AN: I tend to post these a few days after I release them elsewhere. If you want the fics fresh off the press, take a look at my tumblr (jwtroemner).

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, etc, etc, etc.

One step.

Then another.

He doesn't think about the living corpse in his arms. He doesn't think about the pain that shoots through his legs with every step.

He can't.

(Just take one more step. Then another. One more.)

The hospital's staff run at him, try to take her away, but the barrier keeps them away. (Barely.) Their fingers still stretch through, feathering across her skin before they're pushed back again.

He feels every attack like a cannonball to the chest. He doesn't think about it.

(One more step. One more. Just one more.)

They cross the threshold into the open air. Sunlight lights up her face for the first time in a thousand years, but she doesn't wake.

He fears she never will.

(One more step. Another. Another.)

His leg threatens to collapse beneath him. The bone wants to shatter, his arms burn.

There was a time when he caught her, held her, like she was a feather in his arms. He had magic then to keep him strong.

Not anymore.

Everything he's collected, everything he's hoarded with a dragon's jealousy for nearly thirty years, it's gone now, spent in fetching her. He's emptier than he's ever been.

But he doesn't think about that, either.

He should have done it differently. More subtly. The way he usually does. But this time he couldn't wait, couldn't stop himself, couldn't hold back, and now he clutches her closer in his arms and he doesn't know what to do.

From the corner of his eye he sees the sheriff's car idling beside him, tapping the brakes every few seconds to keep with his agonizing pace. He ignores it.

Emma sits behind the wheel. Beside her, Henry rolls down the window so she can call out to him.

"Hey there."

He doesn't reply. His mind is elsewhere occupied.

(One more step. Another. Another.)

"Need a lift?"

He doesn't answer for another step. Another. Another. And then his leg gives out, the ruined knee crumpling. It's all he can do to sink to the sidewalk (slowly), keeping Belle tucked safely against his chest. The car comes to a halt. The engine dies.

Emma steps out, stands over him. Vaguely he can see her signaling passersby away, nothing to see here, so on.

Sweat drains from his every pore. His breath comes in ragged gasps. He doesn't care.

And then she crouches low, her arms reaching to wrap around Belle, and he snarls. It's a savage, wordless sound, but he doesn't have any words left in him anymore. Emma raises her eyebrows, completely unfazed.

"I still owe you that favor, remember?"

He meets her eyes, stares into them, through them, trying to read her soul. It's harder with these eyes, in this world, and maybe it's wishful thinking, but she seems honest. His head bends (defeated) and he relinquishes Belle into Emma's grip. The boy opens the door for her (where did he come from?) and she lays his beloved across the back seat. Gold drags himself in beside her, his lap a pillow under her head.

The door isn't yet closed. Henry leans through it, takes off his jacket, drapes it over Belle. He gives Gold a soft smile (Baelfire's smile) before he joins his mother in the front seat.

"Here to arrest me?" His throat is dry. His voice barely makes a sound in his own ears, but Emma looks at him through the rear-view mirror .

"Would it make a difference if I did?" she asks.

He doesn't reply.

The car carries him to the tea-rose panels of his own house. She leaves the car like a chauffeur, opens the door and whisks Belle out of his reach. He almost cries out at the theft, wrenches open the door, tries to step out—his leg gives out before he's made it entirely out of the car.

There's the boy again, Baelfire's smile on his lips, his hand extended in mercy.

"Here. Lemme help."

Gold doesn't have it in him to refuse. He lets himself be pulled to his feet, grips the boy's shoulders when they're offered to him, leans on him for support as he hobbles the endless miles between his car and the front door (which sadist put steps there?). Emma is already inside, laying Belle across a couch that he never managed to sell.

He wants to rebel (She needs a proper bed. She needs rest. She needs everything he never gave her.) but a glance from the curse-breaker tells him everything. He can't make it up the flight of stairs. Not like this. To bring her comfort would be to send her away.

He won't do that.

Henry leads him to a wingback chair, a few feet away. He collapses into it, his body wracked with hellfire. Lifting his arm is agony, but he reaches out, takes her hand in his own and holds on for all he's worth.

Even when consciousness leaves him he doesn't let go.