"Alright, David, we're two miles out. Descend to 500 feet and stand by for visual on target," Jefferson instructed. It had all sounded so neat and easy on paper, worked out with all the basic algebra and geometry David swore to his high school teachers that he would never need in his later life. But now, approaching the height of the tree-tops….
"Are you sure about this?" the Captain balked. They could always run the numbers again and make a second pass.
"Very sure," Jefferson said. "Everything will be fine."
"The thing is – and I do trust you, Jefferson – but the thing is: I'm not entirely sure it's going to be okay." He leveled Juliette out over the Storybrooke skyline as the other pilot took control.
It would be fine. Fine-ish. Better than fine if Belle stayed right where she was, reading in the galley, and didn't look out the windows; best if Mr. Gold didn't happen to hear the low-flying plane and pop his head out the door of his Pawn Shop; but still, fine. Fine.
David's palms broke out into a clammy sweat.
"Well, I'm 100% sure it's going to be alright, and since you're coming down 50% on either side, the law of averages leaves me with a comfortable majority," Jefferson chuckled, lining up with the Main Street.
"Jefferson!" David gasped. He could pick out individuals by their shape and clothing in the streets – the Ground Proximity Sensors were going to start going off with their "Pull up! Pull up!" warning if they descended any further.
But Jefferson was past the point of recall. "Target in sight. Level 500 feet: bank left and open air brakes… now!"
David rapidly engaged and disengaged the air brakes, eyes squinted shut against the view of the park beneath them.
"Oops," he heard Jefferson whisper, and David forced his eyes open again.
"What? What? What happened? I didn't see – what happened?"
"I may have slightly over-estimated the effects of our ambient temperature on the pay-load viscosity," Jefferson conceded, pulling them back up to a cruising altitude again.
"What does that mean?" David pleaded. He didn't have the sense of calm or certainty of wit necessary to sort out Jefferson's convoluted word games.
"Now David," Jefferson cautioned. "The thing you've got to remember is that the idea was perfectly sound. You did the math yourself."
"Jefferson, please!"
"And it did occur to both of us that filling the air brake with chocolate kisses and opening it just above the park would cause a delightful rain of Mary Margaret's favorite candies, not to mention a lovely surprise for Gracie as the children enjoyed their City Hall outing…"
David groaned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and wrung his fingers nervously. "Get to the point."
"You were very sure that the kisses would rain gently down on the excited children in the park. And they would have, if it wasn't unseasonably warm out. You see, he metal in the compartment must have melted them a little, so your calculations were – in fact wrong."
"Yes, but the cold air should have hardened everything again," David countered. He didn't know what he was hearing. He didn't know if he wanted to know, at this rate. "Just tell me what happened already."
"Well…" Jefferson hedged. "Basically, it all sort of melted and reformed into a… a chocolate and tin foil brick."
"Which we then dropped on Mary Margaret's field trip," David managed to choke out. Mary Margaret was going to kill him. That pale, petite, kind school teacher was going to drag him over a bed of hot coals, drop him on a pile of broken glass, and murder him with her bare hands. "We could have hit a child, Jefferson! Please – please tell me we didn't hit a child."
"No, of course not," the First Officer comforted him. "The children all ran for cover long before it landed."
"So we didn't hit anything?" David's day was starting to brighten up.
Jefferson pulled a face. "Well…"
Gold yelled at them for an hour straight, and Belle did nothing to curb his rampage. He called them every name in the book – some so warped by his thick accent that they sounded entirely made up – and accused them of at least twenty crimes, from reckless endangerment to hijacking.
It was only when he started to repeat himself that Jefferson spoke up. David watched in mute horror as the First Officer said, "We don't expect you to pay for the damages, you know."
"Of course you bloody well don't expect me to pay for it!" Gold bellowed. "I paid you to fly my plane to Augusta for a simple cargo pick-up, not to launch a missile at the Mayor's apple tree! Why the devil would I pay for it!?"
"Well, you keep pointing out that it was your plane," Jefferson replied easily. David braced for impact.
"We did technically go to Augusta first," the Captain tried. This was, it turned out, precisely the wrong thing to say.
Belle did try to stymie the onslaught of profanities this time, but Gold had passed beyond the point of hearing.
"Do you two geniuses have any idea how much a horticulturist and a branch graft for a rare tree costs?" Gold asked for the second or third time since their inglorious landing.
"About a thousand dollars, wasn't it?" Jefferson supplied. David blanched.
"One thousand dollars each," Gold snarled, bearing down on them. "And if the damn thing recovers, and if I can convince the Mayor not to sue me, and if I don't decide to fire you – you two morons will be the only pilots in the bloody sky with the words 'Property of R. Gold' tattooed across your arses – because, dearies, from this day forward you will belong to me!"
"You're not really going to fire them, are you?" asked Belle, eyes rimmed in red. David hadn't seen her so upset since Mr. Reeve died on their flight to Bermuda.
David dared to breathe again when some of the fury melted from Gold's compact frame. He thought he heard the Scotsman mutter something that sounded like 'oh, sweetheart,' but that couldn't have been right. A silent glare that carried the promise of many uncomfortable flights to come was their cue to leave, so David and Jefferson beat a hasty retreat.
Now he only had Mary Margaret and Kathryn to worry about, but somehow that wasn't comforting in the least.
…
They were going on two straight weeks of Mr. Gold snarling miserably at the Pilots for every little infraction (imagined or otherwise), and Belle didn't know how much more she could take.
When she saw him at his most vulnerable – around his son or clinging stricken to one of Juliette's seats – she could almost imagine that pensive, gentle man cupping her cheek and sharing her drowsy smiles in the morning. Even the business persona he presented, the face he showed the public, held a place in her heart. As a business man and employer, Gold tended to be firm but fair, and there was no denying that he was absolutely brilliant. Belle liked that he knew when to hold and when to strike – she liked his refined intelligence and raw instincts.
But seeing him for the first time as a vitriolic, abusive task-master bogged-down in a pointless grudge match… well, she'd begun to appreciate Milah's situation during their marriage. Of course, that had nothing to do with how Belle suspected the other woman treated their son after the divorce, but it certainly put "The Beast" into perspective.
Of course it was incredibly stupid of David and Jefferson to try that trick with the chocolates, but by all accounts the Mayor had grown rather fond of the scruffy-looking horticulturist and his young son – even going so far as to eschew the police station and Sheriff in favor of spending more time with them, in the park. That was the gossip at Granny's anyway (not that Belle gave it much credence), and however much of it was or was not true, she did know one thing for certain: the Mayor elected not to sue the airline.
Belle finished her work and good, long think on board Juliette, and then headed back to the M3P office. She could hear raised voices before she even got close enough to peek through the window – Mr. Gold was shouting again.
"We aren't flying there on the backs of bloody unicorns, David! What the hell am I supposed to do with this budget? Twenty six thousand dollars for a flight to Argentina? You're daft! You two idiots are going to go over it again!"
"Mr. Gold, the budget really is pretty tight—" David tried.
"Am I hearing this? Are you trying to tell me how to run my own bloody airline, dearie? Do the budget again!"
Belle slipped into the office mid-tirade, but Gold didn't even pause for breath.
"And you!" Gold rounded on Jefferson. "You help him figure something out, or so help me I'll take it out of your salary!"
"Rum, that is enough." Three sets of bewildered eyes turned on her.
"Did you have something to add, Miss French?" Gold asked, his tone changed to a lethal purr in the space of a heartbeat.
"Yes. Stop bullying the Pilots. They paid for the damages and Regina's not going to sue us. You're behaving abominably. No one deserves to be spoken to this way." Belle walked right up to Gold, tilted her head up ever-so-slightly to meet his honey-brown eyes, and planted her feet. Enough was enough.
"I don't owe you a bloody thing, dearie," Gold snapped back at her. "They endangered my operation. Anyone who comes between me and my business dealings deserves to be skinned alive."
"No," Bell told him in a flat voice that brokered no arguments. "They don't. Now, the Pilots have apologized and the damages are paid for. They won't do anything as stupid as that ever again, will they?" she asked the dumbfounded men behind her.
They both shook their heads that repeats of the Chocolate Bomb would not be an ongoing problem.
"Good. Then I suggest we all take a deep breath and—"
"Who do you bloody think you are?" Gold hissed. "This is my airline, you are my employee. You don't get to speak to me like that!"
Belle didn't think she could have recoiled faster if she'd been slapped. His employee? They both knew there was more between them than that. And whatever it was – this ill-defined attraction – it didn't change the fact that they were friends. The four of them had passed the professional distance of "employer" and "co-worker" a long time ago, but she and Gold were… were…
Well, they were nothing, technically speaking. Two weeks ago, she might have lamented that fact, but today it felt like a blessing.
"Alright," Belle challenged, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back. She would not shed a tear over this stupid man. She would not. "You want to take it out of our wages? Fine. I'll offer you a deal, you'll like that."
"Belle… I didn't mean…" She could see that he'd entered something of a panic, but where Belle might have forgiven him, Miss French had no such obligation toward mercy.
"No, if this is all about money, then let's speak a language you can understand. If we can shave $6,000 off that trip budget, then you consider the apple-tree debt paid and back off."
"And if you don't succeed?" Gold asked. His voice sounded hollow and uneasy.
"Then we'll pay you $2,000 each – or an equivalent number of unpaid hours, to be determined at a later date. Either way, the debt is paid and you go back to treating your employees respectfully."
Gold was leaning away from her, palms pressed to the edge of his desk. His eyes darted from her face to the door, but she gave him no opportunity to run for it. "I don't want your money… not your fault…"
"No, it's fine. I was on the plane when it happened, so I'm technically culpable. And if money is the only thing you care about, then that's what we'll do. What do you say, gentlemen?" she asked the mute on-lookers in the room.
"I'm not sure we can—" David started, but Jefferson cut him off.
"Deal! How about it, Gold?" Jefferson trumpeted.
Belle was not entirely unsatisfied when Rum forced out a rather quiet, ashamed acceptance of the terms. Content that there would be no more shouting-matches that afternoon, she spun on her heel and walked out without a second look.
…
In the end, finding the extra $6,000 in David's budget proved fairly simple. It was a straight-forward delivery job, so they didn't have any passengers to please: a telecomm millionaire decided to re-retire from Maine to a little town outside Buenos Aires, and he'd hired them to fly down all of his fishing gear – flies, rods, tackle, a wardrobe full of hip-waders and mosquito nets, and several crates of plasticized trophy fish. Junín was a long way from Storybrooke, but they could make it in one go if they were careful about fuel levels and trading-off duties to stay within operating hours.
Jefferson went over the numbers again. They couldn't increase their maximum take-off weight, but they could make room for more fuel and better efficiency if they off-loaded everything unnecessary. After raiding the galley and stashing all of the drinks, board games, and major appliances in the hangar, Jefferson reckoned he'd saved them about $500. That figure jumped up to $2,500 when he factored in that they wouldn't have to land and refuel.
For her part, Belle cancelled the catering and prepared a few simple meals that were safe to store at room temperature. She eliminated a good $300 from the over-head costs, and – as she was too good-natured to present Mr. Gold with her grocery receipts, even when they were at odds – they suffered no losses on that front.
David objected on principle to flying the length of the Americas without coffee, but a few bottles of Starbucks' pre-packaged beverages made an acceptable compromise. Unfortunately, the coffee situation was David's sole contribution to their cause.
Well, that was alright. Jefferson was sure he could find the remaining $2700 somewhere. They could turn off the air conditioning, off-load half of the liquid oxygen, keep the air recirculation fans on, only use one engine to taxi… Hell, if they cancelled the hotel and slept on the plane, he might be able to cut the budget by as much as $8,000. That gave them room for one David-sized emergency, which Jefferson always planned for, and – of course – even if his methods weren't entirely legal, not even the All-American Boy Scout David Nolan would dare to complain on this flight.
Juliette got off the ground, into the air, and over the Caribbean before Jefferson's carefully calibrated plan started to unravel.
"What's that light mean?" David asked, pointing at the offending instrument on their control panel.
"Anti-icing's gone out on the left wing, Captain," Jefferson rattled off.
"Well we've got to land and get it fixed then," David instructed.
"Do we? Today, of all days? Gold doesn't know what's going on; he's drinking his sorrows away in the cabin, and Belle's too busy ignoring him in the galley to object. Does it seem likely to you that we'll encounter ice in the tropics?"
David groaned. "We won't be in the tropics forever, Jefferson, and besides – you know we're more likely to encounter ice at this altitude on a hot day if there are clouds."
"I have a solution for that, Captain," Jefferson tried. Anything to keep Juliette in the skies. "Let's not fly through any clouds."
"But there are clouds!"
"Just some little fluffies! We can weave in and out. We only need to keep the left wing out of them anyway."
David seemed to give this some serious consideration before he replied. "No, we need to land and get it fixed. I'm sorry, I don't want to pay Mr. Gold $2,000 any more than you do, but we have to follow air-safety protocol."
Jefferson tried to stifle a groan as David radioed their problem to ATC and got instructions on where he could bring the plane down. He thumped the console, to make sure it wasn't a false alarm, but the light refused to go out.
"Are you sure about this, Captain?" he asked. One last-ditch effort couldn't hurt. "Personally, I love Jamaica. Beautiful beaches, excellent food, magnificent culture… but they're not famed for being punctual. Everything runs on Island Time."
"What are you saying, Jefferson?" sighed David as he lined up their descent.
Jefferson ran some sums through his head. A little air field utilized mostly by island-hoppers would help, as would the general simplicity of the repair (it wasn't a bird in the engine, at least), but that didn't mean they were totally in the clear. "I'm saying that unless we get Juliette back in the air today, we're going to lose this deal. We can just about stretch to cover the landing and repair, but if we're here over-night… no dice."
Belle chose that moment to enter the flight deck. "What's going on?" she asked. "I thought I felt the plane descending, and this is definitely not Argentina."
"Not unless the Captain discovered a Warp Drive button," Jefferson teased. "We're landing in Jamaica for a repair, then onward and upward to Junín de los Andes. Or should that be inward and downward? It is in another hemisphere, after all."
Belle blanched. "Oh no," she paled. "I'm really sorry, you two. It looks like my big mouth is going to end up costing us. I just couldn't stand it anymore. I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize," David comforted her. "It'll be finished, either way, by the time we get back to Maine, and Jefferson reckons we can still squeeze in under-budget if we get back in the air before sundown tonight."
Belle offered them a tentative smile and Jefferson sat up straight. He wasn't going to let her feel guilty over telling-off Goldie when he'd been acting like a massive bastard for two straight weeks. Whatever it took, they were going to win this thing.
…
Gold felt like he might be ill in the aisle when the plane began to descend without warning. They couldn't crash. They must not… he hadn't even managed to tell Belle…
The feel of the landing gear rolling against the tarmac was the single most comforting sensation of his entire day. This whole trip, from the budget and flight plan to the damn, stupid deal that he made, had his nerves on edge. An unscheduled landing was just a twist of the knife.
And then, as though they'd never fought at all, Belle came over the cabin address feature to inform him in a professional, indifferent tone that the plane had stopped for routine maintenance and would be taking off just as soon as the engineer signed-off on the tech log.
Gold wanted to ask his crew what was wrong – it was his plane, after all; he had the right to know. But nothing short of a crowbar and a cattle-prod would have convinced him to breach the boundary between the cabin and the galley, that invisible wall entirely of his own making, which clearly delineated the new "us versus him" mentality.
He never should have come on this flight. He never would have, except he would have lost even more face (if such a thing were possible) by backing down and admitting that he trusted the three of them to report their expenses honestly.
The crew retreated to the hangar while a thickly-accented engineer with dark skin and tightly braided hair climbed up the wings. It felt even more awkward to sit, roasting, in the un-air conditioned plane while men worked in the Caribbean heat a few feet away from him, so he really had no choice but to join the others in the shade.
"See, Jefferson, I told you that there wouldn't be a problem," David was saying. "You were so sure we'd have delays, but look – the engineers here are very good, and they're just as quick as any other air strip we could have gone to."
His First Officer did not reply.
"It was a rather unfair stereotype," Belle gently admonished. "But I think we're all happy Jefferson was wrong about it."
"Yes, alright," sighed the dark-haired man, fanning himself with David's hat. "There's nothing inherently worse about a Jamaican air field than any other country. But it is stupidly hot here."
When they noticed him staring, Jefferson glared at him. David and Belle busied themselves picking at bits of invisible fluff on their uniforms.
"Go pay the air field manager, the engineers should be just about done," Jefferson called out to him, still glaring. "We're tired of waiting around to see who won. If it comes in $2,018 or less it'll be us, and $2,019 or more means it's you. Bring the receipt back with you."
Rum gulped, nodded, and limped toward the offices.
The air field manager was a lovely woman, about fifty years old, with dark skin and white, curly hair cropped close to her scalp.
Two thousand thirty four dollars and twenty seven cents, all for an emergency landing and a few mechanical prods at the anti-icing equipment. The guilt punched him in the gut.
"Um, Ma'am," he said, drawing her attention up from a crossword. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you might be able to knock $20 or so off this bill?"
"This isn't a market stall," she scolded through a thick, island accent. "We aren't here to haggle with you. This is a fair price, you don't think I cheated you?"
"No," Gold backpedaled. "No, of course not. It's just… well, it's complicated. Is there anything I could do around the air field to get this bill down to… I don't know, $2,015?"
She looked skeptical.
"Please," Gold added. "It's important."
"I'll tell you what," said the woman after what felt like an eternity. "My car is parked in the shade over there. If you wash it in the next thirty minutes, I'll charge you twenty dollars less for time on-stand. But you folk need to be out of here in half an hour or else I have to charge you full price, see?"
Gold looked down at his $3,000 suit, glanced back to the dusty Volkswagen, swallowed his pride, and asked the manager if she had a bucket for him.
Jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and soap suds on his pant leg, Rumford didn't know if he was damper from the wash-tub or the sweat rolling down his back. Still, the car was almost clean and he still had a few minutes to spare.
"Mr. Gold?" a familiar voice called. "Mr. Gold, we're cleared for take-off, and—what are you doing?" Belle asked, looking at him with wide, blue eyes full of curiosity.
"Er… washing this car," he replied carefully, schooling his poker face.
Belle did not look like she was going to take that explanation at face value, but she refrained from asking any more questions. "Well, we're ready to take off and everyone wants to know the damages. Did you pay the air field manager yet?"
"Not quite yet," Rum answered. There was so much he needed to say, but the words just would not form on his lips. "I'm on my way there now."
"Okay…" Belle said, backing away slowly. "Well don't take too much longer. We need to be off the ground in ten minutes." She turned around and left.
Dignity stinging (but guilt handily dealt with), Gold paid their bill and presented his crew with a receipt for $2,014.27.
"We win!" Jefferson hooted as they waited for the tower to give them take-off clearance.
"Only if nothing else goes wrong," Gold glared, but all of the venom had long since evaporated from his system. He felt Belle's eyes on him, could almost picture the thoughtful look as she pieced it all together, and did his level-best not to meet her eyes.
After he settled into his seat and forced himself to remain calm as the metal death-trap climbed back into the air, the slight stink of sweat and stickiness of dust started to bother him. His leg was throbbing. Why couldn't Milah have used his money to buy her boyfriend a plane with a master bedroom and a full-size bath? All he wanted was a wash and a long, dreamless sleep.
Something moved in the periphery, and Gold looked up to see Belle standing over him. She passed him a pile of damp paper towels and a feminine-looking stick of deodorant.
"That was very big of you, Rum," she said.
"I've no idea what you're talking about, Miss French," he lied smoothly, accepting the cool cloth and flowery hygiene product without comment. A moment later, she produced a warm cup of tea as well.
"Don't tell Jefferson," she half-smiled. "I bought a carafe of hot water from their cafeteria when he wasn't looking. There's just no way to do a 12-hour flight without a hot cup of tea, don't you think?"
"It'll be our secret," he shyly smiled back. "And Belle, I… I'm…"
The words sorry and in love with you stuck in his throat like an over-large bit of something gooey. She smiled sadly, set the tea on his tray, and walked back into the galley.