A/N: The lines Rumple recalls appear in "I'm Flying," Performed by Mary Martin, Maureen Bailey, Kent Fletcher, and Joey Trent in the 1960 televised broadcast of Peter Pan.
Chapter 25
The half-heart in his chest was pounding with enough strength to be mistaken for the whole organ as Rumple made his way home. His ankle would take him to task for the exertion later; for now, he couldn't wait for who knew how long until Tony's sister returned with her car. A pity he hadn't known of public transit when he'd created the Dark Curse in the Enchanted Forest. If he had, he would have ensured that Storybrooke had sprung into existence equipped with an extensive bus network. But towns and villages in the Enchanted Forest were sparsely-populated by comparison and their denizens seldom had need to travel more than a few steps from their front doors—apart from district fair days, when wagon-drivers maintained a brisk seasonal business ferrying travelers to and from the grounds. Otherwise, one generally walked where one wanted to go. Coaches existed, to be sure, but they were generally reserved for the nobles. And one thing that Rumple had been quite firm about when creating the Dark Curse was that in this new land, cursed though they all might be, nearly every resident of the town would possess a personal coach—or whatever the equivalent might be. (He'd made an exception for Snow White, seeing as Regina was enacting the curse in the first place for the sole purpose of punishing her.) Rumple simply hadn't seen a purpose to importing a wagon service in a land where nearly everybody owned a coach.
He was paying for that oversight now.
It was only ten blocks from the Apprentice's house to his own. Ten short blocks. And, from what he recalled of the maps in the New York City subway cars, on certain lines, that distance might have contained at least two, possibly three stations.
He passed green space—more of a grizzled brown at this time of year, with dead grass poking through a thin layer of snow—and debated whether to rest on one of the two benches for a moment, but decided against it. It would be that much harder to get up again and it was already mid-afternoon. The temperature would only keep falling now, as the day waned. And he really didn't have that much farther to go.
And he could always call the number the others had given him to request assistance.
He snorted at the thought. This was scarcely an emergency. He was nearly home.
But it was heartening to know that someone would come to his assistance if he asked. At least, he believed that such would be the case, even if he wasn't about to test it.
Rumple sucked a breath in through his teeth and pressed onward.
August checked the varnish on the last game piece and smiled. "Well," he said to Marco, "I guess that's that."
Marco looked at the two Battleship sets, sitting side-by-side on the work table, the cases open to display the model ships and pegs. "I think that Merryweather, she was wrong," he said thoughtfully.
"Papa?"
The handyman smiled. "She said that when you took the Dark One dagger, you freed yourself from the possibility of reverting to wood, but that you probably lost any ability to perform magic."
August blinked. "I still don't see—?"
Marco wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders and steered him closer to the work table. "Then look, my boy," he said warmly. "The scale, the craftsmanship, the attention to detail… There's magic in your hands, Pinocchio. The best kind of magic there is."
August shook his head, but he was smiling. "I'm not sure Rumpelstiltskin would agree with that."
"I think he might," Marco returned. "I think he just might. When do you plan to give it to him?"
August considered. "I'm not sure. I want to make sure I can find both of them in a relatively short span of time, but not when they're face to face. Gold's easy; he's usually at the shop during business hours. The captain, on the other hand, gets around."
"I think I can help you with that," Marco smiled. "Leroy, he was here the other day, talking about a ship the captain had commissioned him to build and asking if I'd be able to lend a hand. I may not know much about building a real ship," he admitted, "but I imagine hammers and saws are involved and I do know quite a bit about using those. I'm sure I can find some pretext to ask him to come and discuss his ideas with me. And if you present him with his gift then, well, I can keep him talking long enough for you to dash off to the shop with Rumpelstiltskin's."
Father and son shared a smile.
Fate had, Rumple reflected, a truly twisted sense of humor at times. He hadn't known what this new land would be like, merely that it would have no magic and that, one day, he would find his son in it. Had he been able to discern that events transpiring in the Enchanted Forest and other magical realms would be known to the denizens of this land—however distorted their account might be—he might have enacted certain safeguards.
For certain, he would have ensured that, while under the curse, he would have found better use for his time than to watch an old recording of a musical featuring a certain title character, much less listen to the soundtrack when the cassette tape turned up in the stack beside his stereo. He'd tried to blot those recollections out of his head once Emma had come to Storybrooke and he'd remembered who he was. But now, unbidden, the spoken dialogue that accompanied the insipid song lyrics surfaced once more.
First I must blow the fairy dust on you!
Now think lovely thoughts
Think lovely thoughts
Think lovely thoughts
A young boy's voice cried out: Fishing?
It was immediately followed by that of a girl: Hopscotch?
And then, an even younger boy proclaimed: Candy!
The children called forth more suggestions in the same order:
Picnics
Summer
Candy!
Sailing
Flowers
Candy!
And then, the original speaker, a woman playing the part of a young boy, directed with a smile in her voice, Lovelier thoughts, Michael!
Christmas?!
Of all the curse memories to have stuck, Rumple thought with a wince, it almost would have to have been that one. No wonder Emma hadn't believed the danger Neverland presented until she met it—and his father—head on. But even in such idiocy as that telling of his father's history, there was a grain of truth.
To unlock one's magic, one needed to seize on a memory that made them seethe with anger. That wasn't much of a problem for Rumple. There were so many at his disposal. But to channel that magic, it took memories of a more pleasant sort, and, over the course of his long life, those had been much fewer and farther between. He could have used his recollections of Bae's childhood, but those were all tinged with his misery at later losing him. Much like his memories of those early happy days with Milah were bound up with his recollections of what their life together had been like after his return from the front. Until now, he'd latched onto the only time in his life where he'd felt loved and appreciated unconditionally. Perhaps a delicious aroma and the privilege of the first bite of meat pie were small things, but they'd been enough.
Except that, armed with more recent knowledge, Rumple now knew that most of that had been a lie as well. It hadn't been real; not real enough, anyway. Tony was right. Using the spindle to access his magic might not be something he was used to, but that wasn't the real issue. He did have magic and he was able to call it forth; he had more than enough anger for that. But he needed lovelier thou—no. He needed happier memories if he was to direct that magic instead of just letting his thread fly apart and hope that the fibers landed where they could be of some use. He'd been lucky with the tomte thistle. How would he manage if it was a fireball spell that went awry?
He reached for the spell book and read once more the de-salting charm on the first page after the introduction. It looked simple enough. It was simple enough. But this time, instead of using spinning as a means of calming his mind so that it could be in the proper frame for working magic, he would try to use the spinning as the magic. He knew well enough how to call on his anger; he'd done it easily enough before. But as for the happier memories?
He was surprised to discover how many he'd made in recent weeks. His wedding night. Booth reaching out to him on the library steps. Waking up that first morning in the hotel and realizing that he wasn't dreaming. So many sincere apologies, so many friendly overtures… connections, re-connections, offers and demonstrations of support… Each had warmed his heart—or what was left of it. But while any of those might prove effective, he chose instead a different moment. One where he had realized, once and for all, that with or without power, he had a value that nobody could deny him unless he denied it himself.
I was never nothing! He snarled once more in his mind. And once again, he felt the Darkness's hold on his mind loosen and melt away in the Light of that unvarnished truth. It hadn't been his first step away from the mindset he'd been locked into, but it had been one of the most important. It had been the moment that he'd finally looked his greatest enemy in the eye and turned his back on it, not in anger, not even out of a desperation to cling to some last vestige of the good man he'd once been, but in disgust that he'd let himself be fooled into traveling down Darkness's road for so long. But even within that disgust there had been the sheer joy that he had finally recognized his foe and defeated it entirely on his own. Now, eyes closed, he gripped the memory of that joy as though it were a piece of wool fiber, twisted it firmly, and fed it onto his drop spindle. When he opened his eyes again and looked at the newly-spun yarn, his eyes widened, even as a wondering smile came to his lips. Spiraling through the undyed grey wool was a glistening thread of gold.
Zelena smiled to herself, even as she gently stroked Billina's head and back. On the whole, she thought, that had gone rather well. Oh, they didn't trust her, of course, and that was to be expected. But they knew who she was, they knew her reputation, and they were almost certainly considering her offer.
In the past, she'd concentrated most of her spying on her half-sister's activities but, while Regina had often operated alone, she'd spent enough time in the company of Ursula and Cruella for Zelena to have observed those two as well.
Based on those observations, either woman would make a decent ally for the short term. And neither would pose a credible threat down the road, when their usefulness ended. Ursula was angry and bitter. Her hatred for the pirate was something that Zelena knew she could twist toward her own purpose. At the same time, the sea witch didn't appear to be overly ambitious—certainly not to the point that Zelena thought she'd need to worry about being stabbed from behind. At least, not from that quarter.
Cruella was a different case. If that one had the power to match her greed, she'd be formidable. As it was, Zelena didn't think she had much to worry about from a foe whose magical gift extended solely to control over animals. She glanced down at the chicken in her arm and frowned. On the other hand, if Cruella did mean to move against her at some point, then Billina would need to be protected. And, Zelena reflected, if she started building up a force of flying monkeys again, they might also be prone to outside influence… Well. She still didn't think that Cruella's power would be a match for hers, but it wouldn't do to be too complacent about it.
Lily, though, was an unknown quantity who would bear careful watching. Presently, she'd demonstrated intelligence, forethought, and ambition. Those alone didn't make her dangerous. But if she were to possess her mother's power, it would be rather a different story. In fact, depending on how the cards fell, Zelena rather suspected that the young woman might be her strongest ally…
…Or her greatest rival.
And before Zelena quitted this cell to take her place in the world outside, she knew that she would need to determine which it would be and plan her tactics accordingly.
Meanwhile, she sighed mentally, she was resigned to waiting. Going by the light filtering in through her sole window, it was getting close to dinner time. She cuddled the chicken closer and resisted the urge to check up on her house guests until after the orderly came by with her tray.
"Chalk?" Astrid repeated with a merry giggle. "On the floor? And Rumpelstiltskin didn't mind?"
Belle was laughing too. "I think it might even have been his idea. I was wondering, though, you're working with children Aggie's age now at the daycare, right?"
"A little younger," Astrid corrected. "You said she's five? Mrs. Herman has me with the two and three-year-olds."
"Oh," Belle's smile dimmed somewhat. "I was hoping you might have some ideas for activities."
"Well," Astrid said, "I can ask Mrs. Herman, but I'd think you'll find a lot of suggestions online or in the library."
"I did," Belle admitted. "But it's one thing to read a list of suggestions. It's something else to know which ones are most likely to work."
"True," Astrid said, "but one thing you need to remember is that no two children have the same personality. Some are going to like doing one thing; some will like something else. And just because they liked something they did yesterday doesn't necessarily mean they'll want to do it again today." Her eyebrows shot up. "You said she was drawing for how long?"
"I don't know," Belle admitted. "Maybe an hour?"
Astrid whistled. "That's pretty impressive, right there. Most five-year-olds have a hard time focusing on an activity for more than about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Sounds like she might be advanced for her age." She chuckled. "Or like she really enjoys drawing. All the same," she went on, serious now, "if you're planning a day's activities for her, I'd go in with four or five things planned. You can go back and cycle through them a few times, but if she gets bored with one thing, you want to have something else lined up and ready to go."
Belle nodded. "Thanks. I'll talk things over with Rumple tonight."
Astrid smiled. "He'll probably have some good ideas of his own. I mean, he had a son; he probably remembers what he was like when he was Aggie's age."
Belle's eyes widened. "That's right," she agreed. "He probably will. Uh… could you maybe… hold off on asking Mrs. Herman for now?"
"Sure," Astrid said uncertainly. "I mean, if you want me to. Did I say something wrong?"
"No," Belle shook her head with a smile. "Just the opposite. I think you might have saved me from making an old mistake."
Funny how history had a way of repeating itself, Belle thought, as she made her way back home. When she'd first come to live with Rumple in his castle, she'd put on as brave a face as she could, but inside, she'd been terrified of what he might have in store for her. Those first days, before she'd begun to see the man behind the monster, she'd walked on eggshells in his presence, certain that the slightest misstep might see her chained to the wall in the dungeon he'd called her room, turned into a frog, or blasted to dust.
Gradually, she'd realized that, dark though he was, he truly meant her no harm. She'd seen past the mocking giggling façade to the loneliness within and she'd begun to relax in his presence—at least enough that she felt safe in standing up to him.
She'd never stopped.
Oh, she'd told herself—and him—that she was trying to help him be his best self, and that had definitely been part of it. But part of it had also been the conviction that she knew best, that it was her mission to reform him, and that the only hope he had of breaking free from his darkness was through the strength of their love.
And she'd never stopped trying to make him over into the idealized version of himself she'd concocted in her head until she'd been forced to acknowledge how far from reality that vision was. And then she'd blamed him for not measuring up and banished him. Even in New York, when they'd begun to patch things together, she'd still been so focused on the flaws she'd hitherto overlooked (while conveniently ignoring her own failings) that she'd nearly destroyed everything they'd been trying to build together. And although they were slowly backing further away from that brink each day, still the chasm yawned a bit too close by for comfort.
And she'd almost taken another step closer.
You've never raised a child, she told herself furiously. Apart from babysitting Neal for a few evenings—which he mostly slept through, and the one time he didn't, you had his bottle ready and waiting—you've barely even been in the presence of a child for any length of time. And here, you're trying to plan activities for a five-year-old and present Rumple with some… some… schedule, without even consulting him. Or Aggie, she added, wincing a bit.
This wasn't as bad as trying to change Rumple 'for his own good', but it was still the same old problem: she was assuming she knew best and charging ahead with her confidence and her convictions, without pausing to consider whether her way was actually the best way for the circumstances at hand. More to the point, if she and Rumple were together again then, while it wasn't necessary for them to do everything as a couple, at the very least, they could discuss things like this with one another. Between the two of them, they'd probably brainstorm more effectively than either could do on their own.
And if he rebuffs me and tells me that he knows what he's doing and doesn't need my help? She flinched as her mind voiced the question. Then she shook her head. In this case, she answered herself, he probably does. And if he's wrong, then I'll be right there to help him pick up the pieces and not rub it in. Her lips twitched as she added one more word to her unvoiced response.
…Much.
"You've been quiet tonight," Emma said, raising her glass of red wine to her lips. She took a sip and set it down carefully on the white tablecloth.
Killian smiled back. Then he pulled his hip flask out of his pocket and took a swig.
"Rum, not wine," Emma observed, her tone still light and teasing. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were nervous."
Killian raised the flask to his lips once more. When he lowered it to the table, he gave her an uneasy smile. "You're certain we'll not be disturbed?" he asked. "Your parents won't be back early?"
Emma blinked. "No, they promised they'd leave the place to us tonight. They wanted some alone time, too. Granny's watching Neal, Henry's at Regina's… It's just the two of us. At least until Granny's closes at eleven." Her expression sobered. "Why? What's wrong?"
Killian shook his head and started to reach for the flask again. Then he shook his head and slid it back into his pocket. "I'm afraid I'm feeling myself haunted by the past tonight, love," he said heavily.
Emma absorbed that for a moment. "Old memories?" she asked, sliding her hand across the table.
He took it. "In a way, love," he said. "I… Well. This is difficult."
Emma waited for him to continue, but he sat silently, his lips pressed together, his hand gently squeezing hers. Finally, she said, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's okay."
"No," he shook his head. "It's not. I do want to tell you… everything. Only…"
Emma nodded. "Only letting down walls, even around people you trust, can be…" She hesitated. "Well… for me, anyway, it's pretty scary."
Killian smiled at that. "Aye," he said. "And not just for you. It's… well. I suppose you might say I'm bilged on my own anchor."
Emma took another sip of wine. "I admit I'm not up on my pirate slang, but that doesn't sound good."
"It's not," Killian confirmed. "You… know I've done many things in the past that I'm no longer proud of. Things that I'm half-certain would drive you away if you knew a quarter of them."
"Killian?"
He took another breath. "Someone I… hurt… long ago is in this town. And she seeks to," a bitter smile came to his lips, "Well. I suppose the past has returned to haunt me in more ways than one. She now threatens my happiness in much the same way that I once threatened Rumpelstiltskin's. And I suppose that the best way to neutralize that threat is," he started to reach into his jacket pocket again. Then he shook his head and took the wine bottle instead, filling his glass nearly to the top but stopping before it overflowed the rim. "Well, I imagine 't'would be better for you to hear the truth from my lips rather than hers…"
Rumple was sitting at the kitchen table when Belle came home with two books under her arm. He smiled a warm greeting as she walked toward him. "If you've not eaten yet, I can have something in the microwave in short order."
Belle smiled back. "I haven't. But I hope you weren't waiting for me; it's nearly nine o'clock."
Rumple shrugged. "It's of no matter. I was otherwise occupied." He got up and walked toward the freezer. "Does bean and barley soup sound all right for you?"
Belle nodded. "I was thinking about Aggie," she murmured. "If she's going to be coming to the shop every week, do you think we ought to plan some activities for her?"
Rumple smiled. "The thought had crossed my mind," he admitted. "Bae was always artistic; it's one of the reasons I thought that the child would appreciate chalk drawing." He smiled. "Of course, that's no guarantee that she'll be as amenable next time. Bae certainly had other interests, as well."
"I… uh… hope you don't mind, but I was discussing a few ideas with Astrid," Belle said, encouraged. "She's working more with the children a bit younger than Aggie, but she had a few thoughts." She briefly outlined what the fairy had told her about children's attention spans.
Rumple nodded his understanding. "She's quite right, of course," he confirmed. "I was rather surprised that she kept at the drawing as long as she did. It did make me think that she might appreciate finger painting, though I believe we'd need to scrounge up an old shirt or two—adult-sized, I mean—to protect her clothing. And likely a roll of brown paper or some drop cloths to protect her work surface, though those paints are meant to be washable."
"I can stop by the art supply store tomorrow on my lunch break," Belle nodded. "Or maybe after you close up the shop, so you can come with me?" She hesitated. "I mean, I've been looking up ideas in these," she thrust the books forward, "but I… well, I've never done any of this before and I'm not sure I would have thought about old shirts or brown paper or…"
Rumple shook his head. "Curse memories have their uses," he admitted. "Otherwise, I'm sure I'd be as lost as you sound on the subject. Bae worked mostly with charcoal; he did odd jobs when he could in order to afford paper. Other times, he'd use lumber scraps or bits of bark." His eyes were soft as he remembered. "He never saw it as a hardship, so much as a challenge."
His eyebrows lifted. "While I agree that a trip to Mr. Eulinspeigel is probably warranted, we could actually make the finger paints here with no more than flour, water, and food coloring."
"That's all?" Belle said, surprised.
Rumple nodded. "It's something I wanted to make for Bae back in our land, but by that time, the taxes were increasing, food was being tithed for the army, and it was wasteful to use flour for such a purpose when one didn't know whether there'd be enough to last until the next wheat harvest." He hesitated for the barest instant before he added, "At least that wouldn't be a concern for… for any child that we might have in due course."
Belle's eyes widened. Then, with a glad smile, she closed the distance between them and threw her arms about her husband.
Emma didn't say a word until Killian was finished speaking. In a way, she was glad that he'd broken eye contact after about the first thirty seconds. She didn't like what he was telling her, not one bit, and she knew her emotions had to be showing on her face. That poor girl…
Which is exactly why he's waited so long to say anything. He knew you'd react this way.
Yeah, that was kind of the point. She'd known, of course, that he'd been a pirate and a villain, obsessed with revenge on Rumpelstiltskin, but somehow, she hadn't thought that he'd have destroyed a young girl's dreams just to get back at her father for thwarting him.
Gold's done some pretty Dark stuff too and you've been willing to overlook that.
She hadn't been thinking about a future with him.
Not to mention your parents.
That had taken longer. And at least they were trying to…
She took a breath. "What you did to this… Ursula. Can you reverse it? Give her back her voice?"
Killian sucked in a breath and locked his eyes on hers for the first time since he'd started talking. "It's not that easy, love," he said. "Not because I don't want to, mind."
"Then…?"
He shook his head. "The shell in which I captured her voice isn't… with me anymore. It was in my cabin on the Jolly Roger and that's currently back in the Enchanted Forest, so far as I know." He studied the table and pressed a hand to his forehead. "I'd need passage back there in order to gain access to the ship. Perhaps its current owner could be persuaded to allow me to recover it for the proper compensation." He hesitated. "Always assuming it's still on board."
"What?"
"It's a perfectly ordinary-looking shell, love. I mean, it's a flawless specimen and worthy of gracing a display, to be sure, but nobody seeing it would know what it contained. It might yet be adorning my cabin's sideboard, or it might be somewhere at the bottom of the ocean." He shook his head. "Until Ursula sought me out here, I'd truly given the matter little reflection these past years."
"You're saying," Emma said slowly, "that in order to fix this, you'll need to get back to the Enchanted Forest somehow."
"Aye," Killian nodded. "If it's at all possible to restore her voice, the answer lies there."
"All right," Emma said, pushing back her chair. "Come on."
"Where are you taking me, Swan?"
Emma exhaled noisily. "If there's any way of crossing realms, Gold would know it. And I think he'd also be interested in finding out that Ursula's looking to rob him, don't you?"
Killian winced. "I'm not looking forward to finding out whether that dream I had was fantasy or prophecy, but I'm afraid you're right." He took a final swig from his hip flask. "After you, love."
Ursula used a pair of tongs to remove the porcelain crucible from atop the Bunsen burner flame. She nodded with satisfaction as she tipped a stream of clear liquid too thick to be water into an iron flask and set the empty receptacle on a wire gauze mat. "This part is still new to me," she admitted, as she turned off the Bunsen burner.
"You mean, using fire?" Lily asked.
Ursula shook her head. "No, I got used to that pretty quickly when I started visiting the surface world. But, generally speaking, back in the Enchanted Forest, crucibles were meant to be used once and then thrown away. They couldn't withstand being reheated very well, and they were cheap to make and replace." She shrugged. "I will admit it's more convenient this way, even if it is one more thing to wash up afterwards. She gestured toward the flask. "Anyway, that's it; it's done. When the liquid cools, it'll have the consistency of honey, though it won't taste like much of anything. You shouldn't need more than a tablespoon's worth for the desired effect, but it'll function as a binder in your cake batter. I'd use one egg less in your recipe if I were you."
Lily nodded. "Got it. I…uh… was looking for recipes online before. I think I've narrowed it down to five."
"Nothing overly complicated, I hope," Ursula cautioned.
Lily shook her head. "Well. A couple call for separating eggs, but I know how to do that."
"This one," Ursula said decisively.
"The jam cake?"
Ursula nodded. "Honey… jam… they're both thick liquids. And if the serum doesn't have fruit chunks in it, well, you're only replacing a tablespoon of it. Just remember; you're going to have to make the batter in two bowls from the beginning instead of dividing it between the layer pans. Unless you're sure you can get him to sample a piece without partaking of it yourself."
Lily gave her an incredulous look. "This thing has pineapple, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, blackberry jam and caramel frosting. You better believe I'm gonna partake!"
"Fine," Ursula said, smiling a bit. "I guess you'd better make up a shopping list and I'll cast another glamor spell. Because as soon as Cruella's woodland spies tell us that the old man's home alone, you need to be ready."
"Oh, I will be," Lily said darkly. "Trust me."