Her tears as she bent over his small, lifeless body ran into her nose and her mouth, but she ignored them, just as she ignored the nun, the doctor, the nurses and the boy's other mom, all of whom stood frozen in pain in the hallway just outside the ICU. "I love you, Henry," she said in farewell; then she brushed his bangs aside and pressed a kiss to his forehead. She reached past all the useless wires and tubes they had him hooked up to and gave his shoulder a final squeeze.
With a deep gasp the boy suddenly opened his eyes and sat up, then all heaven broke loose in the hallway as the medics surged forward to try to figure out, scientifically, how this had happened (lest it be discovered that some error on their part had caused an obviously premature pronouncement of death–thus giving Regina cause to sue the hospital). The nun dropped to her knees and bowed her head in thanks, and the mayor. . . .
The mayor just stood there unblinking with her mouth fallen open, until at last she gathered her wits and pushed her way past the nurses, even past Emma, to Henry's bedside. "After what you did–" Emma started, but a glance at Henry, whose face, though filled with hurt and confusion, somehow also shone with love–Emma backed off when she realized that love included Regina. And that, Mother Superior would report to her convent later, was the true miracle: that Henry could still love, perhaps even forgive, the woman who had nearly killed him.
"Whatever anyone tells you, Henry, I do love you," Regina said before turning on her heels and running.
Months later
Regina had vanished, into thin air, it seemed, though the townsfolk knew she couldn't have left Storybrooke–though no one knew exactly what would have happened if she tried. She would show up again. Meanwhile, Marco, as longest serving member of the city council, was chosen mayor pro tem, and everyday life picked up again, the same as usual. Red still argued with Granny, Archie still walked Pongo every morning, Emma still arrested Leroy every Saturday for public intoxication, Mary Margaret and David still made calf eyes at each other, though those longing looks were twinged with sorrow and guilt, Belle still spent her afternoons in front of the tv in the hospital day room, staring blankly at everyone who prompted her "Don't you remember me?" and Gold still collected his inflated rent payments.
The only noticeable change was in Henry. And it wasn't just that he'd moved in with Emma and Mary Margaret. It was that he now openly questioned what had–and had not–happened, for he'd proven his claims, and Emma now believed. "But why," he asked over and over, and Emma had no answer, not even a guess, "why didn't the curse break?"
Looking into his grandparents' still-dazed eyes, he realized he had to do something even more drastic than eating a cursed apple turnover. He worked up his courage one morning at recess and ran off the school playground when Mary Margaret wasn't looking. He realized she'd worry–she'd even call Emma when she discovered him missing–but sometimes a hero has to break the rules for the greater good. People were suffering and Henry couldn't bear to make them wait any longer, so he ran to the one man who might have an answer.
The tinkling bell didn't bring Mr. Gold to the front of the shop. Henry waited just a moment; he should call out, but the shop was so quiet and lifeless that he didn't want to. On the tiptoes of his sneakers, he approached the heavy curtain that Mr. Gold (or could he be the Wizard of Oz?) so often hid from the world behind. He didn't move the curtain; he didn't want its links to rattle on the rod and alert Gold. Instead, Henry slipped through the slight gap between the curtain and the wall.
Mr. Gold was sitting where Henry expected to find him: at his workbench. On the table before him lay three objects and Gold stared at each in turn as though trying to decide which one to pick up–but apparently he could choose only one, and the choice was causing him worry and heartache.
At Gold's left was a big, curved knife. Directly in front of him was an oval thing made of gold and encrusted with jewels. At Gold's right was a charcoal drawing of a shaggy-haired boy dressed in an old-fashioned cloak.
Henry could identify each of these objects. He'd seen illustrations of them and had read of their origins in his storybook.
He now had a pretty good idea who Mr. Gold really was.
"I can find him."
Gold jerked his head up, annoyed at the intrusion, even more annoyed that someone had managed to sneak up on him like that. "Your mothers surely must have taught you the custom of knocking before entering."
Henry ignored the implied accusation. He pointed at the drawing. "I can find him, like I did Emma. I can leave town." Gold narrowed his eyes, but before he could launch his criticisms and corrections, Henry plunged in all the way. "Emma will come with me. She finds people too; it's part of her magic, I guess. If you ask her with me, she'll say yes; she'll want to help when we tell her the story."
"What story?" Gold asked coldly.
Henry came around to Gold's side of the workbench and picked up the drawing. Gold's face darkened but he refrained from snatching the parchment away. "His," Henry replied. "Baelfire's."
Gold's mouth fell open.
His hands crossed in faked serenity atop his cane, Gold–or as Henry had reintroduced him to Emma, Rumplestiltskin the Dark One–waited in Mary Margaret's kitchen as Henry opened the storybook and set it in Emma's lap. Too stunned to run away and hide, Mary Margaret sank to the couch and just stared at her landlord, who pointedly ignored her. The jig was up: Emma was a believer now and from her expression, believed it when Henry had burst into the apartment and exposed Gold's true identity to her. The shocked Mary Margaret–well, Gold couldn't be bothered to care what she believed right now. The story of Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin was now, literally, in the savior's hands: what mattered now was what Emma believed.
Leaning over his mom's shoulder, Henry read aloud the story of the cowardly spinner, the bullying soldiers, the old beggar, and the terrible dark curse. Gold kept his chin up, enduring the humiliation of Mary Margaret's and Emma's stares as Henry exposed Rumplestiltskin's sad and angry past. When the boy came to the part of the story in which the new Dark One forced Hordor to "kiss my boot," Emma nodded at Gold in satisfaction: "Served him right."
A tiny smile flickered across Gold's otherwise stoic expression.
And when Henry came to the part about the bean, Mary Margaret exploded, "The fairy gave a fourteen-year-old that kind of responsibility?" Emma observed, "Oh, it was a set-up; had to be. She intended to separate them. Otherwise, Ms. High and Mighty would've got off her blue tuffet and gone with Bae to talk to Rumple about this portal idea. She had to have known the kid would never be able to talk his old man into jumping into some hole to who-knows-where. Didn't she?" Emma looked to Gold for confirmation, but he simply stared into space.
Henry resumed the story, and Mary Margaret released a small sob and Emma cursed, "What the fu. . .udge" when he came to the part in which Bae and his father were separated. At the end of the story, when Rumplestiltskin confronted the Blue Fairy, learned of the possibility of a curse reuniting him with his son, and vowed he would love no one else until he found Bae, Mary jumped to her feet and ran what she thought was a comforting hand along Gold's arm. He just kept staring into space. "I'm so sorry," she said. "If it's. . .not just a story. . . ?"
Gold removed her hand from his arm. "Henry does not lie."
"Of course not," Mary murmured.
Henry closed the book. "That's why we're here, where we don't belong. That's why nobody remembers who they really are: because they're cursed. And Emma, you're the only one who can break the curse."
"But. . .I believe now, so why didn't the curse break?" Emma looked to Gold for an answer, but he shook his head to indicate he didn't know.
"I think I know," Mary Margaret suddenly offered. "Because there's another curse that has to be broken first, a more serious one."
"What can be more serious than a curse that takes a whole town full of people and whooshes them away to another land, where they don't know who they are?" Emma mused.
Mary looked at Gold. "The curse of a child's hatred for his parent."
Gold lowered his eyes to the floor.
Emma had seen plenty of lonely people in her life, but as her Bug rolled across the orange line spray-painted on the blacktop to mark the town line, she thought she'd never seen a sight as lonely as the Armani-suited man leaning on his cane at the very edge of the border. She raised a hand in farewell as she stared at him through her rear-view mirror, and he raised a hand in answer. "So where do we start first?" Henry jabbered, spreading an atlas across his lap.
"Back to my old office in Boston, to search databases."
"For what?"
"Reports of abandoned children."
Ignoring Ruby's and Granny's harsh whispers, Mary Margaret slid into the booth across from Gold. He didn't look up; he just kept stirring his now-lukewarm cup of tea. "Have you heard from them?"
He shook his head. "Not since last Monday."
"Me neither. I'm sure they're fine. It's just that–"
He finished her sentence. "It's been three months."
Tongues wagged wildly when Gold showed up at the edge of the soccer field one afternoon and Mary Margaret ran out to meet him. They were seen huddling, their heads bent close together over something he held, then she was observed embracing him and running back into her classroom, flushed and smiling.
At least the harlot had taken her meathooks off married men, some said.
He still looked lonely and sad, Emma thought as she and Henry waved to him through the windshield of her dusty Bug: he was standing at the border, leaning on his cane, his Caddy parked at the Welcome sign: had he been there all this time? As soon as she passed the orange border, Emma brought her car to a halt, never mind that she was blocking the road–it wasn't as if anyone used it anyway. The passenger door of the Caddy jerked open and Mary Margaret flew out, and Henry and Emma did the same: they ended up in one big hug and a cacaphony of greetings.
But the figure in the back seat of the Bug was slower to get out. When he finally did, he waited at the open door. After a quick glance at the unfamiliar short-haired woman who was smothering Henry with kisses, he fixed his attention on the Caddy's owner. He didn't say anything, and when Gold reached out a hand and took a hesitant step forward, the stranger scowled.
Emma disentangled herself from the hugfest to introduce the men. "Neal, this is him. Gold, this is your son–and Henry's father."
Gold's cane clattered to the blacktop.
"I don't get it," Henry leaned across the arm of Gold's couch to stage-whisper to Mary Margaret. "How come they're not saying anything? When I found out Neal's my dad, I had like a billion questions for him."
"Maybe it's because it's been three hundred years since they last talked," Mary suggested.
"Yeah, that'd do it," Emma commented. "That and three hundred years of being supremely pissed off."
"Give them time, Henry. At least they're in the same room."
Henry cast a pissed off look of his own toward Gold's kitchen. "Well, they're not even cooking anything yet, just cutting stuff up. If we're not gonna eat any time soon, can I look around? I've never been here before."
"Henry. . . ." Mary Margaret cautioned.
"It's not polite to snoop," Emma added. "But if you do, remember it's not polite to not tell me what you find out."
"At least he's still in town," Mary said, setting the donut box down on Emma's desk.
"Yeah, but he says he's here for Henry, not Gold. Thanks for the bear claws. I see more of Gold than Neal does."
"Maybe they need a push."
"What, like make 'em sit down with Archie?"
"Someone they both care for."
"Or someone they both hate. . . ."
With a low growl, Gold threw open his front door to find Mary Margaret, Henry, Emma and a pile of suitcases crammed onto his porch. "What is this?" His tone was demanding and suspicious.
"Regina," Emma snapped, as if that single word should be sufficient.
It was. He came out onto the porch, surveyed the street and his freshly shoveled sidewalk for threats as he held the door open and stood aside to allow his visitors entrance. He stooped to gather their luggage, much to Emma's surprise, and as soon as everyone was safe inside his foyer, he set the bags down and locked the door behind them. "Now, suppose you supply some details."
"We've come to stay with you, Grandpa," Henry announced before throwing his arms around Gold's waist. "You got anything to eat?"
"Henry, that's not polite," Mary warned.
"Sorry, Gold," Emma apologized as she slid off her red jacket and looked for a coathook. "We had supper less than an hour ago. Kids, huh?" She opened the door to a closet and discovering a man's coat and galoshes there, she slipped her jacket onto an empty hanger and wiggled her fingers at Henry. "Give me your coat, kiddo."
Henry let go of Gold to take off his coat, and the man took the opportunity to step back from the little party. He watched in increasing dismay as Emma hung up Henry's and Mary's coats, then picked up two of the suitcases. "Where's the stairs? I figure we should put Henry at the back of the house, Mary in the room next to him–"
"I'm a light sleeper," Mary Margaret explained. "If you're a light sleeper too, we should put you near Henry too."
"I'll sleep down here on the couch." Emma walked right into the parlor and pushed at the couch cushions. "Not a fold-out, huh? But it feels comfortable. Just give me a blanket and I'll be fine. That way, anybody tries to get in through the front door, I'll hear 'em." Before Gold could respond, she set her suitcases on his coffee table and snapped them open. When she began to unpack her nightie, Gold gulped and backed hastily out of the room in which he'd been watching Downton Abbey.
"Maybe some chips or ice cream?" Henry was asking as he made a beeline for the kitchen.
"Where's your powder room, Mr. Gold?" Mary Margaret asked, her voice dropping to a whisper on the third and fourth words. She had tucked a cosmetics case under her arm and waited expectantly until he silently pointed to a closed door through his parlor and beyond his study.
"Got a back door?" Emma reappeared at his elbow–thank the gods she hadn't changed into that nightie yet. Not that it was suggestive: in fact, far from it: it was closer to a football jersey than a negligee, but he had no interest in seeing her parade around his house in it.
"Back door?" he repeated blankly.
"I need to make sure it's secure." Emma brought her hand from behind her back to reveal a power drill. "I'm gonna put a dead bolt on it."
"I assure you, Sheriff Swan–"
But she brushed past him even as Mary did, and in a minute he was taken aback by a blast of cold air as Emma propped the back door open and attacked it, and his hearing, with the drill.
Collecting the shards of his dignity, Gold marched into his kitchen, where Emma was torturing his back door and Henry was raiding the refrigerator. Gold stuffed his fingers between his lips and issued a shrill whistle.
The drill powered off and Emma and Henry swung their heads around. "Ms. Swan! Kindly explain wh–"
His demand was interrupted by a head poking in through the open back door. "Pop?" Neal slid in. "Hey, Em. Hey, buddy." He set a backpack onto the kitchen table and pulled off his jacket. "Puttin' on a dead bolt, huh? Good thinking. Here, you drill and I'll hold the door steady."
"Ms. Swan!"
Emma blinked. "Oh, yeah, sorry. See, I spotted Regina cruising Compton in her BMW about fifteen minutes ago."
Gold paled. "Compton." That was the street Mary Margaret and Emma lived on. His eyes shot to Henry and he nodded. "Well then." He cleared his throat. "Yes. We can take turns standing guard. Henry, if you're sufficiently fortified for the rest of the evening, you may bring your suitcase and follow me upstairs to your room." He paused with his hand on the railing. "Neal, there's a small bedroom off the study. I'm sure Mary Margaret can show you where it is when she returns from the–" he dropped his voice to a whisper–"powder room."
"Great." Bae began rooting through the cupboards. "Pop, you got any chips? It's been an hour since I had supper and I'm kinda peckish."
On the fourth day the snow melted and the ice thawed. Bae wandered into the study after breakfast. Gold put aside his ledger when Bae asked, "Hey, Pop, can we talk?" The door closed behind him and remained so until suppertime.
On the sixth day, Emma spied on Bae and Gold as they strolled out to garage, under the pretext of tinkering with the Caddy. She peered around the recycling and trash cans so she could see inside the garage without being seen. Gold had an ancient leather case with him. He set it on the tool counter and opened it. She couldn't see what was inside, but it certainly caught Bae's interest.
"This is all of them," Gold said. "Everything I brought from the other side." He stepped back. "Take it. Take it out into the woods, dump them out and smash the vials."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't need it any more. I don't want it."
"What if Regina–"
"Exactly why you must dump it all out, son; so Regina can never get her hands on any of it. Especially that one."
Emma couldn't see what Gold was signifying.
"What is that?"
"After three centuries of trying, I managed to bottle the magic of true love."
"I don't get it. Why is that dangerous? Why should I destroy true love?"
"Because with this potion and the waters of Lake Nostros, magic can be brought to this land. And so, Neal, I must never get my hands on it." Gold snapped the case shut and handed it to Bae. "There's one more thing."
Emma's eyebrows shot up as she watched him limp to the Caddy, drop to his knees, roll over onto his back and scoot under the vehicle. There was a clatter, then his muffled voice asked for assistance getting out. When Bae drew him out by the feet, Gold was holding a weird-looking bread knife.
Bae lifted him to his feet. After he steadied himself against the hood of the car, Gold presented the knife to Bae.
"Papa! Your dagger!"
"Shh. If Regina or her minions were to know about this–it's worthless without magic, of course, but if the savior gets off her duff and breaks the curse and we get to go back home. . . ."
Bae lowered his voice. "Sorry. What do you want me to do with it?"
"See that vise? Lock the dagger in there."
As Bae complied, his father fumbled around in a cabinet. When he emerged he had a pair of goggles in one hand and a chain saw in the other. "Put these on, son. There might be fragments flyin' about." He plugged the electrical cord into an outlet and yanked the starter cord. The saw's engine roared. Gold turned the saw around so Bae could take the handle. "Here you go, Neal. Have at it!"
"Papa, don't you want to think about it first?"
"I've had three hundred years to think about it," Gold grinned. "I have you, I have Henry, and when Emma gets her rear in gear and breaks this damn curse, I'll have Belle. That's all the magic I need. Slice it up, Bae! Slice it up into pieces so small they can never come together again."
With a wicked grin, Bae slipped the goggles over his eyes and gunned the saw's engine.
Nine days and fourteen pizza deliveries later (in addition to a special delivery from Clark's of a bottle of Roll Aids for Gold), Emma decided the mission of protecting Henry had been achieved. No further sightings of Regina had been reported–and come to think of it, that might not have been the mayor's black BMW Emma had seen after all; perhaps it had been Whale's midnight blue Accord.
But her savioring duties were not quite complete: Emma called Falstaff's Liquor Store and had a couple of six packs delivered.
As she and Mary Margaret loaded their suitcases into the Bug, Emma winked at her roommate. Over her shoulder she could hear the three Gold men talking on the porch, arguing–but it was a good kind of argument, something about "Man U" and "Liverpool."
"Yeah, I got your Man U right here," Emma muttered. "Guess we know a thing or two about educating men, huh?"
"We could open an academy," Mary Margaret agreed.
The women looked back to the porch, where Bae stood with a beer in one hand and his other arm thrown around his old man's shoulders. Gold too held a can of beer and took an occasional swig from it as he casually tossed a baseball back and forth to Henry. His cane lay discarded on the porch wall; with his son to lean on a bit, he didn't need it.
"You know, we ought to put a swing out here," Bae said. "It'll be spring in a couple of weeks. Be nice to sit out here and listen to ball games on the radio."
"Aye, a swing. Or a glider." Funny how Gold sounded more Scottish when he was tipsy–extra funny because he'd never set foot in Scotland.
"Naw, man, a swing. More traditional. These old-style houses need swings."
"Naw, I like a glider."
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but Emma held up a staying hand. "Wait for it. . . Wait for it. . . ."
"Less put a sting on one end and a slider on th' other." Funny how Bae sounded funnier when he was tipsy. "How 'bout that?"
"Brilliant idea, laddie, brilliant."
"Yer awright by me, Pop."
"I loof yoo, too, Nealfire. You growed up to be a fine young man, y' did."
"Aw, you can call me Bae."
Emma whistled and motioned to her son. As Henry came running, she smirked at Mary Margaret. "And that's why they call me the savior."
As Henry crawled over the suitcases to get into the backseat, Mary Margaret wondered,"Yes, but when the buzz wears off, will it last?"
"Of course it will." Emma gestured to the porch as she climbed behind the wheel.
Mary Margaret glanced back to find Bae planting a kiss on the top of his father's head.
"I love ya, Pop," she heard Bae declare, just before the earth shook and a golden wave pulsed across the town. From the passenger seat, Mary Margaret exclaimed, "My gods! I'm Snow White!"
"And that," Emma announced as she started the engine, "is how you break a curse, ladies and gentlemen."