Chapter 1: The Drive
A/N. Spoiler alert! This story is my own version of 2.13. If you don't like spoilers, please wait until after "Tiny" has aired in your area—although I'm sure my version will have very little in common with the one Kitsis, Horowitz et al come up with. I can't help imagining the potential for fun and games with this group of travelers. Just for fun, this is one of those "everything and the kitchen sink" stories, as far as fan theories go. . . . Hope you get a chuckle out of it.
Emma stops her pacing long enough to look at the kitchen clock. It's noon. High noon. She can almost hear "Do Not Forsake Me" playing in the background as Mary Margaret and David rise from the couch and come to stand beside her. All three begin talking at once: "You don't have to do this" (Mary Margaret), "I'll pulverize him" (David), "I'm gonna slap the cuffs on him, that's what I'm gonna do. Threatening two officers of the law" (Emma). Henry emerges from the bathroom with his backpack slung over his shoulder and shouts to get their attention; when they all stop and stare at him, he smiles pleasantly and announces, "I'm ready to go, Emma." And that starts a whole new round of shouting.
Into the midst of this chaos walks the gunslinger, or rather cane-slinger, dressed in the traditional black (unless you count his dark blue silk shirt). The door stands open and no one would hear his knock anyway, so he strolls in like he owns the place (which he does—and considering nobody paid the rent last month because of that return-to-the-Enchanted-Forest fiasco, his pushiness is kind of justified).
He taps his cane on the wooden floor and everyone shuts up just long enough to figure out the source of the interruption; when they see who their intruder is, the yakking starts all over again: threats, pleas, questions coming from all directions, and all three styles of conversation coming from Emma all at once. Seems she can't make up her mind whether she's pissed off, puzzled or just a little enticed by the promise that this road trip brings: a chance to finally unravel the many-mysteried Mr. Gold (What's this about a son? If he has a son, does that mean there's an ex-Mrs. Gold running around somewhere? Oh gods, what if it's CORA?).
A shrill whistle breaks through. Every mouth in the Charming clan drops open and they look at each other, trying to figure out who whistled, and at last they realize it was none of them: it's Gold, two fingers poised in his mouth, ready to whistle again if need be. "It's noon, Sheriff Swan. We leave now." He spots a gym bag on the kitchen counter and reaches for it. "Is this what you're taking?"
Emma's staring at Gold and trying to imagine him and Cora doing the wild thing. Good thing she hasn't had lunch yet.
David slams his hand down on the bag. "Leave it. That's mine, Gold."
Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose. "You wouldn't want to have that in your car anyway. Dirty gym socks."
"Ferret," Gold mutters.
"What?" David's pretty sure he's just been insulted, but he doesn't get it.
"The last idiot who annoyed me, I turned into a rat. You, on the other hand, look more like a ferret." The hands resting quietly now on the cane suddenly glow with a purple light.
Emma's still stuck on that Gold-Cora fantasy (gods, am I a Golden Heart shipper?) . . .until she realizes with a shudder that if Gold and Cora produced Bae, they may also have produced—duhn duhn duhn, insert ominous music here—Regina.
"Don't you threaten my husband," Mary Margaret warns. "You're looking at a family of ogre-killers and dragon-slayers." She folds her arms defiantly.
"And one of us has magic," Emma adds. She wants to smirk but she winces instead (If Cora and Gold are Regina and Bae's parents, and if Neal is Bae, then Henry is—and I am—oh gods, I'm gonna be sick!)
"Are you calling me out, Sheriff?" Only Gold's lips are moving. The rest of him is so still, it's disconcerting—and he knows it.
"Just sayin', that's all," Emma backs down. She has no idea how powerful she may—or may not—be compared to him, but considering he's got a few years' head start on her in the training and experience department, she's not going to press her luck. Yet, anyway. (Of course, if Cora and Gold are Henry's grandparents, then Henry might have more magic than all of us put together.)
"Fine. Get your luggage and meet me downstairs." He makes a graceful pivot—the guy could be a ballet dancer if not for that bum leg—and vacates the apartment.
And all chaos breaks loose once more.
Fifteen minutes later, the whole lot of them is gathered around Gold's car. David's got a couple of soft-sided travel bags slung over his shoulder; Mary Margaret's holding a picnic basket, Emma's setting her laptop on the bonnet of Gold's car and he's imploring her not to scratch the paint, and while the adults are preoccupied, Henry is sneaking the far-side back door open and crawling into the Caddy's backseat.
"Listen, we don't have to go anywhere," Emma's insisting. "All we need is this. Let's do this the easy way." She flips the laptop open and presses the start button on the side. As the laptop lights up—just as powerful as the glow in Gold's hands, Emma believes—she explains, "I can track anyone right here, right now. All I need is this and a few well-placed calls. I am a sheriff, remember. That gives me access that not even you have, Gold."
Gold raises a hand in a stop gesture. "I'm sure under normal circumstances you can, Sheriff; your hunting skills are one reason you're the savior. But these circumstances are extraordinary."
"Try me," Emma's fingers are already flying as she attaches the air-card and logs on. "Give me ten minutes and I'll have him for you. What's his name?"
"Baelfire."
Mary Margaret tilts her head. "What an odd name."
"Indeed it is—Snow," Gold sneers.
"How do you spell that?" Emma's typing furiously. "Is that the first or last name?"
"It's his only name."
"Oh. His old-world name. What's his name here?"
"I don't know."
Mary Margaret and David exchange a sour look. David finally has a chance to get a dig in, and he takes it. "You don't know your own son's name? What kind of parent are you?"
"Let's see now: how old was Emma when you finally showed up in her life?" Gold bites back. "What kind of parent are you?"
Emma breaks in. "All right. His birthday?"
"The fourth day of the first month after harvest."
"Which is what?"
Gold shrugs, guessing, "October 4?"
"What year?"
"The nineteenth year in the reign of George III."
"Well, how old would he be? In this world, I mean."
"Fourteen or forty-three."
"What the fudge, Gold?"
"I'm not sure precisely when he arrived in this world. I attempted to set the curse so that—"
"'Set the curse'? You cast the curse, not Regina?" David interrupts.
Gold flashes his teeth at the youngster, reminding David why Hook refers to Rumplestiltskin as the Crocodile. "Let's get the facts straight, shall we? Regina cast the curse, but do you really think she has the intellectual wherewithal to have created it?" He turns back to Emma. "Now as I was saying: I attempted to set the curse so that our arrival would pre-date his by twenty-eight years, to allow for the curse-breaker to do her part. Of course, I didn't expect it would take you an entire year to believe—"
"Forget the birthday. Did he have any friends or relatives—no, of course not." Emma's eyes widen as awareness settles in. "Damn, Gold, you sent a fourteen-year-old into a foreign land, no friends waiting for him, no education, no identification, no knowledge of the modern world, I presume no money—did you at least teach him to speak English first?"
Gold's jaw tightens. "It wasn't I who sent him."
"Who then, the Tooth Fairy?"
"Close. Ms. Swan, I appreciate your efforts to find my son 'the easy way'"—he waves his hand at the laptop. "But as you can see, we're going to have to do it my way."
"You at least got a starting place?"
"Of course."
"All right, then. We do it your way. Road trip."
And in a flurry of hugs and kisses, once more, Mary Margaret and David bid their daughter adieu.
Amid the ruckus, Gold opens the driver's side door.
"Hello, Mr. Gold!" Henry chirps from the back seat.
Gold seizes Emma's arm and points. "What is he doing there?"
"Hey, Gold, open the trunk so I can put these in," David indicates the bags he's carrying.
"Emma, do you need to—you know," Mary Margaret stage-whispers, "use the restroom before you go? It might be a long trip."
Gold raises his voice as he reaches beneath the steering column and pulls the trunk latch. "I repeat, what is he doing there? May I assume we're dropping him off at school before we leave?"
"Assume all you want, but the fact of the matter is, he's coming with us." Emma takes her bags from David and tosses them into the trunk, ignoring the way they land on top of Gold's brand-new Louis Vuitton suitcase, probably scratching the leather. "Or I'm not going." She squares her body, ready for a confrontation.
"He certainly is not—"
Emma flips up a warning finger in his face. "Huh uh. My part of the deal is to help you find your son. Your part of the deal is to shut up and pay my expenses. After what Mary Margaret and I've been through—which, by the way, you could've done something about—"
"My powers are extensive, dear, but realm jumping isn't one of them."
"After what we've just been through, nobody's separating me from my son ever again. Not Cora, not Regina, and certainly not you. I'm sure you can appreciate that: a parent not wanting to be separated from her son."
Gold tightens his mouth and slams the trunk shut, making the car shake. "Do you have any idea, Ms. Swan, the kind of danger you could be exposing your child to?"
"What, was your son kidnapped by gangsters or something?"
"It's not some quaint little seaside village we're going to. He could get lost, injured—"
"You leave me to worry about his safety. I know a bit more about getting around a big city than you do. I say he goes, or I don't. I'm not leaving him here with Regina and Cora running around God-knows-where."
In his sweet, as-yet-childlike voice, Henry calls out through the open window, "Is there a problem, Mr. Gold?"
Moving to the driver's door, Gold glares across the roof of the car at Emma. "He's your responsibility."
"Of course he is. That's why he's coming." Emma nearly pulls the passenger door off its hinges as she flings it open. "Gold! I'll make a bet with you: you're gonna need me to bail you out of trouble long before Henry does."
"Get in the car, please, Sheriff."
Mary Margaret and David wave and shout goodbyes as Gold revs the engine and jerks the steering wheel. The last words they hear as the Caddy squeals rubber are Mary Margaret's "I hope you like egg salad, Mr. Gold!"
They've only just turned onto Main Street when Emma suggests, "Why don't you let me drive?"
"No." Through gritted teeth Gold tries to remember he's a gentleman. "Thank you."
"Well, it's your right knee that's the bum one, right? I mean, that can't be good for your driving."
"No. Thank you."
"Whatever. You get tired, though, don't be too proud to ask." She strokes the leather of the dashboard admiringly. "I wouldn't mind. Never driven a Caddy before."
"So where are we goin', Mr. Gold?" Henry leans forward. Since he's sitting directly behind Gold, his voice pierces Gold's ear.
"We're leaving town."
"Yeah, but—"
"Yeah, where are we going, Mr. Gold?" Like son, like mother. She pops the glove compartment open and begins poking around. "You got a bunch of maps here. You need some help navigating?"
He slaps at her hand and pushes the glove compartment closed again. "No. Thank you." Each time he says it, his voice creeps up a notch; he's now sounding a lot like his old self: the one with the maniacal giggle.
"Don't you have GPS, Mr. Gold?" Henry tries to peer around Gold's seat to the dashboard.
Emma persists, "You can at least tell me where we're going. I mean, you're never been out of town before. You're going to need some directions."
"I know how to read a map, Sheriff Swan." His fingers drum on the steering wheel. "Now why don't you just sit back and enjoy the scenery?"
"You really gonna cross the town line? I know you did it once, but what if your magic potion's lost its kick? Maybe it would better if I drive, in case you black out or something."
"Ms. Swan, please! Just. . . sit back and. . . enjoy the scenery."
"So where are we goin'?" Henry pops up again, like the clown in the crank-operated children's toy—Henry-in-the-box.
Barely ten minutes into the trip and Gold's already got a migraine. "Logan International Airport," he mutters.
"I think he means after that," Emma's become fluent in Henryese.
"Let's just take things one step at a time, shall we?"
"Can we have some music?" Henry's already bouncing around the backseat. "You got any CDs? 'Cause if you don't, we could listen to the radio."
"No music," Gold barks. They're passing the "Welcome to Storybrooke" sign. Just a couple of yards now.
"You nervous?" Emma notices his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
And then the scarf thing he's wearing around his neck begins to glow and shimmer, and Henry utters, "Cool!" and Emma utters, "Whoa!"
The Caddy's tires pass over the red line. Henry and Emma fall silent and Gold draws in a deep breath, relishing the silence for just a second until he feels the fine hairs on his arms stand up and the goose bumps rise on his skin, and there's a sudden surge of energy rushing through his blood, sort of like sticking your tongue in a light socket—or what he imagines sticking your tongue in a light socket would feel like, because of course he's never done such a thing (although there was that one time he stuck his tongue to an icy lamp post. . .). He gets just a taste of this new magic and it interacts badly with his own, making his ears ring and his stomach churn, but the Caddy rolls on and breaks through the magic barrier and then he feels the pressure in the atmosphere lift and the electricity leaves his body.
"You okay?"
"Yes, Emma."
She leans back, wiggling her fanny in the seat. "Hey, you've got seat warmers, don't you?"
"Yes, Emma."
"So, now I'm 'Emma,' instead of 'Ms. Swan.' Does that mean I get to call you by your first name?"
"No."
"I could drive whenever you get tired."
"No. Thank you."
"Just sayin'."
"Perhaps you brought a book or something you could read—quietly?" he asks hopefully.
"Here!" Henry's arm thrusts forward, bumping Gold's. "Sorry, Mr. Gold. Here, Emma: a Game Boy! I brought two so we can play together!"
"Lovely," Gold mutters as the beeps and bells begin. "Just. . . lovely."
At least they leave him alone for the next hour. At least their exclamations of triumph and defeat keep him awake on this long, empty stretch of highway.
He sighs and turns on the seat warmers.
An hour later they're getting into a little traffic and they get stuck behind a farmer moving a cultivator from the North Forty to the Back Forty. Creeping along at twelve miles per hour—to be fair, sometimes the farmer guns it and gets all the way up to fifteen—mother and son decide this is a good time to restart the questioning, since Gold doesn't have anything better to do at the moment.
She's poking around in his glove compartment again; he gives up that particular battle. After all, all he has in there is a tire gauge and the maps. It's not like he keeps the dagger in there. Heh heh heh.
"How long will it take to get there?" Henry wants to know. "Just asking because I didn't get a chance to charge my Game Boys before we left. I don't know if they'll hold up the whole trip."
Perhaps there is something to be said for having been so poor in the old days, Gold thinks, back when he was the village spinner. If he'd have had a wagon instead of just his own two feet, Milah and Bae would've wanted to come along on Market Days, and that would have been just like this.
"Gotcha, Emma! You're dead!"
Yes. Just. . like. . .this.
"Which flight are we on?" Emma digs into her coat for her cell phone and flips it open. "I'll need to get a ticket for Henry. Unless—you didn't already buy one, did you?"
"Mr. Gold is always prepared for everything," Henry says confidently.
But Gold shakes his head slowly.
"All right," Emma growls. "Give me your credit card. You're payin'."
"I shall make the arrangements when we arrive at the airport."
"No you won't. We'll make them now, 'cause if I can't get a seat for Henry, we're changing flights. So give me your credit card and tell me which flight we're on." She snaps her fingers impatiently. "Come on, get a move on."
A low rumble issues from Gold's throat, but without taking his eyes from the road, he unhooks his seat belt and half-stands in his seat, blindly feeling around his posterior.
"Whoa! What are you doin'? You can't drive like that." Emma's left hand dives for the steering wheel as the car jerks sideways. "Did you forget what happened to the guy from Pennsylvania?"
"How else do you expect me to retrieve my wallet, Ms. Swan?" he snaps, falling back into his seat. "I will not interrupt this journey by pulling over for any reason." Through his rear-view mirror he shoots a chilling glance at Henry. "Particularly not Game Boy recharging."
Henry shrinks into the Corinthian leather upholstery.
"Hell, Gold, Logan's four hours away! You're going to have to stop at least once—or let me drive." Emma smirks. "That knee of yours won't hold up that long."
"My knee will do as it's told, and I suggest the two of you follow suit."
Emma produces a drawn-out sigh remarkably similar to that of a wife who has been overtaxed by a blustering curmudgeon of a husband for too many years to take stock in his threats. "Get back up and I'll get the wallet."
That does it: his eyes finally tear from the road and cut to hers. "You're kidding."
"I got to get that ticket for Henry. Every minute we waste arguing is a minute we can't afford—it may be too late now. The flight might be sold out."
"'Sold out'?" he echoes, then he wipes the worry from his face with a sneer. "Nothing is ever 'sold out,' Ms. Swan, when you have money. Alternate arrangements can always be made."
"Gold. . . you've never flown anywhere, have you?" It's a new thought to Emma; although intellectually she knows that no one has been able to leave Storybrooke in all the years of its existence, it just hasn't registered with her. Where she'd come from, people travel: some by bus (she glances back at Henry), some by car, a lot by train or subway, a few by airplane, but travel they do. This is America, the big country: moving around is what you're born to do; it's your heritage, just like hot dogs and apple pie and cussing about taxes (Do Storybrookers pay taxes? Come to think of it, I don't recall seeing any FICA withholding from my paycheck.)
And then she realizes something else: Gold wasn't kidding with his crack about money. He really does expect to just waltz into Logan and toss some money in the air and presto-chango, they'll put him on a plane. In first class, of course. On second thought, he probably doesn't even realize there is a coach class.
Her skin prickles. "Gold. . . you did buy us some tickets, didn't you?"
"I wasn't sure how long it would take to get to the airport. It's not like I can just snap my fingers and poof! We're there," his voice trails off at the end as he realizes what he's saying. "Oh. Yes, I can."
"Guess you never heard of Mapquest." Emma groans. "Did you do anything to prepare for this trip?"
"Yes, Ms. Swan, as a matter of fact, I did. I created a curse, then I created a town, then I brought Henry here, then—"
"Let me clue you in on a few things. This is my world now we're driving into, so if you're smart, you'll do what I say. You're about to go up against the two fiercest forces this world has to offer. Compared to them, Cora and Hook and Regina are a caboodle of fluffy kitties."
"And what forces would those be, Sheriff?"
"The airline industry and the TSA."
He snorts in derision. Emma just rolls her eyes. "Gold, you ever hear of Dante's Inferno?"
"Indeed. I met Dante while he was still painting graffiti on the Baptistery. It was my suggestion that he turn his talent to something more lucrative."
"Well, there's, what, seven layers of Hell in his Inferno, right?"
"Nine. And it's circles, Ms. Swan. Circles are magic; layers are not."
"Fine, circles. Well, you're about to experience the nine circles of Hell in this world, and they're all at the airport." She flutters her fingers upward. "I still need that credit card. Get your ass back up."
He elevates himself a few inches, not enough that she can see where her hand is headed, so she has to proceed by feel. As the car hits a pothole, her hand and his backside jerk simultaneously, and she might be squeezing something that isn't a wallet, for he yelps and flies up from his seat until his head hits the ceiling, and she sniggers. "Bet that's the first time that's happened."
"What are you insinuating? And kindly remove your hand from my anatomy. The wallet is in the right pocket."
"Just that I'm sure you've never done anything in a car that isn't proper. Especially if it would wrinkle your suit."
"Ah. I suppose you're referring to that time-honored teenage pastime, 'making out in cars.'" He narrows his eyes. "If so, I plead guilty as charged. I believe in treating a lady friend as a lady."
"Yeah, a quick burger at Granny's and then a shag back at that pink house of yours."
"Ms. Swan, might I remind you, you have an impressionable son in the back seat." His voice drops to a mutter. "Though I suppose a back seat may have something to do with why you have a son to begin with."
"Shut up and stand up. I'm going in again. Sheesh. The things I do to keep my promises."
"That's your heritage—Princess Emma. You're not really an American, any more than I am." He draws in a sharp breath as he rises from his seat for the third time.
"Knee bothering you? I'll be happy to drive."
"Just retrieve the wallet and—do whatever it was you were going to do. With all your yapping I've forgotten what it was."
For that, she rewards him with a rather personal squeeze. "Sorry. Just trying to pull the wallet out. Never knew you wore your pants so tight."
"Careful, Sheriff, or I may have to bring a sexual harassment complaint against you."
She snorts. "Go ahead and try. One look at me, then one look at you and the jury'd bust out laughing." The wallet retrieved, she withdraws her hand and begins poking through it. "Hmm! No pictures."
"Only the green ones with the faces of the Presidents," he admits.
"Yeah, plenty of those. No business cards, Mr. Gold?"
He smirks again. "Unnecessary. Everyone knows who I am."
"No prophylactics?"
"Ms. Swan!"
"Well, I just never pictured you for the reckless type."
From the back seat, Henry pipes up, "Emma, what's a proper-lactate?"
"You see the trouble your gutter mouth will get you into?" Gold remarks.
Emma shrugs. "He's getting about that age. I don't suppose Regina ever told him about the birds and the bees?"
"That's one aspect of childrearing I never discussed with her majesty. But may I request, if you intend to take on that task yourself, you wait for another time?"
"What, Gold, you don't think you have anything to learn?"
"In that regard, hardly. I am three hundred years old."
That shuts her up. "Oh." She returns to rifling through his wallet, setting his teeth on edge as his privacy is so casually violated. "Good, you've got your driver's license. You're going to need it in the airport."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Why? Will I be required to drive the plane?"
Emma chuckles. "You really don't know anything about flying, do you?"
"On the contrary. Flight was my preferred mode of travel in the old country."
She clicks her tongue. "The TSA is going to have a field day with you. Listen, Gold, when we get there, let me do all the talking. You smart off, even in joking, to a TSA agent and we could all land in jail." She withdraws the driver's license from the wallet. "So that's your first name!"
"Let me see, let me see!" Henry unsnaps his seat belt so he can lean forward; Emma holds it up for him. He giggles.
"Okay, buckle up again, Henry," Emma orders. "Well! Ruby wins the pot."
"Pardon me?"
"The pot. Archie bet that your first name was 'Mister,' I bet that you didn't have one, Leroy bet that it—well, let's just say it has to do with the male anatomy. But Ruby said it would be something so ordinary, so bland that we'd all be disappointed." Emma slides the license back into the wallet. "She's right."
Gold snorts. "You're all wrong. That's not my name, any more than 'Archie' or 'Leroy' or 'Ruby' or 'Mary Margaret' is a real name. Regina chose those names and until you broke the curse, we were stuck with them, the one exception being your father."
"What do you mean?"
"His name actually is David."
"Huh!" Emma locates the credit card—and once again, seems disappointed in what she's found in his wallet. "Just one credit card? I figured you for a three-card man, at least."
"I have very little need for credit."
"Oh. Yeah." She shrugs. "At least it's gold card."
"Of course."
"Now you're going to have to tell me where we're flying to." When he doesn't answer, she presses, "We got to buy the tickets first. That's how things work here. We'll be lucky if we can even get tickets, depending on where you're going. So, what are we going?"
His lips part just enough for the word to be pried out. "Manhattan."
"As in New York?"
"Is there another?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact: Manhattan, Kansas; Manhattan, Indiana; Manhattan, Montana; Manhattan, Nevada."
"New York."
She sucks in a breath. "Oooh, Gold. . . don't tell me you didn't make hotel reservations either."
"In the old world—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know: your money could get you in anywhere. Well, this is New York City we're talking about. And Manhattan, nonetheless. Those reservations you've got to make a year or even two head, depending on where you want to stay. And knowing you, you'd insist on the Ritz or the Waldorf." She scoffs. "Fine. I'll make those reservations too. But I got to warn you: we might end up sleeping in Teaneck. And Henry and I get our own room."
"You may reserve a suite for the three of us."
"What's the limit on this gold card?"
"None of your concern, Ms. Swan."
"I guess I'll find out in a minute. One suite it is, then."
She punches the keys of her phone and for the next several minutes her tone is all business as she navigates her way through the automated system to reach a real live human being. There will be an extra fee for buying tickets by phone, but let that be Gold's punishment for being so uncharacteristically sloppy in his preparations. Her tone becomes more forceful and Gold's grip on the steering wheel becomes tenser as the calls drag on and on. At last with a sigh she snaps the phone shut and drops the credit card back into the wallet. "Well, you want the good news first or the bad?"
"Don't keep us in suspense, Emma. The bad, of course."
"Plane tickets are costing you eighteen hundred bucks."
"I assume that's first class."
"Nope. No first available. We're flyin' coach."
"And the good news?"
"You get the pleasure of an overnight stay in Boston, 'cause our flight doesn't leave until nine a.m. And I got us a suite at the Central Park Ritz: that's gonna cost you a grand a night, not including taxes."
Henry chirps from the back seat, "Mr. Gold, I need to go."
"Go?"
"Yeah, you know—go."
Emma snickers. "Bet you're wishing you took David instead, huh?"
