Forty-Six

A/N. A little calm before the next storm.


For about a month, Rumplestiltskin and Gold have been debating. Now that he's magic-less, Gold thinks, it's best not to dwell on the past. Especially now, so soon after the change, he needs to concentrate on all things human and no things supernatural. It's like the AA's advice to recovering alcoholics: avoid the drinking environment.

But Rumplestiltskin, the most knowledgeable of all mages, just has to know Helewise's procedure. In the old days, he never would have passed up the opportunity to learn from another practitioner—unless, Gold adds, the price was too high, as in this case.

And so he's fought the urge, but finally, the timing just seems too perfect: Regina has been taken upstairs for her annual well-woman exam—she's become particularly jumpy about the prospect of cancer after witnessing the fairy dust's effects on her mother and Rumple. It's such a quiet afternoon, and as they often do, he and Helewise are sitting across from one another (the cell door locked, of course; rules must be obeyed) and playing chess with neither pride nor money at stake; and they are rather evenly matched (he suspects she's dumbing down a bit for him) so neither player feels stressed. And then it just slips out. "Helewise, I've been wondering: why didn't I die?"

"Die?" she blinks, not comprehending at first. "Oh, do you mean the dagger?"

"The books say the only way to take a Dark One's magic is by killing him with the dagger. Yet you managed to take my magic with the dagger but without killing me. How?"

"It took five of us."

"Five?"

"Beretrude, Walderan, me, you and the Master. Each of us had a job to do. Your job, which you did unflinchingly, was to trust us. Did you feel any pain during the procedure?"

"Not really."

"That was Beretrude. Her magic managed your pain. I don't know if you detected it afterward—given your condition, it would've been highly remarkable if you had—but she took your pain onto herself. She was one tired little messenger after that, I can tell you. Of course she wouldn't have let you see that. Do you remember hallucinating during the procedure?"

"Yes, I thought I was having one of those 'your life flashing before your eyes' moments."

"Sort of. That was Walderan. He sent your consciousness back into your past. He tried to place you into some comfortable moments—not unhappy ones but not too happy ones, either. We needed to keep you calm, so he was aiming for. . . contentment, not excitement. He's kind of new—well, to be honest, this was his first attempt at such a thing. He admitted to me he thought he'd gotten some of your memories jumbled. Memories are so hard to grab onto; they're like goldfish, tiny, slippery things. You scoop up one and in the pursuit of the second, the first one gets away. We apologize if his work caused you any disorientation."

"It was rather interesting, actually. Kept my mind occupied." He struggles to recall. "You were there. . . the star tapestry. . . ."

"No. Rumplestiltskin, that was the Master. He took my form because He wanted to keep you comfortable. And your tapestry—once He had extracted the magic from it, He made it a new thing out of the materials you provided, as a way of showing you that you can be made into a new thing too. He took the threads you provided—Belle's and Bae's and Gold's and Rumplestiltskin's—and He bound them, not with magic, which you know always comes with a price, but with love, which always comes free."

She gives him time to think about what she's said, then she adds, "I've heard you say it time and time again, but you never seemed to accept it for yourself: Love is the most powerful magic. And you have it: you don't need your old, flawed magic. You have love, if you'd only realize it."

"I'd have to be an idiot not to."

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that. Well, not exactly that, but something like it. I know what you went through: I went through it with you. You felt like you were cursed from the start. And you're right; it wasn't fair; every baby deserves to be cared for and wanted, and you had a rough start, compared to most."

"Who were they, my parents? Real parents, I mean?"

"In my books, Saer and Osbert and Clotild did a pretty good job of fulfilling that role. But you're asking about your biological parents. You won't like the answer. Do you still want to hear it?"

"Yeah."

She sits back in his arm chair, the chess set forgotten. "Well, your mother was a fourteen-year-old named Nicola. Her father was a builder; he was gone most of the time. Her mother was a mean-tempered woman who raised five children with the back of her hand. Your father was a sixteen-year-old runaway named Ernald. He made his living by picking pockets and begging. He knew your mother less than two months before he enticed her into the woods. But to his credit, he provided for her after she ran away from home, until you were born. You were a breech; Ernald was all the doctor Nicola had."

"My knee."

"He damaged it, trying to turn you around in the womb."

"And afterwards, they left me to die."

"I'm sorry, Rumplestiltskin. It may be why you've had this compulsion to find new families for unwanted children. . . although your methods were highly questionable. I hope, now that you know about Ernald and Nicola, you'll forgive them, when you remember what you have now."

"What happened to them? Did they stay together?"

"No. Rumplestiltskin, I would rather not. . . "

"Please. I'm a three-hundred-year-old man. Nothing you can say will shock me."

"The morning after your birth, Ernald left her and you alone in the woods. He said he was going to beg for food, but he never came back. Nicola left you when she realized she'd been abandoned. But the Master had a plan for you from the very first, and so He sent a woodsman to find you."

"Eustace and Abreda? They were part of the plan?"

"You may not see it, but yes."

"What happened to Nicola?"

"She went back to her parents. She told them the baby was stillborn. They threw her out anyway. She chose to destroy herself and them: she went to the tavern her father frequented and she began to sell her body for food. She didn't live the year. She died unforgiving and unforgiven, but she was not alone and she was not unloved. No one ever is, unless they choose it. Beretrude was with her."

He fiddles with his knight. There's a question on his mind but it's such a selfish one he won't voice it. Helewise answers it for him anyway. "On the day you die, your room will be crowded to overflowing."

"Bae?"

"You'll have his love to carry you over the bridge, if you choose it. Even at the moment of death, all men and women have free will, so it's your call, Rumplestiltskin." She studies the chess board. "And it's your move."


Belle has never heard of Thanksgiving. Henry has to explain it to her, the whole shebang, from cornucopia centerpieces and children's hand-turkeys to the Macy's parade and football games. She listens politely, but her interest skyrockets when he describes the two very best parts of Thanksgiving: families and feasts. When he begins to describe the traditional Thanksgiving meal, she grabs a pen and takes notes and immediately a plan forms in her head, for any excuse to celebrate anything with the man she considers family is more than welcome, and if that excuse also provides an excuse to cook, she's all for it. Her excitement is such that she rushes off to the grocery store just as soon as Henry pauses to catch his breath. With Emma's permission, she drags Henry with her, because she doesn't know the difference between yams and sweet potatoes. As she pushes the wire cart up and down the aisles—oh, how she loves the grocery store!—she's absolutely certain that no holiday could possibly exceed Thanksgiving for total perfection.

Until she remembers that Henry and all the other kids, and their parents, and Rumple, and all the lovers in Storybrooke, probably have never experienced the "family" part of Thanksgiving. Poor Henry, spending every Thanksgiving of his life with Regina. But that's changed now; he has Emma, James and Snow.

This thought reminds her of the one flaw in her perfect plan: Regina. For Belle intends to bring a traditional Thanksgiving meal to the prison, for Rumple and the guards to enjoy, and she'll invite Archie, to whom she owes a big thank-you. Even if they can't sit down at a dining table together, she'll make it as special as the rules will allow, and she suspects Emma will make a few allowances on this perfect holiday. But as for Regina. . . well, she can't exactly be uninvited, can she? And as much as Belle relishes the satisfaction of walking triumphantly past Regina's cell at 3:00 every single day (and watching Regina seethe), she's not keen on sharing this perfect holiday with the bitch, who will no doubt complain that the turkey's too dry and the stuffing's too salty, not because they are, but because Belle cooked them.

At 2:45 on the day before the perfect holiday, she flips the sign on her Internet café/bookstore to "closed" (though no one in town objects to her odd schedule; they know the reason for it) and bicycles over to the hospital (her driving lessons aren't going too well), and as she passes by store windows decorated with cutout turkeys, pilgrims and autumn leaves, she remembers something else Henry said about Thanksgiving: it's about giving thanks—for freedom. Which she has now. Which Rumple says he has too, because he's finally relieved of the burden of power-lust.

But which Regina has never had. Never, because of her mother and the Deceiver. . . and because of Rumplestiltskin.

"Uhm, Regina?"

The witch looks up in surprise, but quickly pulls her too-cool-for-school face on. "Yes, Lady Belle?"

Ah, a barb. Belle takes the high road and ignores it. "Do you prefer potatoes or stuffing?"

Regina doesn't answer. When Belle goes home that evening to start cooking, she prepares both.


As the three messengers set up a folding table and five chairs in the hallway, Rumple-Gold sacrifices his opera and rock & roll for holiday music on the radio and Belle and Archie carry the meal down from the good doctor's car. Each time the upstairs door opens, Regina looks up hopefully, then makes a small sound of annoyance when she sees it's only Belle or Hopper.

Rumple-Gold understands her disappointment. She's hoping for Henry. To a lesser degree, he can sympathize: although he has Belle and the messengers, he can't help but wish for one more at the table. To stretch out on a couch after the big meal, Belle's feet in his lap, to loosen his belt and sigh, "I ate too much," and then to glance across the room at his son and ask, "So what'll it be: the college or pro ball?"—that would make his holiday perfect. But unlike Regina, he won't get his hopes up. For all he knows, his son may be halfway around the world, with a family of his own to spend holidays with.

So as Belle, at the head of the folding table, carves the turkey (she learned how on Youtube), Rumple-Gold tries to think of something cheerful to say to Regina. He can't talk about Thanksgiving—that will remind her of Henry. He can't talk about the cooking—that will remind her of Thanksgiving. He can't even talk about football—truthfully, he doesn't know enough about it to start a conversation and he doubts if Regina does either. He ends up talking about the weather, which they can see through their out-facing windows. Regina doesn't answer.

"Regina? White meat or dark?"

Regina doesn't answer, so Belle places some of each on Regina's plate. "Candied yams? Stuffing?" Regina still doesn't answer, so Belle loads the plate and Waldo unlocks the door to Regina's cage.

This is another moment of truth for Belle, one she wasn't prepared for, despite all her plans for this day. She stands in the hallway a long moment, the plate in one hand, a glass of apple cider in the other. Beretrude starts complimenting the lovely centerpiece and Waldo remarks upon the juiciness of the turkey, just to cut through Belle's self-consciousness. Archie rises as if to move to her side, but he doesn't: this moment must be hers. Regina smirks at her enemy's discomfort.

And that's just what Belle needs to find her courage. She raises her chin in defiance and sails into the cell, presenting Regina with a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal. She even remembers to bring Regina a napkin. . . one made with Rumplestiltskin's thread. "I hope you enjoy your dinner, Regina. I have pumpkin pie and whipped cream for dessert."

Helewise then unlocks Rumple's cell so that Belle can deliver his plate—and the messenger suddenly discovers a dust bunny that must be attended to immediately. The other guards and Archie get busy passing vegetables around the table, so no one catches the rule breakers as they share a kiss and a whisper.

When Belle returns, blushing, to the table, Archie seizes an opportunity for a little impromptu therapy. "There's another Thanksgiving tradition many families follow. They go around the table and each person says something they're thankful for."

"A lovely tradition," Beretrude comments.

"A most appropriate way to start the meal," Helewise adds.

"Great. Then shall I begin? I'm grateful that the curse has broken and we all know who we really are." As heads nod in agreement, Archie looks to his left. "Walderan?"

"I'm grateful for gratitude. It helps to bring people together."

Beretrude says, "I'm grateful for the love of the One who created us."

Helewise says, "I'm grateful for lost sheep finding their way home again."

Belle says, "I'm grateful for Rumplestiltskin, of course, and my friends—" her voice drops—"and my father." She brightens. "And grocery stores and cars and television and music CDs and microwave ovens and refrigerators and—" She glances at Regina. "And I'm grateful to be in this new world."

Rumplestiltskin says, "I'm grateful for dust bunnies and ladders. I'm grateful for stories that give kids a reason to spend time with an old man. I'm grateful for my son, wherever he is. But most of all, I'm grateful for Belle."

Archie turns. "Regina?"

Regina grins maliciously. "I'm grateful for sniveling, belly-crawling bootlickers who make my job so much fun."

Archie chastises her, though everyone knows it's pointless. Waldo changes the subject: "Can we eat now? Please?"

They are passing the plates for second helpings when Regina suddenly sets her meal aside, turns to face the wall and bursts into tears. Before anyone, including herself, can realize what she's doing, Belle is grasping the cage's bars and asking Beretrude to let her in. When the door is open, Belle walks in, sits down on the bed beside Regina and offers her a hanky. The women exchange a few words that no one else hears.

Rumple-Gold learns all this later, since he can't see Regina's cage from his. He's not sure whether to be impressed or a little intimidated by the fortitude of his beloved. One thing he knows for sure: he can't match it.


On the day after Thanksgiving, Bertie is back at work, sporting a haircut. "Better?"

"Better," Rumple-Gold agrees.

"I wish my father thought so. I cut it for him, you know. Because he nagged me about it, like he nags me about everything."

"Pull up a chair, young Robert, and we'll talk."

Bertie pulls up a chair, but corrects the mistake. "Actually, it's not Robert. It's—well, it's a weird name nobody's ever heard of. I was named after an ancestor on my father's side. But everyone calls me Bertie, except Dad."

Rumple pulls up his arm chair. "Parental problems?"

"Yeah, the usual stuff. Classic father-son hassles. I respect him and all. Hell, I admire the guy. Decided when he was a kid he wanted to be a doctor, even though his folks couldn't even afford a juco. He joined the army for the educational benefits, did his hitch, got out and started college. Now he's head of the emergency room at St. Luke's."

"A self-made man."

"Yeah. . . "

"You're a hard-working guy yourself. So where's the problem?"

"Well, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, you know? He's always had these dreams of opening a father-and-son practice out in Alaska or someplace wild like that."

"His dream is not yours."

"No." Bertie studies his shoes thoughtfully. "I mean, he's proud that I'm working my way through school, but he's disappointed in my career choice. He's even more disappointed that I got married young. He's not too happy that we're having a baby so soon, either. Irresponsible, he says. He says I need to drop out so I can earn a decent living for my kid."

"Kind of hard to earn a decent living these days without a college degree."

"I wish you'd tell him that. My brother, now, that's another story. Micah, he's nineteen and he went right into the army after high school. He's gonna be sent to Afghanistan now as soon as he finishes AIT—he's a medic."

"Ah. And your mother?"

"Oh, she'd be proud of us even if we flipped burgers for a living. She wishes Zoe and I had waited to get married, but she's okay with it. Got any suggestions on how to handle dear old Dad?"

"It's asking a lot, I know, but I'd say, be patient with him. If he's as smart as he seems, he'll realize someday what a fool he is to risk losing his son and grandchild over something as trivial as—you know what? Everything is trivial compared to a child. Perhaps you can be the bigger man and make sure that when he does wise up, it's not too late."

"You sound like someone who wised up."

"Yeah, but for me it was too late."

"Sorry, man."

"So am I. If you can possibly avoid it, don't let things get to a point where you're sorry too. Especially now. Kids and grandpas need each other."

"Yeah. . . for my kid's sake."

"For your father's sake too, even if the hard-ass doesn't realize it yet."