Chapter 29

Belle packs a suitcase and he carries it to her Honda, placing it in the trunk. His face is frozen in anger as she slides behind the steering wheel.

"I promise," she says for the seventh time that day. "Just as soon as Bernie and I have got the library in an order we can work with. Blue's system may make sense for her, but Bernie and Ceecee and I can't make sense of it."

"You could come home in the evenings. The convent's only ten minutes away." They went round and round about this last night, when, dragging in bleary-eyed at eleven o'clock, she announced her plan to move into the convent so she could devote herself completely to the magic library. They went round and round again at breakfast–even as he dished up pancakes for her (and he still hates pancakes). They had another round as she threw jeans and t-shirts (Belinda's cleaning outfits, he remembers fondly) into a suitcase (one of a set they'd bought in anticipation of driving to New York). He's already plotting to phone her at dinnertime to resume the argument. Yet, he's sort of flattered to watch her drive away from him; in a backwards sort of way, leaving him is an expression of her loyalty to him, her devotion to his cause, and her faith in their ability to succeed.

Still, he can't help playing the petulant husband, just so she'll know how much he needs her. Hand on the porch rail, he catches himself: husband. Since when did his subconscious add that term to his auto-response vocabulary?

It's too soon. The ink's barely dried on the divorce decree. Bae hasn't been reclaimed.

No, none of that makes it too soon. Nor is their love new or untested–for crying out loud, it's been dragged to hell and back; there can be no doubt it's going to last. Nor does he fear rejection if he proposes. What does make it too soon is the caged dove in the basement. Gold needs to know Josiah will be okay when he finally, completely, permanently takes Bindy away from him, and Belle would feel the same need.

So he climbs the stairs, goes back inside and closes the door, and rests on his cane a moment before picking up the box of bird seed and proceeding to the basement. As he opens the cage, the bird flutters its wings but makes no attempt to escape. He fills the dish with seed, checks the water dishes and changes the litter and the liner paper, then closes the cage. "Josiah, are you in there?" he asks, as he does every morning. The bird cracks a seed and ignores him.

He sighs, reviewing his lab notes from yesterday, trying to find his error–hoping he's made an error; that the failure isn't the fault of the magic. Errors he can fix; weakness in the magic, probably not. When he can find no human mistake, he slams his pencil down. He's out of ideas, and for Rumplestiltskin, that's a very uncomfortable place to be. He sits at his spinning wheel, fills his hand with wool and empties his conscious mind, redirecting his energy to the subconscious. He spins and waits for an idea.


Emma wakes him at sunrise, pounding on his front door.

"The Charming Family Curse: not one of you seems capable of sleeping past six a.m.," Gold grumbles, but he stands aside so she can enter.

She pauses in the foyer to sniff, then frown. "What, no coffee? Is Belle sick?" She proceeds to the kitchen without waiting for a reply and pours water into the coffeemaker. Only when she can breathe in coffee is she ready to hear his explanation.

"So you're bachin' it, huh?" She inspects the kitchen. "Place is awfully clean considering you've been solo nearly a week. Been living off pizza delivery? Haven't seen you at Granny's."

"Magic." He demonstrates by changing his pajamas into day clothes. He leaves his face unshaven, though: he likes his stubble.

"Hmm, that's one trick I wouldn't mind learning."

"Scrambled or over easy?" He sets a skillet on the stove. "Speaking of tricks, Ms. Swan, we ought to talk about establishing a regular schedule of lessons–"

"Over easy. I'll start the bacon. And no."

"This little respite we have from Regina is bound to be short-lived."

With a flick of her wrist, she produces her Smith and Wesson. "This is all the magic I–"

With a flick of his wrist, he transforms the handgun into a spatula.

She shrugs and opens the refrigerator. "Well, maybe."

"As soon as I've broken the boundary curse. Three times a week, two hours a day." He waves an egg at her. "At a reasonable hour of the morning, Ms. Swan."

Dropping slices of bacon into the skillet, she grins at him. "Aw, come on, Gold, admit it: you love my morning visits. I always bring you something nice, don't I?"

"No bagels or envelopes today, I see," he grouses.

Her grin fades and she sits down, forgetting about the bacon. He cracks four eggs into the sizzling skillet. But when the teasing disappears from her tone, he glances over his shoulder at her. "Yeah, I thought I'd show you something you've seen before but probably never really noticed."

Her hand moves to the swan necklace she wears everyday. He's wondered about it; it seems to hold significance to her beyond symbolizing her name. She carefully removes the necklace and lays it out on the table. "This isn't really a necklace; it's a keychain. There's a story that goes with this. It concerns your son, so I figure you should hear it."

Her eyes are glistening. He asks softly, "A sad story, I take it."

"The middle part is," she admits. "Don't know the ending yet." She motions to the stove. "The bacon's burning."

With a wave of his hand, he makes the skillet disappear and a breakfast appear on the table. Touching the keychain with the tip of a finger, he asks his magic to show him the faces of those who have held this in the past. There are only four: Emma, a convenience store clerk, a blue-eyed, bearded man whom Gold recognizes as the lying August Booth, and a brown-eyed man with a heart-melting grin. "Bae."

"We met when we tried to steal the same car."

Gold sits down beside her, breakfast forgotten.


She helps him stack the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. "Hope you get a breakthrough today," she offers as he walks her to the porch.

He's tempted to say they've already had one; if Belle were here, she'd be praising Emma for her bravery in confronting her past. But he sees the same emotional walls built up in Emma that have protected him, so he respects them by not pushing against them. His eyes fall to the keychain, which she's wearing again, and by it he knows, just as she does, that her heart's already decided whether to see her ex-lover again; she's just waiting for her stubborn mind to catch up.

"Thanks, Emma, for the story."

"I owed you one." She climbs into her Bug. "Next time, though, expect donuts."


"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Belle giggles as her suitcase drops to the carpet.

He jumps up from his desk and hobble-runs across the study and into her open arms. "Sweetheart!" Then he pulls back suspiciously. "Wait, are you just back for some fresh clothes or are you here to stay?"

"Oh, Rumple, I'm always here to stay; haven't you realized that yet? But we got the library in order and I designed a database, so tomorrow we'll begin developing a thorough index from Blue's rather sketchy one. I can start bringing some of the more likely books home to read in the evenings."

He rewards her answer with a kiss.


Gold's had a copy made of the photo Emma gave him. Never mind it's a bit blurry: it's Bae. Gold keeps the copy in an antique frame on his desk in the study; the original he hangs in the kitchen. He doesn't admit to Belle that sometimes he squints at the photo, pretending Bae is there, having breakfast or dinner. "Pass the toast, Dad."

And if Bae's there for a meal, Emma and Henry must be too. Such a crowded, messy kitchen, but Belle won't mind at all. Such a noisy house, after thirty years of silence, but Gold won't mind at all. The neighbors might complain about four cars crowding the curb; if they do, Gold will just buy them out. The house next door will make a nice wedding present for Bae and Emma.

He doesn't share this daydream with Belle; she'd worry that he was getting ahead of himself, expecting too much. Bae has a life of his own in New York: no wife or kids, but he does have a career, an apartment, probably friends. But after three hundred years, with Bae just 500 miles and a curse away, Gold needs the daydreams as much as he needs his cane.

The pawnshop is closed now. Gold seldom bothers to check on it. His law practice slows, most of the disputes having been settled. He and Belle are free to devote themselves to research, he usually in his basement lab, she in the convent library.

A dramatic step forward occurs when Blue walks up to the pink house to deliver a plant she's discovered in the woods. Belle has taken a break from the research to drive out at the ranch house; she's cleaning it in the expectation that someday soon Jo will return there, so Gold is alone at home. He's polite to Blue anyway, offering her coffee. She gives him the plant, which she's discovered has properties similar to those of an Enchanted Forest plant he needs.

As they discuss the formula he's testing today, he makes a momentous decision: he invites her into his basement. She accepts. She knows nothing about labs, but she realizes that if her tribe is to continue practicing magic, she must broaden her base of resources. He gives her an introductory lesson in potion-making.

It's a moment that, in the old country, no Seer would have predicted. For the first time in all of history, the leader of the forces of light magic is working, unreservedly, alongside the master of dark magic, exchanging information, receiving instruction. The import of the moment is not lost on either of them, though the setting seems disappointingly inauspicious: this meeting should be happening in the grand Dark Castle, at least, instead of an unfinished, musty basement with a single bald light bulb overhead.

To mark the occasion, though he doesn't say so, he teaches her how to concoct an invisibility potion. It might come in handy against Regina, he suggests; besides, the ingredients are plentiful in the Storybrooke woods. He throws in a basket of Belle's cream puffs as a bonus.

"I think we've just made history," Blue acknowledges when he escorts her to the porch. "Good night, Rumplestiltskin."

"Good night, Blue." He watches her drive away. The incongruity strikes him as hilarious: the oldest, most powerful leader of light magic, dressed in a JC Penney's cardigan and skirt, is driving away in an '07 Corolla from a summit meeting with the oldest, most powerful leader of dark magic, in his basement.

"No progress today on breaking the curse, Josiah," he reports as he sprinkles seed into the bowl, "but very big progress in diplomacy, I think."

The bird ignores him.

That night, Belle catches him singing in the shower again. She pulls off her clothes, climbs in and starts singing with him.


"Damn it!" Gold kicks the box of trinkets with his right foot, spilling its contents across the town line; his ankle will ache the rest of the day, but so what. Except punishing the box doesn't make the disappointment go away.

"We'll try again tomorrow, Rumplestiltskin." The Blue Fairy touches his sleeve lightly in empathy; she's put in some long, frustrating hours too, in the library, in his lab and in the woods, hunting ingredients. A little spark of magic jumps from her hand through his shirt and pierces his skin: it feels like a cocklebur. Despite the history they've been making this month, it's still unhealthy for him to stand close to her for more than an hour or two; she, however, seems immune to him. "I was thinking, if we used wood instead of gas to heat the potion—?"

He nods dully. "Yes. You're right. We should limit ourselves to natural elements as much as possible. I suppose I've lived in the modern world a bit too long and forgot how to do things the old-fashioned way."

"Tomorrow at nine, then."

"Tomorrow."

She flicks her wrist and disappears. He smiles half-heartedly: at least she's no longer dependent on fairy dust. If she keeps practicing, someday she'll be as versatile as he is.

He stares at his shirt sleeve as he realizes this was the first time in their centuries-old acquaintance that she ever touched him. Still, he'd gladly trade this political progress for progress with the curse—in a New York minute.


Gold receives an urgent dawn call from the sheriff's office. This time, he knows it can't be good news. Belle drives, for his ankle's swollen and he can't tolerate the pressure of braking or accelerating; besides, Gold is jumpy, lest the news concern some injury to Bae; he's been on edge ever since finding "electrician" on an Internet list of the Top Ten Most Dangerous Jobs (apparently the list writer hadn't heard of the occupation "Dark One").

The Early Morning Charmings are already gathered in Emma's office. Belle exchanges greetings with Snow and David, but Emma's scrunched up over her desktop monitor, her fingers stabbing at keys, and so doesn't notice the hellos. Gold wastes no time. "Is this about Neal Cassidy?"

The guilty looks on the Charmings' faces indicate that they recognize the name—and therefore realize Gold is kind of a relative now. Or not, depending on how technical one wants to get about baby mommas and daddies. He may be due inclusion for his new status as a family member, and a begrudging mutual respect for his civic efforts, both legal and magical, but that doesn't mean he's earned trust. For his part, Gold doesn't give a damn what they think of him, as long as they don't keep Henry away from Bae.

"No," Emma says. "It's about the surveillance cameras we installed at every road leading into town." She swings her monitor around and punches some keys. "It's about this."

The grainy footage, time stamped 0509, shows a dark Mercedes rolling up FM 11, which leads into northern Storybrooke from the west. If the car keeps rolling, the first building it will pass will be the convent. But the car suddenly stops and the driver gets out. She shoves her hands into her pockets and surveys the horizon, then studies the ground, then her blood-red lips part and her teeth flash in anger. She paces up and down, up and down, her jet-black hair and her black Chanel suit almost making her invisible in the night, except for her pale face. After several minutes she stops, faces the surveillance camera—though it's hidden in a road sign, she seems to realize it's there—and glares. Her hands slip from her pockets and rise in the air until her arms are extended as far as she can reach. She throws her head back, closes her eyes and breathes in deeply.

She's frozen in this posture for a solid five minutes. At last she sneers, kicks her front tire, climbs back into her car and drives away, back the way she came.

"Regina's here for Henry," Emma surmises.

"And maybe to finish her attack on Mary Margaret," David frets.

"What I'm wondering about is what she was doing for five minutes, just standing there with her arms up," Emma ponders.

Gold has the answer. "It's not just Henry she's here for. She's just found out we have magic."