's "Underdog."

Today's Mirror reports that by the latest count, Storybrooke has 3,016 inhabitants. As the customers in Granny's Diner comment on the article–for there's absolutely nothing else in the newspaper to comment upon–no one remarks upon the odd fact that this year's count is exactly the same as last year's and the previous year's. No births have added to the number; no deaths have taken from it; no one's moved in or out; and no one notices.

As he opens the door to Granny's Diner, Mr. Gold catches snatches of conversation about the article, but it comes to a gear-grinding halt when he steps inside. The diners glance sideways at him; when he looks into their faces, they busy themselves with cups and cutlery.

Gold approaches the counter, eyes the red vinyl stool with disgust, then eases himself slowly onto it, subtly leaning on his cane. Ruby ends her chitchat with the sheriff in mid-sentence and rushes to her post behind the counter, her pencil already busy writing "Gold's usual" on her pad before she asks the question: "The usual, Mr. Gold?"

The landlord nods curtly and looks around at the other customers. When he swings back around to face the cup of coffee she sets before him, he's not scowling as much as when he first entered: after scanning the crowd and totaling the prices of their meals, he's concluded that Granny's taken in enough to pay the rent today.

"Mornin', Mr. Gold."

Everyone looks up at the only man in town who ever bids Gold a good morning and means it: his jack-of-all-trades, Josiah Dove. Dove seems to genuinely like Gold, though when asked why, all he can do is shrug and say, "He's always played me fair." But then, Dove likes everyone.

And on his arm this morning is one of the reasons why: his sweet little wife, Belinda. She stands five-one in her high heels, to Josiah's six-nine, but they've been together so long no one notices the difference any more. Besides, they make each other happy, and that's a rare thing.

"Morning, Mr. Gold," Belinda echoes her husband. Her voice is music, a clear, sweet bell that rings out across the restaurant as she greets the other customers by their first names. Only Gold is never spoken to with such familiarity, even by the Doves, even though they both have worked for him forever.

Once a week while Gold's at his shop, she marches into his big pink house on the hill to cook and clean. When she exits in the late afternoon, she leaves a spotless house, a well-stocked larder and a plate warming in the oven and she carries home in her pocket a shopping list Gold has written out and her and Josiah's paycheck. Unlike her husband, she rarely crosses paths with Gold. Clearly, everyone realizes, that's Gold's preference, not hers, for when she speaks of him it's always with respect and a hint of fondness. But that's Belinda for you: she finds something nice to say about everyone.

It's rumored that Gold actually converses socially with Josiah as they work, commenting upon the weather or taxes or some antique he's restoring. Josiah will neither confirm nor deny this rumor. He keeps all his employer's secrets, especially those that might tarnish the Meanest Man title.

As they walk past him to seat themselves in a booth, Mr. Gold gives the couple a half-smile and a greeting that's a couple of degrees warmer than his typical polite responses. He's unfailingly polite, Gold is, but never warm, not even to the children who walk past his shop on their way to school.

As Gold finishes his coffee and dry wheat toast, he drops three dollars onto the counter and Ruby thanks him. He stands to leave and Belinda calls out after him, her blue eyes twinkling, "Trout almondine tonight, Mr. Gold."

Gold pauses just a moment to almost smile at her. "Thank you, Ms. Dove. I look forward to it. Rent collection today, Mr. Dove. I shall expect you at nine."

"See you then, Mr. Gold," Josiah answers.

Head high–though he sneaks glances downward to make certain he doesn't trip over breaks in the sidewalk–Gold strolls six blocks to his shop. He enters through the back and moves to the counter, where he opens his ledger and admires the ever-growing column of numbers. He likes Rent Day and doesn't hide the fact from the public. What he does hide is the fact that he likes Rent Day not only for the money he collects, but for the excuse to be out and about.

No one suspects, except the Doves, and they'll never tell: the brief moments of social interaction he gets with his tenants on Rent Day provide something more than an income for the Meanest Man in Town. Comfort, he has, and by most standards, a good life, but friends or family, he has not. Only the Doves leave a Christmas card in his mailbox in December and a birthday card in April. Only the Doves pay attention to whether he eats properly or gets enough sleep. Only the Doves seem to care how he answers when asked, "How are you?"

Sometimes, when business at the shop is slow (when isn't it?) and he hasn't any broken antiques to repair, Gold reaches into a secret drawer in his worktable, takes out a box of dominos and invites Dove to play.

On those days, when customers wander in, Gold is sometimes caught in mid-smile.

Twilight has snuck up on the village by the time Gold returns to Granny's, this time to collect the rent. While Dove has been collecting from the residential neighborhoods, Gold has been collecting from the businesses. The diner is always last on his stops, so that he can enjoy an Irish coffee before he goes home to the plate warming in his oven. Something's off-kilter today, though: Regina's maid Marian, who pulls occasional waitressing shifts, informs him that both Lucas women are in the inn–with a guest.

"With a–" Gold begins to repeat, then he remembers it won't do for the Meanest Man to seem not to know a stranger has arrived in town. "Thank you, Ms. Nottingham." He pushes through overgrown hedges to find the inn. He can't remember having come inside before, but he shoves the door open as brazenly as if he owns the place, since he does.

Granny is indeed busy registering a guest–one can't very well say "new guest" since the inn has never had any. Ever. Gold stands back, eavesdropping in amazement he manages to hide: not that Granny or Ruby notice him; they're fixed on the stranger in red leather who's asked for a room for a week. Fumbling, Granny opens the dust-covered registration book and spins it around for her guest to sign.

"Now, what's the name?"

"Swan. Emma Swan."

A flash of light, like a lightbulb exploding, goes off in Gold's head, momentarily blinding him, and he thinks he hears the echo of a semi-maniacal giggle from somewhere behind him. As he stands there, seemingly unflappable, his hands folded on the head of his cane as he waits to speak to Granny, he's fighting for mental survival against the barrage of voices and faces attacking his brain. Memories, he realizes, of another life, another world, where he was the most powerful sorcerer in all the lands. Where he had everything except the thing he valued most. . . where the quest to have everything drove away the people he valued most.

But that will soon come to an end, thanks to the arrival of the stranger in red leather. "Emma!" He smiles at her, ignoring the creeped-out look she gives him. It doesn't matter what she thinks of him; her destiny is about to unfurl, and when she fulfills it, she will bring him back his long-lost son, the only thing he wants, the only thing that truly matters.

Granny hands him a wad of cash. He pockets it quickly, for it embarrasses him somehow. Now, for the first time, he senses how artificial the power of money is: the woman standing before him has the real power and she doesn't even know it yet; he will have to help her discover it, and then she'll lead him to his son.

"Enjoy your stay, Emma."

As he leaves, the werewolf gives him a look he can't decipher. No matter. She doesn't know they've been living a lie for three decades. She won't awaken to herself for another year.

Making a believer of a savior takes time.

Gold hurries back to his shop to get to work on a plan to save the savior. He's in his workroom writing out a plan (in the language of his childhood home, a tongue not spoken in three hundred years) when the bell above his door tinkles.

Annoyed, he grabs his cane, but before he can make it out to the front, a sweet voice calls him. "Mr. Gold? It's me, Belinda."

His heart stops.

"I, uh, wanted to ask you about something."

No, not Belinda. That's a lie, just one of 3,016 lies fabricated by Regina's curse. Not Belinda. Not Dove's wife.

"I was dusting the curios in the cabinet in your dining room." Her voice increases in volume as she approaches, her sneakers squeaking on the wood laminate floor (fake! Like everything else in Storybrooke). "Mr. Gold? Are you here?"

He can't make his tongue work. That's not Belinda Dove out there. It's Belle.

He clutches the edge of his worktable.

The curtain rings rasp as she draws the back the curtain that separates the workroom from the public floor, that separates her from him. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail and she's wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt, the clothes she always wears when she cleans, but she may as well be dressed in diamonds and gold (his gold). As she dimples at him, unafraid of the Meanest Man in two worlds, she's just as beautiful now as the day he met her in her father's crumbling castle. Her sapphire eyes look directly into his. "Sorry to interrupt," she nods at the cuckoo clock on his table. "But I wanted to ask about this." She brings her hands forward to show him what she's holding.

The cup.

Their cup.

His head spins. He drops his cane.

She's by his side in an instant, crouching beside his bench. She sets the chipped teacup on the table so she can rest one hand on his knee and press the other to his forehead. "Mr. Gold? Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?" She brushes his hair from his forehead to get better access to his skin. "You feel cold. Clammy. Should I–"

"Some tea." He nods to the counter where he keeps an electric pot steeping. "Please."

She finds a clean cup in a cupboard, pours hot water into it and dunks a bag of chamomile into the water. "I still think I should get a doctor," she protests.

"Charlatans," he scoffs. "No, I'm perfectly well. Just tried to stand up too quickly, you know."

"Oh, yes, I've done that before." She doctors his tea with two lumps of brown sugar. No one else in Storybrooke–indeed, on the planet–takes brown sugar in their tea. It doesn't occur to her to ask about that quirk of his, nor to ask how it is that she even knows his preference: he never told her about it–in this world.

She brings him the tea and watches anxiously as he sips it. "Perfect. Thank you–" he can't bring himself to say her name. It would be a lie, and he won't lie to her any more. ("I don't want you any more"–the bigest lie in his life, after "All I want is your happiness, Bae. If you can find a way, I'll do it.")

She tests his forehead again. Her hand smells of lemon furniture polish, but her hair, as she leans over him, smells of roses, as it always did, and he's sure it's just as silky. "Well, you seem to have improved." She pulls her hand away too soon. "I'll, uh, leave you to your cuckoo."

"Wait. You had a question?" Anything to get her to stay, but he hopes she won't ask about the meaning of the chipped cup.

"Oh, yes." She touches the special cup. "I wondered if you want this thrown out. It's broken."

He runs a finger over the rim. "Only chipped, dear, not broken. As with many things in this life, it's slightly damaged but serviceable."

"Okay." She picks it up again. "I'll put it back. Anything else I can get for you before I go?"

He can think of many things, but he shakes his head. "No thanks."

She smiles as she starts for the door. "Call if you need anything. Trout almondine tonight, and rosemary potatoes."

"Sounds delicious." He lets her go. He wants to seize her waist and pull her into his chest for a kiss that never ends, a kiss he can finally give her, now that he's free of the Dark curse. Except this time she's the one who's cursed, and his kiss won't break it. Even if it could, he wouldn't dare. What would it do to her, to wake her up now, a full year before the savior will break Regina's curse? He's been awake only three hours so far, and he's already confused and frustrated as hell. What would it do to her, when she knows nothing about the real purpose of this curse?

When she realizes she's been sleeping with a man she doesn't love?

Rumplestiltskin chokes on his tea. Chokes with jealousy, for his true love has been making love for thirty years to his only friend.

"Belle!" He leaps to his feet. He stumbles onto the main floor, but she's gone. Thank the gods. For he would have seized her and kissed her and babbled his love for her, if she were still within his reach, and that would have been torture, for, being an honorable woman, she would have pushed him away, walked out of his life completely, as would her husband.

But she's alive, thank the gods, alive and unmarked–Regina lied, obviously, about the clerics and the flaying, and he's never been so relieved to find out he's been hoodwinked, though he vows he'll make Regina pay for that lie. And in a year, when Emma breaks the curse, she will remember who she is and what they had together.

If she'll forgive him.

The clock he's been oiling suddenly chooses this moment to taunt him: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"