PRESENT TIME
Eyebrow cocked, Emma watched suspiciously as the previous customer backed out of the pharmacy with four boxes balanced against his chest. As the sheriff, she had a responsibility to investigate anything odd—well, to tell the truth, she was just plain curious. She set a bottle of Diet Coke on the counter, along with a dollar bill, and as the pharmacist rang up her purchase, she jutted her chin toward the street. "Hey, Tom, what's his story?"
"Who?" Sneezy glanced up from his cash register and followed her gaze. "Oh. Mr. Dove. He works for Mr. Gold—err, Rumplestiltskin." Even after all these years, the residents of Storybrooke still weren't certain how the pawnshop owner wished to be addressed. Or if he wished to be addressed at all. "Sort of a jack-of-all-trades."
"Yeah, I know," Emma replied a bit impatiently. "What I mean is, he just bought four cases of Clairol for Men."
"Would you like a bag, Sheriff?" Sneezy held the Coke up.
"Nah, I'm going to drink it." She took it from him and frowned thoughtfully as she unscrewed the bottle cap. "You avoided my question."
"You didn't really have one."
"It was implied." She huffed, still watching the street, though Dove was out of eyeshot now. "Come on, Tom, if something weird is going on, I need to know."
"Something weird is always going on," he shrugged. "It's Storybrooke."
"Tom." Emma's tone became ominous. "Obstructing justice is a serious offense."
"So is doctor-patient privilege, Sheriff. " He leaned forward. "For example, you wouldn't want me telling my other customers about the purchase you and Mr. Jones made late last night, would you?"
She made a mouth at him. "You've become a hard man ever since Whale cured your sneezes, Tom. A hard man. What would a bald man want with four cases of men's hair dye?" She muttered to herself as she walked out, sipping her Coke.
ONE YEAR PREVIOUSLY
"Grandpa," a voice called out as the service bell above the pawnshop entrance announced his arrival. "Graaaaandpa, are you here?"
The curtain hiding the workroom from public view rattled open and a dark form moved with greater-than-usual alacrity out onto the showroom floor. Gold seldom moved quickly—keeping the customer waiting would build the desperation, he believed—but for Henry he'd make an exception. "Hi there, Henry. How's the pitching arm?"
Henry rubbed his right elbow. "Oh, it's better, after that salve you gave me. You sure it didn't have just a 'wee drop' of magic in it?"
Gold held up three fingers in a pledge. "Scout's honor. I wouldn't risk Belle's wrath unnecessarily. It was just a mixture we used to use on lame horses in the Old Country." He added with a hint of hope in his voice, "I could teach you how to make it."
"I'd like that, Grandpa." Henry would have preferred magic lessons, they both knew, but Gold had lost his powers two years ago when he'd surrendered them through True Love's Kiss to break Belle's sleeping curse. He had a headful of recipes for potions he could still mix, but he'd taken a pledge of magical abstinence when his baby was born. He wanted the boy to have as normal an existence as possible, despite raising him in a town occupied by fairy tale refugees. "But there's something else I wanted to ask you."
"Of course, lad." Gold's smile was genuine, and a rarity that only his immediately family was privileged to see. In the quiet two years that had passed since Henry had attempted to obliterate magic, they'd come to terms with each other, thanks to subtle intervention by Belle and Hopper. The grandfather-grandson relationship had shifted by 180 degrees when Tristan was born and Gold had hired Henry to run errands for Belle. It was a sham, really: Belle enjoyed getting out and about with a well-stocked pram and had to make up excuses for Henry to work. Gold would return home after work—he closed the shop early these days—to find his wife, his son and his grandson collected in the kitchen, chattering and cooking. Well, mostly chattering. Belle never did get the hang of cooking. While he tied on an apron and took over the culinary chores, he'd join in with talk of baseball, books, movies, and Henry's favorite subject, the Old Country, as Gold liked to call it, and Bae's place in it.
It was a slow process, sometimes bogged down by falsely perceived accusations, correctly assigned and accepted guilt, and hesitant apologies. But to Gold it was just the blink of an eye: one minute his son was swaddled in cotton and his grandson was lost in questions; the next, Tristan was toddling (and had to have his fingers pried from every grab-able object in the house) and Henry was forgiving Gold for every wrongdoing he'd committed in three hundred years. Henry had forgiven—truly forgiven—so much faster and more thoroughly than any of the adults, including Belle, ever could: one of the perks of being a True Believer, Gold supposed. Or maybe it was just that grandson and grandfather needed each other in their mutual grief. Neither of them would ever fully recover from Bae's death.
Now here they stood in the shop that Henry would inherit someday, Henry needing help and Gold needing to help. Henry peered behind him at the closed door, and, understanding, Gold flipped the sign to "Closed"—and locked the door for good measure. "Mr. Dove's got the day off," Gold assured him. "Would you like to come back for a cup of cocoa?"
The tension fell out of Henry's shoulders as he nodded and followed Gold into the workroom. He sat down at the workbench in his usual spot, across from Gold's, and examined a teapot handle that Gold had been gluing back on. "Mind if I—"
From the sink where he was filling mugs with water, Gold glanced over his shoulder. Henry had picked up the glue. At his assent, Henry took on the work of mending the pot while Gold heated the mugs in the microwave and plated some gingersnaps. They finished their chores at the same time, then Gold sat down and they chewed and drank in easy silence. Henry was searching for words—since becoming the Author, he'd learned the hard way to take care with his diction—and Gold didn't mind waiting. Time was a gift shared between grandparents and grandchildren, with world-burdened parents squeezed out of the giving.
When only crumbs remained on the plate, Henry sighed. Apparently he still wasn't ready to talk, because he idly fished around in the tool box. He found a piece of yarn (Gold had resumed spinning; he was working on a cap for Tristan) and tied it to the teapot's spout, then tied the other end to the tool box's handle. Henry tried to balance a mini-marshmallow on the taut string; every time it fell, he smooshed it flatter and tried again.
In the midst of this exercise, he began. "Grandpa, do you remember that movie we watched last week?"
Somewhere along the line, they'd decided Friday nights were pizza (Gold ate his with a knife and fork) and movie nights. Henry had started hanging out at the pink house on Fridays to give his moms a little privacy for date nights with their beaux: he'd come over right after school with his homework and a change of clothes in his backpack, and he'd spend the night in the guest room. Tristan's midnight cries didn't disturb him, after months of sharing a small apartment with Baby Neal. Gold would help him with his chemistry and math; Belle would help with the rest of the homework. Sometimes they'd have serious discussions about the history, ethics and science of magic, and the role of the Author in plans of Destiny, but more often they just sat on the floor in the living room and ate pizza and watched movies.
Gold reflected, "Ah, yes! The Ox Bow Incident. Henry Fonda—" Gold always chose westerns.
"That was the week before. Last week was Belle's turn, remember? The Walk? About Phillipe Petit's highwire walk between the Twin Towers?"
"Err. . . yes. . . " What he remembered most about that movie was having to rush into the nearest bathroom to douse his head with water to relieve his dizziness.
Henry fixed Gold with an I'm-not-kidding stare. "I want to do that. What Phillipe did."
Gold's stomach flipped, just as it had during the last fifteen minutes of that movie. He seized the easy answer, though he knew it was wrong: "Go to New York?"
Henry stood firm. "I've been there. Twice."
"Walk up the stairs of the tallest tower in the world? Get arrest for trespass?"
"Grandpa. . . ."
"Oh Henry, you can't mean—"
"I've found a teacher, a guy who used to perform for a traveling circus, but I need a big yard with a privacy fence to practice in."
"Like the one behind my house," Gold supplied miserably.
"And I'd like Belle to get me some books and DVDs on the subject. And I expect I'll need some salve and bandages from time to time."
"Henry, I can't let you risk breaking your neck. I can't heal you with magic any more."
"I'll be careful, Grandpa."
"I know you always are. . . almost always. Except for that time you ran away to Boston. And then when you ran away to New York. It's just that if anything happens to you, your mothers would come at me from both sides. Speaking of which, what do they have to say about your new interest?"
"Passion, Grandpa. That's how I feel about it. I can't get it out of my head. I dream about it at night. Every tree, every building I look at now, I wonder what it would be like to string a wire and walk across that space."
"You always did have a fondness for high places," Gold remembered the play castle where little Henry had spent many an afternoon.
"I came to you because I think you can get me. We've both got the 'obsession gene,' Grandma Snow says. My moms and my other grandparents don't have a passion; they developed their skills as a means to an end. Of course, Hook, well, he has the sea, so he'd understand, but. . . ." Henry dangled the bait.
Gold had to snatch at it. "No, no, don't talk to Hook. I'll help you." As soon as the words had left his mouth, Gold dropped his head into his hands and groaned at his mistake. "Henry, are sure?"
"Grandpa, do you have to ask?"
Gold shook his head slowly. "Well, maybe you'll outgrow—no, you won't." He shaped the flattened marshmallow around the taut string so that it couldn't fall. "They're going to catch us, you know. Belle and I will keep your secret, but they're going to catch us."
"Maybe by then I'll be good at wire walking and they won't want to talk me out of it."
"You're such an optimist."
"True Believer, Grandpa," the teen corrected.
Gold rubbed his hands over his face. "All right. Then here's the deal: you can use our yard. We'll get you the books and DVDs. We'll keep your secret. But," he ticked each condition off on a finger, "you'll only practice under your teacher's supervision. You'll obey your teacher, go no farther than he tells you to. You'll only practice with a net or a mattress or something under you. And if Emma comes after me with a chainsaw, you'll admit to her this was your idea."
"Thanks, Grandpa." Henry grinned, standing up. "I'm gonna go tell my teacher."
"What's his name, by the way? I don't believe I know any circus performers."
Henry was halfway out the door. "He was with the Athens Traveling Circus. His name is Icarus."
"Henry!"
Two weeks later, Gold closed his shop permanently, giving away the non-magical items. His official excuse was that at age 340, it was time to retire and spend time with his family. Not that he needed an official excuse: Mr. Gold had never felt the need to explain himself to anyone except his wife.
The few visitors who dropped by the pink house—friends of Belle, library board members, the tax accessor—thought he was spending an awful lot of time in his back garden. "That's what retirees do," they shrugged. "Grow daisies. Or in his case, hemlock." But one fact perplexed them: the Golds didn't have a garden.
Well, Gold had always been a strange one.
PRESENT TIME
Dove rapped lightly on the bathroom door. "It's me."
A towel wrapped around his shoulders, Gold peered out the small crack in the door.
"I'm alone, sir."
Gold opened the door completely to let his assistant in. He didn't have to ask: the box in Dove's hand informed him that Dove's mission had succeeded. As Gold tore the top off the box, Dove hovered. "I have some bad news, sir."
"Someone questioned you? "
"No, sir. "
"Clark told."
"No, sir. It's—" Dove tried to hold his breath as Gold snipped the tip off one of the plastic bottles and a stench filled the small room. "It may be time for you to, you know. . . reveal yourself."
Gold poured the contents of one bottle into the other, then shook the mixture vigorously. "What do you mean, Dove?"
"Go public." Dove gulped. "With your. . . conditioner." Realizing his Freudian slip, he backtracked hastily. "With your condition."
Gold set the bottle down. "Why?"
"The four cases I bought today, that's the last of it. Clairol has discontinued Sable 203. Medium Brown 405 is as close as we can get, but someone as sharp-eyed as Ms. Hood's likely to notice the difference."
"And ask. Loudly, in front of the rest of the town." Gold groaned. He twisted his head awkwardly, running his hand through his hair to lift it and examine the roots. "Regina's second question will be why. And I promised Belle I wouldn't lie any more. But I also promised Henry I wouldn't tell anyone." He sighed deeply. "Aw, Henry, Henry, why did you have to take up wire walking?"
"It happened awfully fast, didn't it, sir?" Dove asked sympathetically, picking up the bottle. "Do you want me to apply the dye?"
"Yeah." Gold's reply covered both questions. "The first time Henry fell. The next morning, I woke up to find my hair had gone completely white."
"At least it didn't fall out, like mine did when my daughter learned to drive."
"Kids," Gold snorted.
"Kids," Dove agreed.
"Well, at least we've got four cases. That should last until Henry's ready to give his first show." Gold dipped his head. "Go ahead, Mr. Dove, pour it on." He clutched the towel around his shoulders and shuddered at the cold mixture dribbled into his ears. Suddenly he groaned and Dove jerked back.
"Mr. G.?"
"I just realized something. Henry was the cautious one of the family. I've still got a rambunctious toddler to raise!"
"Mr. G.?"
"Yes, Mr. Dove?"
"Four cases of aspirin?"
"Yes, Mr. Dove."