A/N. This story was inspired by Johnny Clegg's song of the same title.
It was Thursday, and Thursdays meant chicken pot pie and writing out the Doves' paychecks: $120 to Lucy Dove for twice-weekly cleaning and cooking (always completed during the daytime, so she and her employer seldom crossed paths) and $250 to her husband Alistair for assorted duties that he had the good sense never to talk about. Thursdays were always chicken pot pie and paychecks, for more years than Mr. Gold could remember (whenever he tried, he got a headache).
On a tray, he set his checkbook, a pen, a napkin (cloth only; he thought the use of paper napkins declasse), the pie, silverware, and a cup of tea (he never could figure out why he preferred tea when everyone else in Storybrooke drank coffee: just further evidence, he supposed, that he didn't fit in, didn't care to try). He balanced it all with mathematical precision, because he had to carry the tray with one hand, his other hand being occupied with his cane. He carried the tray into his living room (freshly vacuumed and dusted, because today was Thursday) and set it on the (misnamed, he thought) coffee table and he toed off his Ferragamos before easing himself down onto the couch and reaching for the remote control. It was seven p.m. and time for the local news.
"–Miners Day festivities coming up next month; we'll get the scoop from Mother Superior herself." Gold grunted around a mouthful of crust and picked up his remote with the intention of changing channels: he had no interest in hearing the chief nun speak about Miners Day or any other day. He thumbed the remote, only to find he was holding it upside down; as he was righting the device, the newscaster changed her tone, from syrup-flavored to jalepeno: "But first, we go live to the sheriff's office for this breaking story. Our own Will Tell is on the scene. Good evening, Will."
"Good evening, Haley. A strange occurrence on the outskirts of town this afternoon, when Sheriff Graham Humbert discovered an unfamiliar teenage boy wandering along FM 64." Tell thrust his microphone under the nervous sheriff's nose. "Uh, yeah, that's right. He was disoriented, on foot and alone, headed into town. He told us his name is Bill Fire, and he comes from a town called Loameth, but we can't find such a town on the map, and this boy doesn't match any descriptions in the Missing Children Database. Bill says the last he remembers, he was having an argument with his father, something about a broken promise, and then the boy fell into a pit and when he came to, he found himself along the banks of the Tawganee River."
The camera switched to a photo of a startled boy dressed in shabby clothes much too thin for this time of year. Tell continued in a voice-over: "The boy is being kept in Storybrooke General overnight for observation, after which he will be under the supervision of Child Protective Services. Mayor Regina Mills had this to say."
The camera switched to Regina, who, despite her flawless make-up and hairdo, seemed a bit frazzled, prompting Gold to snigger: Her Honor simply couldn't abide by anything out of her control. "We hope this matter will be resolved quickly, with CPS removing this threat to our law-abiding community. The boy obviously doesn't belong here and most likely is a beggar or a hoodlum, possibly a gang member. Rest assured, crime will not be tolerated in Storybrooke, and ths stranger will be removed immediately."
The camera returned to the photo of the boy. "Bill Fire is fourteen years old, five foot seven inches, 155 pounds. If you can shed any light on the mystery of this lost boy, call Sheriff–"
Gold choked on his pie. His knee jolted the (misnamed) coffee table, overturning the tray and spilling tea and gravy onto the Burberry carpet. He stared at the stains in dismay: Ms. Dove would have to steam-clean the carpet tomorrow. She usually only worked Mondays and Thursdays, but now she would have to clean tomorrow before the stains set and before Baelfire came home–
Baelfire. Rumplestiltskin. Queen Regina. The Huntsman. Jiminy and Red and Snow and Charming and the Doves, who in the old country, really were doves, literally, until Rumple snuck them in under the curse. Their true names and natures returned to his memory.
Then he remembered the one who could never return, the woman with eyes like the sky, and he grieved for her afresh. But if it was true, as the clerics and the elderly claim, that there is a life beyond life, she would not be grieving right now, and she would not want her beloved to: she would be cheering for Baelfire.
Rumplestiltskin leapt to his feet and crowed. Baelfire was here! Three hundred years of intricate planning and manuevering had paid off, and it was perfect! Baelfire was here, and in a few minutes they'd be reunited, and what a life Rumple could give him now. It didn't even matter that the savior, and therefore magic, wouldn't arrive for another twenty years. He would have Bae back; that's all that mattered.
Rumplestiltskin took one last glance at the tv screen and his son's photo as he grabbed his car keys. "Lost boy," the caption read. Rumple blew a kiss at the screen. "Lost boy" were the sweetest words he'd ever heard. Those words, along with "Emma," were his wake-up call, enabling him to remember. . . everything. Including a furious boy shouting "Coward!" just before his quaking father abandoned him.
"You don't have a son!" the mayor quaked, blocking Rumple's entrance to the boy's hospital room. "You've never had a son, or family of any sort."
But Graham ignored Regina's glare, for what else could he do, when the lost boy cried out "Papa!" and darted around the mayor to fly into Rumple's open arms. Their tears seemed genuine, and they spoke in hushed but passionate tones as they embraced, assurances of love passing on both sides. But Graham had to ask: "Is Mr. Gold your father, Bill?"
"Not Bill," the boy protested. "I've been telling you, it's Baelfire."
"Baelfire Jeremy Gold," the pawnbroker added, rather quickly, Graham thought. "An old family name. Scottish." He pressed a hand against the kid's cheek. "Born April 14, 1977, in Saskatchewan–Regina, to be precise. His mother and I divorced when he was a tot."
The boy looked over his shoulder at Graham and nodded. "Mom and I moved to Loameth when I was seven."
"Oh, this is ridiculous," Regina exploded. "A bald-faced lie. You've never been out of Storybrooke in your life, Gold."
The pawnbroker sneered. "How come I have a Scottish accent, then?"
Graham puzzled, "Yeah, why do I sound Irish?"
Regina blanched. "I don't know what you want with this kid, or why he's going along with this hoax–"
"This is my papa!" Bae shouted. "Why are you lying? Why are you trying to keep me from my papa?"
"Sheriff, do your duty," Regina insisted. "If that's his son, ask him to prove it."
"I will, as soon as the bank opens tomorrow and I can get into my safe deposit box." Gold straightened and stared her down. "A birth certificate, child support payment records, photos–documents too precious to keep in my house or shop." Producing those "documents" would be a piece of cake for Mr. Dove.
"Well, listen, Whale says the boy needs to be kept here overnight anyway–dehydration and exposure to the cold," Graham said. "Meet me at my office tomorrow at ten and we'll take care of the paperwork then."
"Then I can go home with my papa?" Bae made puppy eyes that only Regina could resist.
"If everything's in order."
"I'm going with you when you open that deposit box," Regina declared. "No tricks."
Gold inched closer to the mayor. "If you please, dearie."
Regina's perfectly painted lips parted in a gasp. "I. . .I just remembered I have a meeting at ten." She brushed past her old enemy, muttering, "This isn't over, Gold."
"Every law–man's and nature's–is on my side," he answered. "A piece of advice, dearie: never underestimate a parent who's protecting his child." As Regina clacked her way to the elevator, Gold turned back to Graham. "Do what you feel is necessary, Sheriff, but I'm staying here tonight. My son and I will never be separated again."
Graham started out the door. "See you at ten." He paused and grinned at Bae. "Hey, kid, something I've always wondered: what's your dad's first name?"
Bae glanced at Rumple. "It's an old family name too–and it's a secret."
Regina hadn't a leg to stand on, between Gold's documents, a DNA test and a tale that Bae spun about his mother's death. Sidney Glass made a month's worth of cover stories from the reunion; adverse as he was to publicity, Gold complained but for once, didn't threaten to sue. The prodigal son's return, as Glass touted it (though in reality, Rumple was the prodigal), warmed the hearts of every Storybrooker, which was good for the pawnshop's business; and the temperature of Gold's heart shot into the three digit range, which was good for all of Gold's tenants, who experienced a decrease in their rent.
All of Storybrooke celebrated the father and son reunion, except Regina. And when Regina was unhappy, someone had to suffer. The trouble was, she suspected that Gold had awakened from the curse, and if she pissed him off, he might overturn the whole applecart. So she had to be subtle; she worked on the boy instead of the man.
She gave Bae a book that to the rest of Storybrooke told fanciful tales of princes and princesses who were cheated by a nasty imp, until at last a powerful queen imprisoned the ugly little monster. Soon after receiving this gift, Baelfire stopped smiling as he walked around town. At Halloween, Regina left a scarecrow in a Rumplestiltskin mask on the porch of the salmon house. Then Bae stopped hanging out with his new friends. On Thanksgiving, she snuck a covered tray into the catered dinner Granny's Diner delivered to the Golds'. When Bae lifted the cover, he found a plate of snails–all of them crushed. Bae began cutting school. At Christmas she sent him a doll in a French maid's outfit. It seemed harmless enough, although hardly age appropriate, until Bae squeezed it: then it spit up fake blood. After that, slamming doors and shouting could be heard, day and night, from the pink house.
On New Year's Day, she sent him an unsigned postcard: "Welcome to Storybrooke" it said, under which she wrote "home of Rumplestiltskin, creator of the curse that destroyed Fairytale Land." That evening, Graham arrested Bae for taking a baseball bat to the stained-glass windows of the pink house. Rumple didn't say a word as he bailed the boy out.
Rumple awoke in a cold sweat. He sat up panting, vaguely conscious of the remnants of a nightmare, and as he squinted at his alarm clock to verify the ungodly hour, he became aware that although his furnace was rumbling, his bedroom was cold. He pulled on his robe and slippers and went to investigate. He traced the source of the cold air to an open window in Bae's bedroom. Bae's bed was empty.
So was his dresser.
Gold leaned out the window. A blast of wind slapped him at the same time reality did.
He ran back to his room for some clothes and shoes. He stepped wrong as he stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, and his bad ankle twisted. He poured the pain into shouts as he called for Bae, but of course there was no answer. The back door was unlocked. He limped into the garage and started the Caddy and rolled out, ignoring traffic laws.
An hour later, the sky was turning pink and Rumple was still skimming the streets, more slowly now, and methodically, determined not to miss a clue. At last he had to face what his gut told him was true: he wheeled the Caddy away from downtown Storybrooke and toward the border.
Toward the town line.
Every Storybrooker knew the myth: cross the line and something bad would happen. The few who had tried, never made it as far as the "welcome" sign. Only two people knew why: under orders of Regina, Rumplestiltskin had designed the curse to keep strangers out and Storybrookers in. And only one person knew what would happen if a Storybrooker crossed the line.
The curse creator pulled his car to the side of the road just a yard from the "welcome" sign. The sun had risen now, so he could see clearly. Too late, he could see clearly: his angry son, a backpack slung across one shoulder, was trudging determinedly eastward on FM 64. Fifty miles ahead lay Skohegan. Bae could make it that far, but he'd be starved, frost-bit and footsore before then. He'd also be alone.
Only a bastard would allow his child to wander off alone into a land he didn't understand. Rumplestiltskin had been a bastard in the old country. Rumplestiltskin-Gold loved power, but he loved Baelfire more.
He shouted his son's name.
The boy didn't slow down or turn around. "Leave me alone!"
"Bae, come back, please. I understand you're upset, but we can work it out. Please," Rumple's voice broke.
"No!" Bae kept going. "You haven't changed. You're a monster; you just look like a man now."
"I can change–I am changing," Rumple insisted. "Since I got you back, I don't need anything else. Everything I did, it was to protect you."
"Killing our maid, that was for me? Casting the curse that broke up all those families, that was for me? If you really believe that, you're even more evil than I thought you were, and I don't want any part of that. Leave me alone!"
Bae was so far ahead now that Rumple could barely hear him. "Bae! Come back! Whatever you want, I'll do. Please, Bae, I love you!" When Bae didn't answer, Rumple tried again. "It's not safe out there, Bae. You don't know how dangerous this world is. Don't leave–you don't have to leave. You can stay in Storybrooke and live with someone else, someone good. Just stay. . . where I can see you and know you're safe."
And still Bae didn't turn around.
"I can't follow you," Rumple informed him. "I can't cross the town line. Please, son, come back."
And still Bae didn't turn around.
"If I cross the line, the curse will take away all my memories of the Enchanted Forest. I'll forget who I am and everyone I knew, everything that happened before Storybrooke. Your first word, your first steps, the day you learned to read, our fishing trips, the summer festival in Tranmere. You always said that festival was the most fun you ever had, remember? You were nine. It took us three days to walk there, because of my leg, but it was worth it. Remember the jousting tournaments? The puppet shows? You rode an elephant, remember?"
Rumple wasn't sure if Bae could hear him any more. "Please, Bae. I don't want to forget. Come back so I don't have to come after you. Bae?"
Rumple's voice was shot now. The pain in his ankle forced him to shift his weight onto his cane. Bae wasn't coming back; he wasn't even looking back. He was headed out into a world full of Reginas and Rumplestiltskins, a world that would tear his noble soul apart.
"Bae!"
The boy followed the highway around a bend and out of his father's sight.
Rumple limped back to the Caddy and started the engine. As the tires passed over the jagged orange line, he summoned a memory of a woman with eyes like the sky, a woman who had paid the ultimate price for loving a monster. He'd vowed he would honor her memory all the days of his long life, even into the new world, but this would be yet another promise he couldn't keep. As he accelerated, he chanted her name over and over in the desperate hope that he might hold onto it, but he knew he wouldn't.
Bae jerked his head up as the car came up behind him. "Papa?"
The Caddy stopped and its driver rolled down the window. "Baelfire Jeremy Gold, will you please get in the car before you freeze?"
Bae rested his hands on the open window. "I won't go back."
Gold pointed in various directions. "Skohegan, fifty miles that way. Augusta, that way. Boston. New York. Atlanta. Des Moines. We'll try them all until we find one you like. Storybrooke's a one-horse town, and I'm tired of being the horse. Get in."
Bae studied him skeptically. "Suppose I want to go to Tranmere?"
"Never heard of it, but we'll pick up an atlas at the next bookstore we come to." As Bae climbed into the passenger seat, Gold asked, "What's there that you want to see?"
"I heard there's a festival," Bae said slowly. He fell silent for several miles, and when he spoke again, he hung his head. "Dad?"
"Yes, Bae?"
"Thanks for coming to get me." His eyes filled with tears.