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Her mother starts to sneeze uncontrollably when she’s around them for more than a few minutes, and while Rum would love to grant his daughter anything she desires, he’s not willing to risk Belle’s health for it.

So he buys his girl a rabbit instead. The thing has long dark floppy ears and a mottled brown and gold body, and Rose calls him Spinner.

He’s a little startled by her choice, but on reflection it makes sense. Her favourite bedtime stories are the adventures of Rumpelstiltskin the Spinner, who dances with princesses and battles dragons, and who can create gold from straw like her rabbit likes to eat. She doesn’t mind the fairies her best friend loves, or the war stories the boys at school enjoy.

But she claims he does the voices best for the Rumpelstiltskin stories, and so they are her favourites.

He lapses into his old mannerisms, his old tones, when he plays his part for her.

Belle laughs helplessly from the doorway, sometimes she even comes inside and curls up with her daughter, watches her husband dance around the room, weave magic with his fingers and giggle like a madman. He can dance as he always did in the old world, his knee fixed years ago by a miracle of modern medicine. He is almost himself again.

One day, he swears, the curse will finally break and she will know that this is not make-believe.

And when it does, he hopes that the love and trust between them will remain, even when she realises who he really was, who he still is.

Rose insists, the first night she has Spinner, that she cuddle him in her bed until she sleeps. She is seven years old, old enough to bargain for what she wants, and Gold has taught her all he knows to augment that natural gift.

Her mother, after all, was one of the only people to ever outsmart him at his own game. It seems only natural that her bright-eyed daughter would be able to do the same.

Her bedtime is nine o’clock: she may have Spinner with her until her light goes out at nine-thirty, and Belle can take him down to his hutch in the shed for the night. Rose holds her new best friend close as her papa asks, “So, what story shall it be tonight?”

“Spinner needs to hear Rumpelstiltskin,” she decides, “One of those!” Her mother shoots her a look, and Rose catches on immediately, “Please?” She glances back at Belle, who smiles and nods approvingly, wraps an arm around her daughter and their new pet. She won’t admit it, but Gold knows that these stories are her favourites, too.

“How about the story of Prince James the dragonslayer?” he offers, “Or perhaps how Jiminy Cricket became a Cricket?” He might have written the Blue Fairy out of that one, but only because he’s got an image to protect. The image he wishes his daughter to know, the one he spent years dispelling in the old world: the one of the unfortunate wizard and not the utter bastard known as the Dark One.

“Can I have a new story?” she asks, biting her lip and widening her eyes a little. He’s almost certain she does it without thinking, but one day she’ll catch on to how utterly helpless he is when she does that and he’ll be in trouble, “Please?”

“How about…” he has an idea, a strange and almost worrying little thought, and glances to Belle meaningfully as he says, “The story of the brave princess who lived with a demon?”

Belle’s eyes widen, and her head cocks to one side, a little crease between her eyes and a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes!” Rose beams: she is a little girl after all, and all little girls like princesses, even if his prefers dragons and wizards first.

“Alright,” he stands, affects his old tones, “This, dearie,” he smiles, imagines his teeth stained, his hand a scaled and golden claw, “Is the story of how Rumpelstiltskin gained a maid, and then a friend!”

“And what was this friend’s name?” Belle asks, and oh, he does love it when she joins in. It makes him feel like she’ll accept this, when the time comes, “Margie, perhaps? Verna?”

“Isobel,” he purrs, and Rose’s eyes widen.

She looks up at her mother and stage-whispers, “That’s your name!”

Belle looks surprised, or at least makes an attempt. No one can beat him for elaborate gestures, of course, but she makes a decent stab at it. “It is, isn’t it? But I’m not a princess, and your papa knows I never want to be a maid again.”

“I said her name was Isobel, dearies,” he reminds, “I never claimed she was in the room.” Because Belle is right: she was not a princess, not when they met. Princess implies more than a beaten, sick and pregnant wretch trapped in a tower. He is twisting their Storybrooke tale into one from the old world, trying to imagine his wife as a princess fair. Perhaps if he’d gotten there sooner; perhaps if the Curse hadn’t hit when it did.

“Fair enough,” Belle nods. “Although you sound an awful lot, dear, like you’re just copying Disney movies now. She’s seen Beauty and the Beast, you know.”

“I never steal, Belle, you know that. And this story, as you should well know, includes a fair bit more trouble than that silly cartoon did. Now, our hero was out causing trouble…” He switches to Rumpelstiltskin, trills as an aside, “I was minding my own business, just trying to make ends meet. Don’t listen to the silly storyteller.” He winks, gains a laugh from Rose, before Gold straightens, “Well, either way, it had been something of a lean year: I might have told you about how the Ogres ravaged the Realms that summer.”

“Big and nasty with lots of teeth.” Rose recounts, nodding her serious little dark head, “Yep.”

“Well, Rumpelstiltskin’s castle had taken a beating. It was getting dusty, and the wizard…” he hangs his head, looks at her with a dramatic expression of woe, “Well, he was lonesome.”

Belle is watching him with sharp eyes, and he realises that there’s much of this that he’s never told her, either. They rarely discuss the time before she came to live with him, because such conversations turn all too quickly to discussions of George Gaston’s abuses, to the reasons he doesn’t get on with Moe French and her grudge against the Mother Superior.

When they do talk about that time, it is always her life they speak of. Then again, he barely remembers what he did between the Curse hitting and meeting Emma Swan, and Belle came to him soon after that. There’s not much to tell, really.

But what he does remember, and certainly what became apparent as soon as his house was full again, is the loneliness.

“Oh no!” Rose gasps, “Would he want a bunny?” She pets Spinner, and Gold gives a Rumpelstiltskin giggle.

He smiles at her as Rumpelstiltskin, “Oh, no, sweet, I have no need of a pet. I make stews from small furry things, you may recall.” He bares his teeth, and she squeals in delighted fright, clutches her pet a little closer. Belle has to free the poor animal from her daughter’s grip, and whisper something about how he needs to breathe. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Rumpelstiltskin was looking for a… a caretaker. Dear Isobel was in a dire state, as I recall.” He shoots a look to Belle, and the softness in her eyes is beautiful.

“What was wrong?” Rose asks, frowning.

“She had a wee one, dearie. A little baby all pink and warm. And her family had tried to be good to her, done their best…” he proceeds delicately, not wanting to upset his wife with this part, “But a demon had threatened them, and she was a scared little thing.”

“Oh.” Rose snuggles further into her mother’s side, and Belle pets her hair absently. Spinner appears to have fallen asleep.

“So he made her a deal, of course,” Gold smiles, “They agreed to stay with him, and they would be safe.”

“What did he want?” Rose knows Rumpelstiltskin’s deals by now, knows there’s always a catch.

“I wanted the child, dearie.” He replies as Rumpelstiltskin, sighs melodramatically, then straightens “Dear Isobel was far too canny for an old wizard like him, though. He wanted the baby, but she tricked him with clever words into having her too.”

Belle laughs, nods her head in thanks, “Princesses are smarter than they look.”

“Meaner, too,” Gold smiles back, “The woman didn’t speak to him for a full three months after she moved in. She wore pretty blue dresses, cleaned the rooms and hummed in the corridors. And yet, every night, when he tried to speak to her, there was nary a peep from her room.”

“Why did she do that?” Rose asks, “Did he call her something mean?”

“No, sweet,” he sighs, “His appearance startled her, I think. She couldn’t handle it.” He shoots a smirk to his wife, who scoffs.

“Maybe she just didn’t appreciate being forced to live with a strange man,” she suggests, and stage-whispers “And you are rather strange, love.”

“The strangest of them all!” he declares with a little dance that makes Rose and Belle both giggle. Then he stops, sobers, “And yet, three months passed, and she still wouldn’t so much as talk to him.”

“Maybe she tried,” Belle suggests, “But the stupid man was too stubborn to notice. I doubt he wanted the princess and her baby staying with him any more than she wanted to be there.”

It’s just a game, he reminds himself, she doesn’t know that Rumpelstiltskin is more than just an act. She is playing along, and it’s wonderful, but she’s only playing. Still, he’s certain that he won’t be able to keep his hands to himself if she speaks his true name, shapes it with her lips and rolls the syllables off her tongue.

“We cannot be sure, can we?” he agrees, eyes gleaming, “In any case, three months passed, and Rumpelstiltskin saw nothing more of his maid than her skirts and the results of her work.” He pauses for effect, and then says, “But then, quite suddenly, something changed.”

“What?” Rose stares at him with wide, curious eyes. She is a child of two fairy tale characters: stories enrapture her.

“The princess decided to yell at him,” Gold chuckles, “He had misbehaved… left a potion out on the table, left scuff marks on the chairs from his fire spells, and she’d worked so hard to make the castle so neat and tidy. She decided to tell him off.”

Rose giggles, “Mama does that when my room is messy.”

“Indeed she does, sweet,” Gold nods, “Your mama is good at telling people off for making a mess.”

Belle sighs, “There are no nagging mothers, only naughty little children who don’t do as they’re told.”

Rose sticks her tongue out, and relies on her mother’s smile and her father’s little chuckle to save her from retribution. Clever girl.

“So,” Belle sighs, “How did the wizard feel about being told off by an entirely justified princess?”

Gold smirks, “Well, Rumpelstiltskin was unaccustomed to such treatment in his own castle. He thought long and hard about locking the princess in his dungeon, but he’d promised to protect her and magic can be tricky like that.”

“Magic, right.” Belle mutters, and Gold cannot help himself.

He turns to his wife, false frown in place, “You want to tell the the story, dear? You seem to know the tale far better than I.”

“Fine.” She rises to the challenge, cuddles Rose and Spinner closer and waits for Gold to settle himself on the bed. He lies down completely, horizontal across his daughter’s double bed, his head on Belle’s knees under the quilt she made in Rose’s first years. “Do you know what the mean old sorcerer did to the innocent girl?”

“No.” Rose shakes her head.

“He forced her to come and eat pancakes with him. Every single morning. And these weren’t any pancakes, these were magic pancakes. They sang the songs of their people as they cooked, and begged to be eaten as soon as they were on the plate.”

“Magic pancakes indeed.” He murmurs, and receives a playful swat to his shoulder.

“That was the only reason she stayed with him every morning. The pancakes were enchanting, and she could ignore the grumpy old wizard.”

“But…” Rose frowns, “Papa, you said they were friends. The princess sounds kind of mean.”

Gold lets out a loud bark of laughter, “Hear that, love? My girl knows the good guys when she sees them.”

“You’ve corrupted my daughter,” she moans, and then sighs, “The princess was very tired: babies take a lot of work, you know, and she was trapped with a very wicked sorcerer at the time. They became friends soon after, though, because Rumpelstiltskin did something very nice for the princess.”

He tries not to go still all over at the sound of his name on her lips. It’s possibly the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard: it’s definitely up there with the first time she said she loved him, their wedding vows, and Rose’s first words.

“What did he do?”

“I, dearie,” he arcs his gestures in the air, giggles, “Slayed a demon.”

“Well, knocked him out for a bit,” Belle corrects, “And unfortunately another princess - the kind with a sword and armor - came and locked him up for that. Princess Isobel had to go and bust him out.”

“And a lovely job she did too,” Gold adds, “Really, you would hardly have noticed how the woman who locked him up let him out willingly.”

“Isobel did all she could to help him, after that. They were friends.” Belle continues, and he’d think her upset with him, if she weren’t running her fingers through his hair, his head firmly lain in her lap, “And they grew very fond of each other, in-between her fighting dragons of her own. Isobel was a tough old thing.”

“Not old.” He corrects, absently, “Rumpelstiltskin’s old, dear, Isobel was very young.”

“Either way, dragons and demons were fought and slain by the princess. And when the original demon - the one Rumpelstiltskin thought dead - came back for more, it was Isobel who beat the living daylights out of him.” Her voice has gone solemn, and he realises they’ve never really discussed this story with Rose at all. How is he supposed to explain to his adopted daughter, the girl he loves more than life, how between them he and her mother almost killed her birth father?

How are they supposed to explain the scars on Belle’s back, the little burn mark on her hip?

One day, George Gaston will return, and Rose will have to know the truth. Perhaps this is their first pass at it: making it a fairy story to take the edge off.

“Why was the demon after them?” Rose asks, “Bad guys don’t come back for more, do they?”

Belle and Gold exchange a glance, unsure of how to proceed. Then Belle nods, and looks down into her daughter’s wide blue eyes, and says softly, “The demondemon had been a man, once, and he and the princess were married. The princess’ baby was his.”

“The princess married a demon?” Rose frowns, “Why?”

“Because she loved him.” Belle admits, and Gold tries not to feel the little twist of pain that always comes with remembering that things were not always this way. Belle’s daughter is not his, not by blood, and she loved another - however foolishly, however wrongly - before they ever met. “And he had been sweet and kind before they married.”

Of course, she and George were never husband and wife. But pre-marital sex is a bridge to cross when their girl isn’t seven years old anymore.

“But,” Belle continues, “He wanted to take the baby away from her, and the princess wouldn’t allow that. Neither would Rumpelstiltskin. So the demon stole the wizard away, and Isobel had to go and rescue him.”

“And a fine job of it she did too,” Gold rumbles, “The demon was vanquished, and the day saved. And that, little goblin, is how Rumpelstiltskin made a friend.”

If he truly was still Rumpelstiltskin, he would leap from the bed in a single bound, run to bury himself far away from these memories, from a love story that still hurt no matter how happy the ending. For he cannot help but live in fear that one day, Belle will remember his dark side and run away.

One day Rose will know about George, and perhaps she will be so horrified by her mother and stepfather’s actions, their careful little lies, that she will run to her new parent.

One day this could all unravel, their tapestry unwoven into a pile of discordant threads, and there will be no more bedtime stories, no more long, gentle fingers in his hair, or small bundle of golden fur in his baby’s lap.

But he is not Rumpelstiltskin, he is Mr Gold, and so he stays right where he is, and soaks up every moment as if it is the last.

And finally, after what feels like blissful hours of comfort and peace, it is nine-thirty and Rose is settled into her bed, Spinner disentangled from her arms, and Gold follows his wife down to the shed to help her put the new pet away for the night.

They don’t discuss the story, their little lies to Rose, anything, really. They talk about how he needs to be up early tomorrow, so he’ll do the school run; her application to work at the Library, since they agree she needs a job now that Rose is in school and Belle’s getting bored.

But eventually, they’re lying on their bed, and he’s reading some old paperback and she’s staring at the ceiling. “Did you mean it?” Belle asks.

He freezes, but tries to cover it, puts down his book and looks at her, “Mean what, love?”

“You were lonely… you know, before?” She takes his hand and squeezes, carefully, and he smiles in relief.

“I didn’t know it, truth be told. You came in and kind of made it all seem real.”

“You say the sweetest things sometimes, for such a grumpy old git.” She smiles, fondly, and leans over to press a chaste kiss to his lips. They’re on their bed, and he’s had a few old insecurities reignited tonight. He needs her against him; the kiss doesn’t stay chaste for long.

She moans and sighs as her hands return to his hair, and his tongue sweeps into her mouth. He holds her against him, delves in for all the little places he knows from years of practice make her whimper and shiver. He breaks away, sucks on her lower lip as he goes, and he’ll never grow tired of seeing her like this, dazed eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Why do you pretend to be Rumpelstiltskin for her?” she asks, after a moment, “I’ve been curious for ages. Why do you change your voice and everything?”

“She enjoys it.”

“So do I… it’s weirdly sexy, actually,” she smirks, and it’s entirely unexpected, but it sends a bolt of pure joy right through him. He hides it with a leer of his own, his hands moving from her waist and down to cup her ass and hold her against him, side by side on their bed. It doesn’t distract her. “But still. Your first name is Rum… even if for some weird reason you insist no one know that… your parents weren’t horribly cruel when naming you, were they?”

He snickers, “Indeed, my legal name is Rumpelstiltskin Gold.”

“Really?” she half-gasps, half-giggles.

“No.” He almost lies, but the term ‘legal’ gives him an out. Semantics are important. “Rum’s a nickname like any other.”

“I’m your wife,” she points out, “We’ve been married over half a decade, and I know you by a nickname? You even used Rum at our wedding!”

“Only lawyers and the occasional policeman ever used my real name,” he complains, “It’s barely even mine.”

“So?” she’s all curious now, and he knows he’ll never get away without telling her one of Regina’s cursed lies. She must have had fun choosing his new name. It was no wonder that, even before he remembered his old life, he’d been ‘Mr Gold’. “Tell me!”

“No.”

“You sound like Rose being offered vegetables,” she looks crossed between annoyed and amused, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“It is that bad.” He assures her, “It’s worse than that bad.”

“Tell me,” she pleads, and that’s where Rose gets her puppy-eyed look from. Except Belle knows exactly what she’s doing, and there isn’t a hint of innocence in her eyes. “Please?”

“No.”

She reaches down between them, her hand snaking between his body and hers, and grinds her hand against him, right in the place she knows he loves and hates in equal measure. He’s putty in her hands, and there’s not a thing he can do about it.

He rolls them over, entangling both his hands with her wicked fingers so as to keep them above her head, out of mischief, “Fine!”

“Really?” she beams up at him, and he leans down for a bruising kiss.

“Orville.” He murmurs against her lips, and she shifts back in surprise, to better hear him, “My given name is Orville. As you can understand, I loathe it.”

“It doesn’t suit you.” She agrees, and he can see her trying not to giggle, “Nothing wrong with it in general, but Rum fits you much better.”

“So we can forget it?” he asks, hopefully. He doesn’t need her getting attached to a lie, a little false detail that Regina saddled him with. When the curse breaks, he needs as few lies between them as possible.

“Yes.” She nods, firmly, “I’m just glad I know my husband’s name, now.”

“Both of them, dearie.” he puts on Rumpelstiltskin again, flicks his fingers, and she laughs properly.

“I should not be turned on by that.” She mutters, and he laughs as she pulls him down for another kiss.