He'd disappeared just as soon as he'd made Belle comfortable, laying her softly on the four-poster bed, tucking a quilt around her still-too-thin body. He disappeared and no one bothered to look for him. Had he had so little impact on their lives that they didn't notice his comings and goings, or were they afraid if they sought him out, he'd return and disrupt their peace and quiet again? He'd once sneered at Regina for longing to be included; no one suspected that sometimes he felt the ache. Belonging was far beyond his reach, though, and inclusion was only an illusion that lasted only so long as the heroes needed him for some task. That's how they wanted it; that's how he wanted it too. But Belle hadn't believed him when he'd made his prideful claim of independence.
That was, of course, before she'd aligned herself with those who wanted him around only when he was useful.
He brushed the hair from her face and watched a moment as her eyelids twitched and her forehead creased. When she accepted the poisoned spindle from Zelena, had she known that the sleeping curse would throw her into a firestorm of lucid nightmares? Or had she been fooled by the name, as so many often were, assuming the spell would ease her into a long beauty rest? If she'd only given him a few minutes to explain it to her—and gods, a few minutes to consider what the spell might do to the baby! He had no idea what the child might be going through now, whether it was sharing its mother's nightmares or drifting in unawareness. As far as he knew—and he knew a hell of a lot, when it came to magic—no unborn child had ever been subjected to a sleeping curse. Why did his have to be the guinea pig? Why didn't Belle listen?
But she had made her demands and he would, for once, obey. He conjured a pitcher of water and a glass on the nightstand—she would be thirsty when she was awakened, her throat sore—and he made certain the drapes were drawn and the thermostat set at the temperature she liked, and then he took the liberty of sending a tiny thread of magic through his fingers and into her wrist, giving her the last of many gifts they'd exchanged in their marriage: a faint spell that would push pleasant dreams through the cracks in the nightmares, dreams of wildflower-filled meadows and babbling brooks and picnics with family and friends—excluding him.
And then with a wave of his hand he vanished from Storybrooke. He took himself to his cabin in the West Woods. It held unpleasant memories for him, but he figured he deserved that. Besides, he was well used to living with unpleasant memories. Standing on his porch, he made two phone calls: one to Moe with brief instructions for breaking Belle's curse (he gave the former duke no chance to question or argue) and the second to Dove, instructing him to make damn sure Moe showed up ASAP and to call as soon as the Kiss had done its work. Afterwards, he laid his phone on his porch rail, yanked off his tie and suitcoat, and sat down on the steps to wait.
He waited for two hours. When the phone finally rang, he shouted into it: "What the hell, Dove? Two hours?"
"Apologies, sir. There were complications. She is awake now. Dr. Whale is examining her—"
"That quack."
"And says she is in good health."
"The baby?"
"Dr. Whale has taken her to the hospital for an ultrasound, but he can hear the heartbeat and believes the baby is unharmed."
"You said complications."
"Yes, sir. Mr. French's kiss failed." Dove allowed that information to sink in; when Gold gave no response, he continued, "He kissed her repeatedly for nearly an hour. On the mouth, on the forehead, on the cheek, on the hand, to no avail."
"I guessed as much," Gold muttered. "Any bastard who'd attempt to wipe his daughter's memory just to break up her relationship—so how did she waken up?"
"Henry. He uttered an expletive, pushed Mr. French aside, leaned in and kissed Ms. Gold on the forehead, and her eyes flew open. "
Gold chuckled. "Mr. Dove, see to it that a new bike is in my grandson's immediate future."
"Yes, sir. She seemed a little disoriented at first, but we gave her some water and helped her sit up, and that cleared her head. Her first words were 'Are we still in Underbrooke?'"
Gold paused, fighting the temptation to ask whether she'd inquired after him. He was nearly ready to swallow his pride and ask when Dove volunteered the information. "She asked where you were; we told her we didn't know, of course, but I offered her my phone to call you." He let the sentence trail off; he didn't need to finish it. Of course Belle had declined the call.
"Go on to the hospital with Whale. Call me as soon as there's news." Gold didn't have to wait for agreement; he knew he'd have it. Apart from his loyalty to Gold, Dove considered Mrs. G.'s safety his personal responsibility—and his privilege.
Phone in hand, he wandered the lake behind the cabin until Dove's second call came. "The tests are concluded. She is well, uninjured."
"She'll have lingering nightmares. Make sure Regina gives her the medallion that I gave Henry. What news of the baby?"
"Whale is. . . puzzled. The heartbeat is strong but slow, very slow."
Gold swallowed audibly, then sighed. "When she's been released, help her settle wherever she likes: the pink house, her old apartment, a house of her own. Check in on her daily and report back to me."
"Yes, sir."
Because not even Dove could be everywhere, Gold snuck back into Storybrooke that night and enchanted various reflective surfaces along the paths that Belle usually walked. He'd never been that interested in mirror magic, but he knew he couldn't survive a day without reassuring himself of her well being. He wouldn't intrude too far on her privacy: mirrors in her home were safe from him. But he had to know. And even after weeks had passed and Belle had settled into her old routine and seemed safe, he watched her through mirrors and windows, or rather, watched his child grow in her. As the seasons changed, so did her body, and he fell in love from a distance—with her or with his baby, he wasn't sure. He ached to touch her belly, to send just a weak stream of magic into her womb to assess the child's development, but she wouldn't allow it, he was sure. She didn't want him anywhere near her; that was clear by the fact that she didn't call, not once, not even to tell him to bug off. More than anything else she did or didn't do, it crushed him that she wouldn't call after her prenatal appointments to share the news. It was as if, in his isolation, he had ceased to exist—had died in Underbrooke. Through bribes and threats to Whale (though legally, he had every right to know) he was kept apprised of the baby's health.
He was right to worry. Whale remained puzzled. The baby was growing, though at a slower rate than normal; its heart continued to pound powerfully, but slowly. "But," Whale kept reassuring him, "Belle is thriving. Eating well, sleeping, exercising. So I have every reason to believe her pregnancy will go without complications and she'll have a normal delivery."
He phoned and was sent to her voice mail. "Belle, sweetheart, we have to talk about our son's condition. Maybe together we can figure out what to do. Please call me back." To be on the safe side, he texted the same message.
She finally answered, an hour later. At least she didn't sound angry, but neither would she agree to see him. "At this point, there isn't anything we can do but wait and be careful. I'm doing everything the doctor advises, and that includes staying away from things that cause stress. Right now, Rumple, that includes you." She softened her voice to sound less accusatory. "Please try to understand: I need some normalcy, some peace and quiet right now, and I can't get that as the wife of the Dark One. If something changes, if something happens with the baby, I'll call. Please respect my wishes."
He listened in stunned silence. Even after the disconnecting click, he listened. Then he threw the phone at the brick fireplace and enjoyed hearing it crack and even more, enjoyed watching its fragments fly. As night fell, he prowled the lakeside, trying to decide who was most at fault and therefore, most deserving of the first attack. It didn't take long to come up with a list of suspects; topping the list was Hook, of course, closing followed by Zelena and Cora, then Regina, but new additions included the Charmings and Emma. He imagined suitable punishments for each.
That would have to be it, though: just imagined punishments. If he raised a magical finger against anyone, he'd be in for a custody battle with Belle.
He called Whale again. "Okay, you've had two hours. What answers have you come up with?"
Whale grunted. "Just as we would for any possibly problematic pregnancy. We'll monitor the baby closely, but make no intervention unless we have to."
He sat on his porch for days after this news, searching the books he transported from the pink house in the vain hope of finding a spell or potion that would keep his baby safe. He knew better, of course. Only as a last resort should magic be used on the unborn; it was just too risky. But he had to do something—protecting a baby, even an unborn one, was a father's most sacred duty. He'd failed his first son; he wouldn't fail his second. So he studied and experimented and fretted in his helplessness.
He tried to take his cue from Belle and the circle of friends around her, who took her shopping and invited her to dinner and made sure she wasn't lonely. Her energy was high, as were her spirits; she laughed more than he remembered her ever doing when they were together. She ate more, too, and took night school lessons in French cooking. Dove carried her bags for her when she bought groceries, and it was he—another stab in the heart to Gold—who taught Belle how to drive when Belle fretted that the Caddy was going to waste.
She asked occasionally about her husband and seemed pleased when Dove assured him of Gold's health, but she didn't ask to see him, nor did she return his calls, nor wear her wedding ring. But neither did she date. She seemed quite content. He supposed he should be happy for her—certainly, happy for the baby. But as longing and loneliness ate away at him, he lost appetite and sleep. He spun gold and tried to forget.
Then came the news that the baby was a boy, and soon after, Belle announced the name she'd chosen: John, after two men who founded the earliest public libraries in America. John Gold. A solid name. A name that inspired confidence in business dealings. Gold liked it fine—except he wished he'd been consulted on it.
As her belly blossomed, she could be seen lunching with Snow to exchange childcare tips, or sunning herself in the park, or driving from Baby & Me to the pink house with new purchases crammed into the trunk. Gold got bolder in his spying, sometimes taking on a glamor so he could walk past her on the street. Once, he even changed himself into a dog so he could follow her in the park. When she knelt to pet him and nearly tipped over from the weight of her belly, he almost revealed himself—it was their thing, for him to catch her whenever she fell. After that, he kept his distance, but the ache never went away, not in the twilight when he awoke to find himself spooning her pillow, not at lunch, when he imagined he could hear her quick footsteps and a cheery invitation to a picnic, not in the evening, when he sat on the couch reading and thought he could hear her breathing next to him.
When he couldn't bear the quiet any more, he had Dove buy a crib and a musical mobile to hang over it, and he set it all up in the cabin's kitchen. In the bedroom, he filled Belle's empty dresser with baby clothes and the closet with toys. When it was his weekend with Johnny, he'd bring the boy here, teach him to swim and fish and identify the birds in the trees and learn the medicinal properties of the plants in the forest.
When it was his weekend. Gold choked on the words. She wouldn't deny him his parental rights; she'd assured him of that, in Underbrooke. She wouldn't drag their child through a custody battle. And she trusted him to provide proper care for the baby, and plenty of love. As for his dubious values, she'd balance them out on her side, make sure Johnny knew that while his father was usually well-meaning, he was usually wrong. Day in, day out, Johnny would be surrounded by good examples, beginning with his mother the hero.
Dove would have more time with Johnny than Gold would. Hell, "Uncle" David and "Aunt" Snow would have more time with Johnny than Gold would. Just, please, not "Uncle" Killian. Whatever settlement Hook and Belle had come to, please, gods, let that pirate have no influence on Johnny Gold's life. Belle knew the full Milah-Bae-Hook-Rumple story; surely she would respect her husband/ex-husband's wish to keep his son away from Hook.
The ache grew as the baby grew. And the fear—the fear trebled as, from a distance, Rumple watched Belle gradually, slowly, give in to worry. Her outings decreased; her friends had to come to her, visiting her in the pink house. Moe moved in with her and took over the shopping. Now Rumple spotted her alone in the evenings, walking in the garden or sitting on the master bedroom's balcony (that in itself grieved him, forcing him to remember the too-few halcyon days when they'd done these very activities together, holding hands). Her head was bent now, her hand massaging her belly thoughtfully. Still, she wouldn't return his phone calls.
Until one afternoon she did.
She'd come from a routine check-up. Rumple knew this already; Whale had provided him a calendar of her appointments, and in fact, Rumple had his phone at the ready for the call he expected from Whale. Rumple dropped his fishing pole at the sound of Stevie Nicks' "Leather and Lace"—Belle's ring tone. He brought the phone to his ear so forcefully he bruised himself. "Belle?"
"Something's wrong." She was speaking in chunky phrases, with gulps in between. "With the baby. Something else. Worse. Whale says he's 'concerned.' I'm scared, Rumple."
His hand on the phone shook. "Shall I come to you?"
She was firm in her reply: "No."
"Why?" He allowed her to hear the hurt. "Let me help, sweetheart. Even if I can't, let me hold you, take some of the worry away. Please, Belle, he's mine too. I love him too. . . and I still love you. We need to go through this together."
"That's why I'm calling," she snapped. "To keep you informed. But you know as well as I do, if you come here—if we touch—it'll start all over again. And I can't do that, Rumple."
"Do you still love me?"
He could hear her draw in a deep breath. "I'm calling about the baby; that's all. He's five months now. He should be kicking, but he's not."
"Kicking. . . " Rumple mulled the word over.
"His heartbeat is still strong, but slow. He's still growing, but he's behind the curve."
"Let me come," he said rapidly. "I can send a small touch of magic into the womb, get a picture of how he's doing—"
"No, Rumple, no magic. This baby's had too much magic to cope with as it is. There's nothing you can do that Whale can't, and he can do it safer."
"It's harmless, Belle; he won't even feel it—"
"No. I just. . . " Her voice shuddered. "I just thought you should know. Whale has increased the frequency of my check-ups. He's got me on a special diet and if things don't improve, I'll go on bedrest."
"I'll hire a nurse, a live-in nurse—"
"I have my father here—"
"What does he know about babies?"
She forced a chuckle. "You're right. He wasn't even in Avonlea when I was born. A nurse might be okay—I'll ask Whale for recommendations."
"And you? Are you okay?"
"Oh, I'm dandy," she replied bitterly. "Fitter than I've ever been."
He tried again. "Let me come to you—"
"No. I still love you too much for that. When I've chosen a nurse, I'll let you know."
"Dove will have carte blanche to pay whatever's required. We want the best, of course," he said miserably.
"I have to go, Rumple."
"Please, call me when anything changes. Or even if it doesn't. If you just need to talk."
"I'll keep you informed. Goodbye, Rumple."
At six months, the baby still hadn't kicked. Sweat beading his forehead, Whale ran test after test. "He seems fine. He's developing as he should. Just—not moving. I've consulted every obstetrician in Boston, studied every medical journal. Can't find an explanation."
Gold could have told him: it was the aftereffect of the curse. Even if Belle had allowed him to send magic into her belly, he'd have no idea what to do, and he wasn't about to subject his son to magical guesswork. He could only wait.
The nurse knew which side her bread was buttered on. She kept Gold apprised with daily reports: how well Belle had slept, what she'd eaten, how much exercise she'd gotten, how well her spirits fared. She would have reported on any mentions Belle made of her husband, but there were none.
Whale put Belle on bedrest at the seventh month. A "closed indefinitely" sign appeared on the front doors of the library. Nobody could replace Belle.
His phone rang and at the same time, a voice carried on the wind shouted out to him: "Rumplestiltskin, Rumplest—oooh!"
The phone still ringing behind him, he transported himself to her side. Before she could finish the third call, Belle found herself being cradled—whether she welcomed it or not—by the object of her summons.
It took a moment for Gold to determine where they were, but a quick glance at the elevated bed and the flimsy floral gown Belle was dressed in gave him enough information. He brushed her sweaty hair away from her dark-lined eyes, crooned her name, assured her everything would be okay.
"What the—" Whale yelped, for Gold in making his appearance had stepped on his foot.
Instead of apologizing, Gold glared at him. "What are you doing to her?" Past Whale's shoulder, two nurses hovered.
"What do you think we're doing?" Whale shoved him slightly. "You're in my way, Gold. Let me get to my patients."
"He's coming," Belle panted. As a contraction passed and she was able to relax for a minute, she turned a sorrowful face up to Gold. "I'm sorry I didn't call when the contractions started. I'm sorry I didn't call before then. I shouldn't have kept you out—" She gasped as another contraction struck.
"We'll talk about it later." Yes, he was pissed off, and yes, he wanted to give her a piece of his mind, but they had work to do first. And just maybe this work would bring them back together.
"Help me, Rumple. I'm so scared," she begged.
A pair of hands clamped onto his arms, drawing him backward, and a nurse hissed, "You need to have a mask and gown on, Mr. Gold. Follow me outside and we'll—"
A snap of the fingers settled the complaint. The nurse shrugged. "Oh. Of course."
"Now Gold, I know you magic types are used to immediate results; snap your fingers and voila," Whale cautioned them as the nurse slid a blood pressure cuff around Belle's arm. "But babies won't be rushed. This is going to take hours."
"I know that," Gold snapped.
"Oh, yeah," Whale recalled. "This isn't your first."
Gold didn't correct the doctor's impression that he'd witnessed Bae's birth. "Give her something for the pain," he insisted.
"And where did you get your medical degree, Dr. Gold?" Whale growled. "Why don't you leave the medical decisions to me and my staff, and we'll leave the hand-holding to you."
Belle's grip on his hand tightened then as she drawled out his name in warning. "Ruuuummmmple."
He forced himself to sound meek. "Yes, sweetheart." He was taking liberties, but with pain distracting her, Belle would allow endearments, at least, for now. He thought they both needed the comfort of the illusion of unity.
Thirteen hours later, both nurses were yanking on his arms and Whale was barking at him, "If you won't get out, at least get back!"
Something was dreadfully wrong. Sweating and exhausted, Belle was moaning in between shrieks. Gold got shoved to the side and couldn't see any more, so he conjured an overhead mirror and watched in horror as Whale reached for forceps. The tension in the nurses' and Whale's bodies sent a jolt of panic through Gold, and in response, his magic leapt to his fingers, asking to be made use of. He rubbed his hands. "Whale! Let me help. What can I do?"
"Just stand there and shut—" Whale broke off, blinking at Gold's glowing hands. As many hours as they'd wasted arguing whether magic or science was more powerful, more reliable, safer, saner, the doctor relished relegating the sorcerer to a corner, but he had two patients in trouble. Twisting his mouth in annoyance, Whale relented. "If you can be subtle about it and not affect the baby, give Belle just a little pain relief."
Gold reached around one of the nurses to grab Belle's hand and send a little soothing magic into her nervous system. She collapsed against her pillows and whispered her thanks. For a moment she closed her eyes, gathering the fragments of her strength, then she turned her head toward Whale. "What's wrong? What's happening?"
Whale patted her knee. "It's going to be okay, Belle. The baby's just—not in a rush to come out, the way they usually are." He exchanged a worried look with the nurses as he went to work with the forceps. "Stubborn little fella. Typical Stiltskin. Push now, Belle. Push!"
Through the mirror Gold could make out a little circle of a head, then, long minutes later, a sparse head of hair, then a forehead, closed eyes, a nose, a chin. The birth went faster now and Whale permitted Gold to come closer, to catch the baby. A nurse cleaned out the baby's nostrils, worriedly whispering something to Whale as she worked.
"He's out now, Belle. Your son's arrived."
"What's wrong?" Belle began to sob. "Why isn't he crying?"
"Ten fingers and ten toes. Good color. He's, ah, he's breathing, he's just not, he's not—" Whale stumbled. "He's asleep."
"Why?" she gripped the sheets.
"He's not moving." As Gold held the tiny being, Whale tickled, then thumped, the baby's feet. "He's breathing fine; I just can't wake him up." Whale cast a nervous look at Gold.
"The sleeping curse," Gold peered anxiously at his son's immobile face. "He's still under it. Henry's kiss woke Belle but had no effect on Johnny."
Belle's arms stretched out as she sobbed. "Give him to me. Rumple, let me hold him."
As Gold still held Johnny, Whale snipped the umbilical cord and a nurse wrapped the baby in a little blanket. Slowly, then, Gold walked to the head of the bed and lay Johnny in his mother's arms. "What do we do?" She struggled to gain control of her fear.
"I don't know," Gold admitted. He stared at the unmoving bundle, willing with all his soul for the boy to open his eyes, to cry, to move. Gold's magic filled every pore of his being, demanding to be employed in this rescue effort, but more dark magic wasn't the solution to a curse. "Son, please wake up. Please, for your papa and your mama."
Not a nerve in the baby's body twitched. "I'll give anything," Gold whispered into the tiny ear. "If you'll just wake up. I'll give everything."
"True Love's Kiss—will it work?" Belle fought for a shred of hope.
"It has to," Gold decided. It was their last chance. He had to try. And then his head cleared and he saw the answer: this was the price come due on everything he'd done, ever since he let go of Bae's hand. Magic had cost him everything; it was time to pay.
Belle bent her head, preparing to kiss the baby in her arms, but Gold placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let me. Please, Belle."
She blinked in confusion and exhaustion. "Let you—?"
He slid an arm under hers to help support the baby.
"You're going to—? But Rumple, your magic—"
"For him. If it's the only right thing I can do, the only good I can do for him, let me do this." Rumple's eyes pleaded with her. "So he'll know how much his father loves him."
Tears swimming in her eyes, Belle raised the baby as Gold leaned down. She nodded and he pressed his lips to the boy's forehead.
A protesting howl, accompanied by a pulsating flash of gold light, consumed the room, and the new parents had to move quickly to catch the newborn, whose suddenly thrashing legs and pumping fists would have caused him to fall, if Rumple and Belle hadn't caught him, together.
Laughing nervously, Whale pushed into the little family circle and gave the baby a close examination. "He's okay!" Then the doctor cleared his throat and asserted his authority. "Now, Mr. Gold, now you'll step outside and let us finish up here. We'll meet you in Room 7A."
"All right?" Gold reluctantly withdrew his arm from the baby.
Belle nodded. "All right." She cocked her head as the nurse lifted the baby away.
"We need to get him in an incubator," Whale explained. "A precaution. Don't worry; I think he's all right now."
Belle reached out hesitantly to stroke Gold's stubbled cheek. "You didn't have to. I could have given him the Kiss and you could've kept your magic." She took one of his hands in his and turned it over to examine it. Gold didn't have to look down to know his fingers were no longer glowing. He felt suddenly very heavy and very tired. He would explain it all later; for now, he could only watch the baby being taken away.
"So he'll never have to ask the questions that Bae had to."
"He'll never doubt what he means to his papa."
As Gold pulled away from her, Belle brushed her hand against his. "We have so much to talk about, but first, we all need some rest. See you in 7A."
He gave her a weary smile. "7A."