"Did Rumplestiltskin do this to him?"

Emma stared at Doc. She'd heard her mother's stories, how the hi-ho whistling Dwarves of Disney were warriors who had taken on monsters and the legions of the evil queen. She could see it in Grumpy and maybe some of the others, but Doc had always looked like we should have been Santa in the old world, not a one Dwarf army. Till now. There was a barely contained fury in him, and Emma realized the country doctor she thought she knew was ready to go kill Rumplestiltskin with a stethoscope or die trying. She knew which one of those two it would be—but Doc had to know, too, and he was a heartbeat away from doing it anyway.

"What? No!" Emma said. She looked down at the x-rays that had Doc seething. It looked ugly enough to her, and she didn't have any of Doc's medical knowledge, just a gut certainty that a bone shouldn't look like that. "Why would you even think that?" She was silently glad they'd only brought Weaver in to have Doc check his leg. She could just imagine what would be going on if he saw some of his other scars.

Doc crossed his arms across his chest, not buying anything she was saying. "You know the story of Hansel and Gretel, Emma? The real story is that there was a witch who kept herself young by draining the youth out of children. She did it by eating them. She wasn't the only one who did things like that. Why wouldn't Gold do that? The curse made him lame. Now, he isn't. Maybe he just stuck his problem in someone else and stole what he wanted."

Emma had a mental picture of Rumplestiltskin as some kind of Dr. Frankenstein (which she knew the real Dr. Frankenstein would hate), stealing a whole leg here, a better kneecap there. "He didn't. I told you, Weaver's sort of . . . related to Gold. And they just, uh, they just have . . . similar . . . injuries. . . ." It sounded lame and unconvincing even to her. Great. Her mother would kill her if she got Doc killed. And, then, her mother would try to kill Rumplestiltskin.

"Dark witches do that," Doc said. "They use their own family worse than anyone."

"But, Mr. Gold didn't do that to me," a calm voice said from the office door.

Emma turned. Weaver was standing there. He was skittish about using too much magic (whatever that meant around here), especially on his own injuries. So, she and Neal had talked him into letting Doc have a look at his leg—Dr. Joseph had seemed like a nice guy, but she wanted someone who understood words like antibiotic to check it over and see if there was something more they should do.

Doc had freaked over the old breaks and the new bit that had been cut away, but he'd kept up the I-am-a-professional look and told Weaver about the surgery options.

Then, Weaver just had to freak him out by asking if he had to be unconscious for the surgery.

Even that might not have been so bad if Doc's eyes hadn't gone wide, and he'd asked—no, he'd demanded to know if Weaver had been conscious when his bone was cut or when his leg was broken.

When Weaver looked down and mumbled something affirmative, Doc had said he needed to consult with Emma and dragged her into another room to demand some answers. It was obvious to everyone in town that Weaver was looked like Rumplestiltskin. Emma had already heard some of the rumors explaining that. He was Rumplestiltskin's brother, cousin, or son. She'd even heard a couple people speculating that this meant Neal was Rumple's adopted son, a healthy changeling substituted for the weakling the Dark One had taken one look at and thrown away (Gold's bad leg, according to this story, was the curse's irony getting back at him).

Oddly, no one had commented much on Rhosyn. Someone would say, "Wow, she looks an awful lot like Belle, doesn't she?" and someone else would say, "I guess they like the same type," and move onto speculation about how well Gold and Weaver knew each other. The closest Emma had heard to a relative-theory was someone commenting that Rhosyn's hair looked like Archie's.

So far, Emma hadn't told anyone but her parents the truth, and they'd kept it to themselves. It wasn't lying, really. And Emma and Neal—and even Gold and Belle—agreed the Weavers might have an easier time in town if people didn't know the whole, complicated (even by Storybrooke standards) story.

"So, if Gold didn't do that to you, what happened?"

"I don't know what your curse did to Gold," Weaver said, with that kind of measured truth-that-wasn't-the-truth Gold liked when he wanted to lie to people. "You—you know about Gold's father?" he asked.

Now, that story had made it around town in the more-or-less correct version. "Pan," Doc said. "What about him?"

"He's my father, too." Weaver gave what should have been a self-effacing smile but was more like a grimace—someone needed to teach this guy how to play poker. "This leg is because . . . I didn't want to be like him."

He looked down at his leg as he said it and didn't see the look on Doc's face. Emma saw the revelations piling up and could see Doc racing to the wrong conclusions. "Your father. . . ?" he didn't say he did that to you? As far as Emma was concerned, it might as well have been written on Doc's face, but Weaver didn't seem to notice. "You and Gold are brothers?" Doc asked instead. "Or half-brothers?"

That drew out Weaver's ironic smile again. "Oh, yes," he said. "Split right down the middle. The break—the break was my fault." Doc's face spasmed with the kind of compassion you expected from a medical health care professional who'd just heard a patient tell him he was responsible for his dad breaking his leg. Emma didn't groan. "The bone, though, that happened in the last world. A man there . . . he knew enough about magic to—to recognize I was from another world. Magic was hard to come by in that world. He . . . experimented. That's all.

"Emma says you're a—a good man. And I trust her. But, I—I don't think I can let anyone cut into my leg if—if I can't even watch what they're doing."

"Another world," Doc said. "What were you doing in another world?"

"Someone sent me there," Weaver said. "Someone who—who thought our world might be—be better off without me."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

"No. Someone—someone else. Not that it matters."

And, now, Doc thought Pan had done that, too. Emma jumped in before this got any muddier. "His leg, Doc, we were talking about his leg. And overall health. Any comments?"

"Oh, yes. Well, the leg is healing as well as can be expected. If you won't have surgery, I'll want to see about fitting you with a brace. You need to keep pressure off the cut bone. Fortunately, there's a physical therapist in town. I'll set up an appointment for you. And, uhm, has anyone mentioned Dr. Hopper, to you? He might be useful for you to talk to."

"Already taken care of," Emma said. Archie had been over to Gold's house. Given the last doctor's "office" Weaver had spent much time in, Emma hadn't even tried to get Weaver to chat with the therapist in what he would have to see as Archie's territory. They hadn't been quite the private chats Archie was probably used to with patients. From what Emma had heard, Weaver stuck to Rhosyn like glue during them (not a bad thing, Rhosyn needed to talk to Archie, too) and Gold and Belle had a tendency to hover.

Belle was all right, but Gold was about as private and closed off as a stone wall. Emma wondered what would happen if Weaver started discussing things Gold would really prefer Archie not know about.

He'd promised her not to hurt Hopper. He'd done it very carefully, too. She knew Archie would come out of these meetings alive and well and not turned into a cricket. He'd very carefully not said anything about spells on Archie's memories. When she'd asked, he'd given her that tight-lipped smile and said, "Sheriff, I've promised to give him back to you no worse the wear. If that means polishing off a few stains when they arise, you mustn't hold it against me."

He'd said the same to Archie. He'd swallowed nervously but rallied. "Well, it will give pirates one less reason to interrogate me," he said.

Archie wasn't giving the town any gossip. Emma could only wish the same could be said of Doc. Oh, she trusted him to keep doctor-patient confidentiality, but confidentiality wasn't always the same thing in a small town, especially when it involved a doctor on a campaign to protect his patient from the local wizard.

The next time they were over at Granny's, all the Dwarves came over and introduced themselves. Leroy in particular wanted Weaver to know that, if anyone ever gave him any trouble, he should let them know.

X

Rumplestiltskin sat in a corner of Weaver's store, Eisteddfod Books, drinking tea. The store's small coffee shop was an extension of Granny's, which was right next door (with almost none of the profits going to Weaver, the man did not know how to negotiate). Though they shared the same kitchen and staff, the coffee shop was remarkably (one might say magically)quieter.

The bookstore would have reminded nearly anyone in town of a small cottage back home, with its plaster walls and carved woodwork. It had become something of a gathering spot for people who wanted a peaceful place to chat with friends or read. Weaver was more interested in providing a welcoming atmosphere than he was in selling merchandise, Rumplestiltskin thought.

It had also become a favorite hangout for anyone enjoying chess. That was more people than an outsider might expect, but chess had been a popular in the Enchanted Forest. Usually, there were several games going. Tonight, however, everyone was watching Doc and Weaver.

It looked like Doc was going to win this one. Leroy had the smug look of a man about to collect a bet. Doc made his move, moving his white pawn into place on the far side of the board. "Pawn becomes queen," he said. "Sorry, Weaver. That's two queens to your . . . none."

"Hey, Doc," Leroy said. "I put my money on you, but no nun jokes!" He looked over at Sister Astrid sitting next to him, who blushed and turned her attention to the board. Leroy looked grumpy.

"It's no matter," Weaver said, moving a piece. "Checkmate."

Doc's mouth fell open. Weaver had been down to his king, a rook, and two pawns. Doc had two queens—and he was in checkmate. Astrid grinned as Leroy handed over his dollar.

Rumplestiltskin grinned to himself. The Dwarves had become Weaver's staunch defenders (unless Doc and chess were involved). Emma had told him about the interesting . . . misperceptions the Dwarves had about his relationship with Weaver, and he saw no reason to enlighten them. The Blue Fairy knew the truth, such as it was, but he didn't know what she'd told her minions. Astrid, who had less power of deception—including self-deception—than most of her sisters, seemed ignorant enough. If Reul Ghorm had any sense, she was treating the information as need-to-know. The story hardly reflected well on her.

It didn't surprise him that the townsfolk seemed to accept he and Weaver were only half-brothers (with numerous stories already circulating that made Rumplestiltskin out to be a remarkably cruel, elder brother). Weaver was still much thinner than he should be. Gauntness made the bones of his face seem sharper. His hair was longer and limper, tied back in its queue. As for his clothes, Weaver did nearly all of his shopping at the secondhand and thrift stores. He could spin straw into gold—and did when the store didn't make enough—but he couldn't stop being cautious with money, especially when he spent it on himself. Today, he was wearing faded, worn jeans and a sweatshirt that might have been brown or even red in a former life but was now closer to gray with hints of umber

At least his sneakers were new, with arch-support and wonderful comfort for an aching foot—and the aching leg above it. If there was one point both Rumplestiltskin and Weaver agreed on when it came to clothes, it was that good shoes were worth their weight in gold.

Other than that, their body language was completely different. Weaver was always a little hunched, a little wary, his eyes tending to be downcast and head bowed. It was hard for anyone to see what was right in front of them. Weaver and Rumplestiltskin were the same man. Except they weren't.

The story was simpler with Belle and Rhosyn. Rhosyn's long hair was perhaps a bit longer than the average in her world but not by that much. Rumplestiltskin had read accounts of women of women in this world's past whose hair had brushed the ground when they let it fall down loose. Women from the Enchanted forest, barring odd magic and certain curses (like that princess Gothel kept locked in her tower), could rarely grow it as far as their waists. There were odd differences between people in different worlds like that. It was probably why Weaver seemed so fascinated by how long Rhosyn's was. Of course, he seemed to consider everything about Rhosyn wonderful and fascinating, which (Rumplestiltskin thought, glancing at Belle where she sat with the Weavers, was as it should be. But, her hair had a special effect on the man.

He probably thought it was sick and perverted. He'd turned red as Regina's apples the one time Rumplestiltskin had brought it up.

So, Rumplestiltskin had spun ribbons and bows. He'd twisted gold into clips, coloring some with jewels or cloisonné, before, giving them to Rhosyn and showing her how to work the small bits of magic placed inside. When she wore them, her hair hung a few inches down her shoulders or even less, if she desired, a good length for teaching or walking about town. When she removed them, it fell down in its full glory. Weaver might be skittish around magic, but Rumplestiltskin hadn't heard him complain.

There was another, small bit of magic in them. Barely noticeable, it was hardly worth mentioning. So, Rumplestiltskin hadn't.

Anyone seeing Rhosyn had no trouble recognizing her. If, for some reason, any of them had ever had to describe her to a police sketch artist, the resulting picture would have been perfectly accurate (assuming a competent police sketch artist. And a competent witness).

But, none of them—none who didn't already know, like Emma and Neal or the Weavers themselves—put the pieces together and saw more than a passing resemblance between her and Belle. Like not recognizing a friend without glasses, they never saw the truth in front of them. As far as they were concerned, Weaver might have a similar taste in women, but there was nothing more surprising about Belle and Rhosyn than that.

It was his gift to the Weavers, a chance for them to be taken on their own terms.

And it was his little joke on the town. It was always amusing to know what no one else seemed to, even when they were staring right at it.

Of course, the same people had stared at Mary Margaret and Emma Swan for nearly a year without seeing the obvious, either. Perhaps the small bit of magic was unnecessary. Well, at least, Mrs. Weaver wasn't weighed down by nearly five feet of hair while trying to teach teenagers calculus.

The game broke up and several books on chess were sold. Sister Astrid, glancing through one, had had her eyes grow large. She pointed out to everyone that this one game, played during the French Revolution, had ended in almost the exact same way as Weaver's game with Doc.

Rumplestiltskin had read about that game, too. A woman had played a game with one of the powers of the French Revolution. If she won, her fiancé lived; if she lost . . . she had never told anyone what price she would have paid. The usual payments in such a tale—her life, her virtue—were cheap things in that time and place. Perhaps the man she played had simply been too proud to need a stake, certain he couldn't lose.

He must have looked just like Doc, Rumplestiltskin thought, triumphantly putting his second queen on the board, only to find he'd lost the game.

Two white queens, Rumplestiltskin mused, looking at Rhosyn and Belle. Belle had taken Rhosyn on several shopping trips, though Rhosyn still wore skirts that went at least to her knee, usually longer, and almost never wore anything resembling a high heel. He could imagine them, the two great ladies each doing their part to support the Dark King, distracting the forces ranged against him. Or, if he was going to push this metaphor, he supposed they were really helping the poor, little, dark rook discover his power, the two pawns he had protected standing by him in his moment of victory.

The king only needed to be on the board to make victory official. He didn't really have a role to play other than looking on.

The man the woman two hundred years ago had played had kept his deals, whatever other dark deeds he'd done. Her beloved was freed. The pair presumably fled into the night, finding happily ever after in more welcoming climes. And, now, generations later, her happy ending sold books that would help Weaver make rent (not that Rumplestiltskin charged him much—he wouldn't charge him any if Weaver hadn't gotten a sick, uncomfortable look at the idea. The last time he'd been offered too much kindness to put a roof over his head, it hadn't ended well).

Rumplestiltskin would have offered the Weavers a ride home, but Doc saw him coming and intercepted Weaver first, throwing a glare at the Dark One. Really, what did he think Rumplestiltskin meant to do? Whisk the man over to his house and spend an amiable evening torturing him in his hidden dungeon? As if Belle would let him.

Leroy was now glaring at Rumplestiltskin as well and saying something about his truck being parked right outside. Rumplestiltskin strolled to the door with the rest of the crowd leaving now the game was over. At least, Miss Lucas, who had had several girls nights out with Belle and Rhosyn, didn't seem interested in more than collecting her tips and handing Wendy and Bae some of her grandmother's extra rich chocolate brownies as part of a victory celebration.

Although she'd generally toned down her look since Miss Swan came to town, Rumplestiltskin had noticed she made a special effort when working in the coffee shop. If Miss Lucas had come to work stark naked, Weaver would have tried valiantly not to suggest he was in any way uncomfortable with the situation and merely asked (in a choked voice) if she wasn't, perhaps, a bit chilly? After that, he would have let the matter dropped but walked around with the desperate, confused look of a man who was being hit over the head with how little he understood this world.

It would be like beating up a puppy, Miss Lucas told Belle.

Rumplestiltskin smiled to himself. He knew how much the town feared him. There was something immensely satisfying in seeing them rally to protect his "victim." Of course, he wondered how quickly that courage might vanish if it cost them. Some, he knew, would crumble. But, others—like Leroy, who was too irritable to back down—would stand by Weaver. They would never do that for him, of course. He was the Dark One, the enemy of happy endings and light. There might be one or two queens on the side of light who would stand up for him. As for the rest, even when he helped them—even saved them—he could see them waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, he couldn't deny that it usually did.

Still, he might, just possibly give Doc an extra day or two to pay his rent if he ever needed it. It would only be after he had made a few very snide, very cutting remarks about how all the lost chess games must be taking their toll on him if he couldn't remember rent day. But, having seen him play, he would allow that senility needed to be respected.

Rumplestiltskin was still smiling as he drove home.

X

"So, tell me," Rhosyn said as she ran her husband a bath. "Did you try for the same ending as that game?"

Rumplestiltskin looked embarrassed. "I didn't try," he said. "Not exactly. But, it was an interesting story. I . . . kept thinking about. During the game."

That was a yes, Rhosyn thought, not that her Rumplestiltskin would ever come right out and admit he was good enough he'd been able to push Doc into exactly that end game.

There were other things he wouldn't admit. "Is your leg hurting?" she asked. "Doc told you to keep off it!"

"I did. Mostly. Things were just busy. At the store." He winced as he took off the brace.

"Do you need help?" Rhosyn said. Rumplestiltskin, white-lipped nodded. Rhosyn helped him into the warm water, then adjusted some dials and hit two buttons on the side, starting up bubbles and jets.

The house was really a very humble one by local standards, barely more than a cottage. But, their bedroom was on the ground floor (the two, small bedrooms upstairs were used by Wendy and Bae), and their bedroom had its own bath, a bath with every luxury imaginable for a man with a shattered leg. Rhosyn didn't need second sight to know what Gold had done for his "brother" and to feel grateful towards him, especially now, as she watched the lines of pain slowly ease off her husband's face.

She bit her lip. "Do you ever—do you think—Gold's mended his leg. Could you. . . ?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Someday. Maybe. I don't—the curse is easier here. It doesn't—doesn't eat at me the way it used to. But, I—I'm afraid of waking it up." He looked at her, unsure. "Does it . . . bother you? That I'm lame?"

"You know it doesn't," she said, silently cursing Rumplestiltskin's first wife. It wasn't just the curse. There were still so many times he was sure he must be falling short in what Rhosyn wanted in a husband. He may have been terribly relieved Milah had been rescued from her doom, but Rhosyn . . . she wouldn't wish a dead woman harm, but she sincerely hoped something had happened before the end to make Milah know she should never have treated her husband that way.

She reached up and pulled the ribbon out of her hair, letting the red curls cascade down. "You know it doesn't," she repeated. She heard his breath catch as it tumbled around her. She leaned over and kissed him. It went on longer than she expected—it always did, it was so easy to let eternity pass by when she was with him. . . . Rhosyn pulled herself free, gasping a little for breath. "Don't pull me in," she warned. "You know it takes forever for my hair to dry, and I want to do . . . other things tonight."

"I could get out now," Rumplestiltskin said.

"Not after what you've done to your leg. You're staying there till I tell you to get out."

"Rhosyn, Doc was with me the whole evening. Don't you think he'd notice if I was overdoing it?"

Oh, he was trying to wheedle her into changing her mind, was he? And coming close to succeeding. "You know as well as I do, Doc forgets all about being a doctor when he's trying to beat you." Funny, it had been hard to believe some of the stories she'd heard about Doc when she first met him, how he'd fought monsters and armies. Sit him down at a chessboard, and it all become completely believable. "A little longer," she said. "Time enough for me to change."

This world was . . . different than the one she'd grown up in. Shockingly different in some ways. Rhosyn remembered when Belle had taken her to a lingerie store for the first time. There were some things the saleslady had shown them Rhosyn didn't think she'd ever be able to even imagine wearing, not ever.

Some of the others, however. . . .

She still favored clothes that were reminiscent of her own world. She brought out a white negligee. It flowed around her, with frills and layers of lace. The fabric was thin though not sheer—not quite. There was a matching robe that went over it. She ran a brush through her hair, letting it fan out behind her like a cloak. Checking her appearance once more in the mirror. She went back into the bathroom, taking a large towel from the rack. "How's your leg?" she asked.

"Fine," Rumplestiltskin said. He looked at her as if she were an angel suddenly flying down from heaven to help him. "Absolutely fine. If—if you'll help me out?"

As she helped him down into their bed, Rhosyn said, "Is your leg all right? Perhaps I should massage it—"

"Later," Rumplestiltskin said, running his hand through her curls. "Much later."

Rhosyn smiled and lost herself in another small piece of eternity.

X

It was strange, Rumplestiltskin thought much later that night, Rhosyn sleeping in his arms. He remembered waking in the dark, helpless and hopeless, nothing keeping him from despair except the fierce burning hunger inside him, the gaping need that Hastings would not win.

Rumplestiltskin had known hunger—the gnawing need of never quite enough that had become almost ordinary and hunger that ate away at him, clawing at his insides. Finally being fed, having enough—not even needing to fear that this would be the last, that there wouldn't be another meal the next time he needed it—was confusing with how completely it changed him. The angry, clawing need, like a dragon ready to attack, was gone, replaced with peace and rest.

The absence of danger was like that, too.

Oh, there were still times when he would wake from nightmares, holding onto Rhosyn like a lifeline. There were times when Rhosyn would wake in the same way.

But, there were times like this, times when darkness was soft and comforting, when it promised—and delivered—peace and safety.

Memories reached up and tried to wrest it away, Hastings, his father, Hordor.

No,he said to them. I promised to beat you. And I did. No second rounds. Not tonight.

Dark Pawn and White Queen, he thought, holding Rhosyn close. Who would have thought they were on the same side? But, they had played their game and, with the help of others, had saved each other. They had found their refuge, their safe place where friends watched their back and Dark Wizards did nothing more than look on amused, sipping tea and wishing them well.

It was enough, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. It was more than he had ever dreamt of, and it was enough.