Blaine watches, helpless, as his stepmother, stepbrother, and stepsister parade their finery in front of him. They seem to pay him no heed, but Blaine knows. They take pleasure in provoking his envy. They climb up into the carriage and speed away, laughing too merrily to be entirely real.

Blaine is left there in the drive, alone, dressed in rags that have become filthy with the day's dirt and soot and grease. He shouldn't have let his hopes be lifted. He should know better than that. His stepfamily is never going to love him, or treat him with any more respect than they do the dirt they track all over their freshly-polished floors. They're never going to give him the slightest chance at a way out.

Off in the distance, the fireworks are starting. Blaine watches wistfully, and wishes.

“Don't be sad,” says a voice from behind him. Blaine turns with a start. He gapes. There's a – a fairy floating toward him. She's small and blonde and dreamy-eyed, and she's glowing gold from head to toe. Her wings flap lazily behind her. “You're totally going to the ball.”

“Wha – who are you?” he asks cautiously.

“Oh, right,” she says, and then there's a puff of sparkly smoke, and she's standing full-sized in front of him. She's beautiful, in a strange, ethereal kind of way. “I'm your fairy godmother. I'm here to change your life.”

She waggles her eyebrows. Blaine doesn't quite know what to make of her.

“But – but my stepmother, she told me I couldn't go. She forbade me to leave.”

She looks at him like he's the crazy one.

“Why are you listening to her? She's mean, and a bully, and you shouldn't stand for it.”

Blaine blinks.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Well, maybe it can be. With this.”

She produces something out of thin air – a wand, glowing gold just like the rest of her. Blaine's spirits life. He feels…hope. Maybe this is the chance he's been waiting for, to escape, to find love, to see the world and discover beauty in it. Maybe wishes really can come true.

“This wand,” she continues, “has the power to take you to your ball, to your unicorn prince, and to a n – ”

There's a terrible sound, like the cracking of thunder, and then she's disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, mouth open in an ‘o' of surprise. Her wand clatters to the cobblestone drive.

Oh, god. Is she dead? Did Blaine just watch a fairy die, right in front of him?

A man appears before Blaine can do anything more than cover his mouth in horror. He's crouched down, grasping the wand like it's precious, and Blaine can put two and two together.

“What did you do?”

The man looks up, a sly smirk twisting his mouth. There's something…not right about him. His skin is a weird, reptilian green-gold. His eyes seem huge, swallowed completely by a color just a few shades darker than his skin. They sheen with madness. He rises to his full height, long and lanky and towering above Blaine. He steps closer.

“Now, now. I got what I wanted. No need to be afraid.”

“No need? You just killed someone!”

“A fairy,” he scoffs.

“A person.”

“Whatever. It's done.” The man – the creature? – eyes Blaine carefully, gaze flickering up and down and back again. Blaine holds himself tall and proud. If this is how he's to meet his end, he refuses to cower before it. The man just waves him off dismissively. “Now I suggest you go back to whatever floor you were sweeping before Ditzy von Twinkletoes fluttered her way into your life.”

Blaine bristles. The fairy was odd, perhaps, but kind. Worthy of respect.

“She was my fairy godmother,” he says. “She was trying to help me.”

That seems to spark the man's interest. “Was she?” He steps closer, and closer still, until he's just out of Blaine's reach. He holds up the wand in one reverent hand. He leans in. “Do you know what this is?” he asks, smirk deepening.

He would probably be handsome if his eyes were less cold.

Blaine shifts his gaze to the wand, admires the way it seems to shimmer and glow from within. It holds power that he can only imagine.

“Pure magic,” he breathes.

“Pure evil. Trust me, I've done you a favor. All magic comes with a price. Now, go back to your life and thank your lucky stars that you have something to go back to.”

The advice is sensible enough. But Blaine can't follow it.

He's tasted it now, the hope of something better. He's sick of being alone and unloved in his own home, tired of putting up with abuse out of loyalty to a man who's been dead for ten years. He's done letting his stepfamily have control over his life.

He's done wishing.

“I can't. My life, it's…wretched.”

“Then change it,” says the man impatiently.

“That's what I'm trying to do.”

The man's eyebrows lift. He laughs incredulously.

“You can't handle this, killer,” he says, stroking one finger up the wand, from base to tip. And then, with one final smirk, he turns to walk away.

Blaine can't let that happen. The man is wrong, he has to be, because that magic is good. He can feel it. His fairy godmother meant for it to help him. He runs to head the man off.

“Wait!” he calls. “I can handle it. Please, just give me a chance. I will do anything to get out of here. Anything.”

He pleads with his eyes, wills the man to feel some small amount of compassion for his plight. The man stares at him a moment. His nostrils flare.

“Anything?”

His tone is soft, and dangerous, and Blaine knows he should rethink this.

He doesn't.

“Do you know how to use that wand, Mr. …?”

The man bows mockingly.

“Rumplestiltskin. And yes,” he hisses. “Of course I do.”

“Then help me.”

Rumplestiltskin's eyes glint. He circles Blaine, calculating.

“Well, if I do, and you can indeed shoulder the consequences…then you'll owe me a favor.”

That makes the alarm bells ring. Blaine narrows his eyes.

“What kind of favor?”

“Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure.”

“What do you want?”

Rumplestiltskin stops. He looks at Blaine, something hungry and wanting glimmering beneath the surface of his smile. He leans in, close and deliberate. His breath is warm against Blaine's ear.

“Something…precious,” he murmurs.

Blaine's stomach drops.

“I have nothing,” he whispers.

Rumplestiltskin trails a finger down Blaine's cheek. It's cool and dry, as if his body doesn't give off heat. He smirks.

“Not for long. This life, your new life, comes complete with riches beyond your wildest imagination.”

Blaine feels like laughing. Is that all?

“I care nothing for riches. You can have whatever you want. Just – get me out of here.”

Rumplestiltskin's smile is triumphant, almost giddy.

“Now we're talking.”

“So, how does it work?”

“It's simple. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.”

He snaps his fingers, and a scroll appears with a puff of purple smoke. It's long, and written in an elegant, looping scrawl that's near impossible to read. He holds a quill in his other hand.

“Do we have a deal?” he asks. His tone is light, but his smile is shark-eyed and his body coiled tight as a cobra ready to spring.

Blaine hesitates.

“I have to read what I'm signing first,” he says.

Rumplestiltskin looks slightly taken aback. He covers it with a smile.

“Be my guest. But you'd better hurry, or the prince will find someone else to dance with.”

Blaine takes that for the warning it is. The deal will only last as long as Rumplestiltskin's patience.

He takes the scroll and reads carefully, detangling the old-fashioned legal language as best he can. It's actually pretty straightforward. He looks up.

“I don't understand. What's the catch?”

“There is no catch.”

“What if I can't provide the favor you require?”

“Trust me, that won't be a problem.”

That is the problem, actually – Blaine doesn't trust him. He considers his options. He's a country boy with no friends, no family, and nothing to his name but the clothing on his back. He has no useful skills, unless you count singing for an audience of apathetic field mice, and Blaine certainly does not. He could run away, tonight, while he's free from his stepmother's watchful gaze. He could steal from her coffers and live as an outlaw, like the inimitable Snow White, or he could sing for his supper in the streets. He could stay here and see if he can't win those field mice over.

That's it, that's enough dithering. Blaine is resolved. No matter how he starts it, his story ends the same way: alone, destitute, trapped by his circumstances. Rumplestiltskin's intentions may not be kind, but at least he's giving Blaine a chance.

Maybe his only chance.

It's a risk that Blaine is willing to take.

Blaine holds out his hand for the quill.

“We have a deal,” he says firmly.

Rumplestiltskin slowly smiles. He hands over the quill and takes the scroll from Blaine's hands. He drapes it over his strong back, forcing Blaine to bend slightly over to sign at the bottom. He does so, with a flourish, and immediately feels his heart lift.

This is really happening. He's taking control of his life. It's the best feeling in the world.

Rumplestiltskin eyes him critically, almost…lasciviously, then waves the wand. That same purple smoke creeps up Blaine's body, transforming his filthy rags into garments so fine the prince himself would wear them to a ball. And his Highness is reputed to have impeccable taste.

There are dove gray trousers that fit so well as to be a second skin, tucked into supple leather boots accented with buckles and a short heel made of…

“Glass?”

“Every story needs a memorable detail,” drawls Rumplestiltskin.

His jacket is sky blue, picked out with delicate silver threads that sparkle in the light. To Blaine's delight, the buttons are in the shape of tiny silver canaries, beaks open to warble a tune.

“How did you know?” he asks in awe. It couldn't be more perfectly him if he'd designed it himself.

The mirth drains out of Rumplestiltskin's face. He swallows.

“The mice are not the only creatures who have heard you sing.”

Blaine is unable to respond, unable to do anything but gape.

Rumplestiltskin recovers his composure first.

“Now let's get you to your ball,” he says. “Just remember to watch the clock.”