A/N: A quick Google search tells me that Robert Carlyle was born in Glasgow, Michael Raymond-James, in Detroit, and Dylan Schmid in Vancouver. I incorporated these facts into Rumple's cover story. Apologies if the characters' actual accents don't match that of their actors' birthplaces; I'm afraid I haven't the expertise to know better.

Chapter 19

Outside Gold's room, Emma quickly stripped off her protective gear. It was a good thing, she thought to herself, that TB wasn't nearly as easy to catch as, say, the flu or the common cold. Otherwise, she'd have had some serious concerns about her visit. She hadn't planned on doing anything more than delivering the garden and, if he were awake, a few minutes' conversation. She certainly hadn't expected to break down in front of him. Or squeeze his hand. Or hug him. Or be hugged by him. Had anyone even suggested that last bit, she probably would have laughed in their face. No, she reflected, that wasn't exactly her style. She was more of the 'eye-roll and rude gesture' type when it came to those situations.

But when the moment had come, it had just felt so… right.

They'd both needed this. A chance to grieve and clear the air and just know that someone sort of… got it. Whatever 'it' was. And she was definitely coming back tomorrow, barring some new threat to the town.

She started to shove her Tyvek suit into the disposal bin when she saw something that made her jerk it back out. The suit was white. And she definitely hadn't spilled anything orange on it. What was that stain? She held the upper part of the suit up against her torso. The stain was in the chest and shoulder area, right about where Gold's head had been resting when they'd hugged. He'd been crying, she thought. She knew she'd been. So maybe it was tears. Or sweat. But why the hell was it orange?

She didn't know, but she wasn't going anywhere until she got some straight answers. The nurse had said Whale was on his way. Emma placed the suit carefully in the bin, folding it so that the stain was clearly visible. Then she left the isolation ward, taking a seat on the bench directly opposite its door to wait for Whale.

Rumpelstiltskin lay back on the bunk and pretended to be asleep, while Hordor's flunkies carried bales of straw into the room. He thought about turning the scurrying little toadies into frogs or rats, but he knew his quarrel was with their master. And Zoso; he certainly wasn't forgetting him!

At the moment, though, he was probing the strength of the protection spell that surrounded the palace, testing its limits. It was cleverly done; non-magical people could pass freely—assuming that the guards permitted it, of course. And Rumple doubted that Zoso himself would be affected. But any other practitioner of magic would be unable to cross the boundaries of the spell from either side. As for the spell, it seemed to encompass both the castle proper and the gardens and courtyards. Evidently, he had the run of the grounds, but a large cage was still a cage. He clenched his teeth. This cage wouldn't hold him for long. He just needed to find a weak point in the spell and—"

"You were right," a merry voice said and Rumple opened his eyes to find Zoso standing before him. "He didn't enjoy having to kiss Hordor's boots at all."

Rumple sat up at once with a snarl. Around him, Hordor's servants stood frozen as they must have been when the current Dark One had made his entrance.

"I don't have to tell you they won't remember any of this," Zoso said negligently. "I just stopped by to let you know that despite your manipulations, destiny remains destiny. Your younger self will come into his own. As it has been, so shall it be."

"Not if I kill you first," Rumple snarled, lunging forward.

Zoso flipped into a backwards cartwheel and danced out of reach. "Better have a care for your hands," the old man said, as Rumple leaped for him again, only just managing to stop his closed fist from striking the wall when Zoso dodged. "You'll need them for your spinning."

Cursing, Rumple discharged a bolt of pure magic at his foe, but Zoso raised one palm and drew the power in. "You can't use the Dark One's magic to strike down the Dark One," Zoso smirked. "Though I suppose you can be forgiven for not realizing it. The matter's always been a purely academic one until now." He shrugged. "But keep firing as you like. The more I take in now, the more I'll have in thr—two? Two days' time," Zoso said, nodding a bit. "And the faster the Darkness will overwhelm you. Or him. Not that it'll take much time in any event. At least, it didn't the first time?" he asked rhetorically. "Oh, relax. The spell won't last much longer. I just don't want you interfering with what needs done. As soon as I'm dead, you'll be free to go about your business. For now? Well, I suppose you'll just have to spin your wheels, now, won't you?"

With an angry cry Rumple practically threw himself at the old man, but Zoso vanished while he was in mid-leap and he found himself sprawling on the hard floor.

"Spinner!" Evidently, Zoso's spell had dissipated with his departure, for one of the Duke's men was now at Rumple's elbow. "Are you injured? Here." The servant reached for the cane that stood at the foot of the bunk. "I suppose the frame's a bit higher than what you're used to; it took me a few days to adjust when my lord took me into service," he continued.

Rumple nodded irritably, as he returned to the bunk muttering profanities under his breath. He had to get the spinning done tonight; if he didn't, he suspected that Hordor would yet take Bae to the front early. And, after Zoso's visit, he needed to calm himself down enough to marshal his wits.

While he'd always known that Zoso was a man of fair intelligence, Rumple had generally perceived him as a pathetic shell, too weak to hold onto his power, too weary to appreciate it for the gift it was, and seeking only to be freed from it. That last part was certainly true, but as to the rest, the old man was proving himself to be tough, wily, and a far shrewder adversary than Rumple would have believed. He realized that if he were to have any chance of beating the old man, then he needed to stop thinking with his emotions and start using his head. And spinning was the best way he knew to clear his thoughts.

He'd spin for an hour, perhaps two. Certainly long enough so that if Hordor or Zoso or the Chamberlain were to come by to check his progress, they would see what they had to. And then? He was going to do some exploring and see what he might discover.

"Looks like the Rifampicin," Whale nodded when he saw Emma standing in the open doorway of the changing room, mutely holding up her stained Tyvek suit. "It turns a number of bodily fluids that color. Harmless, if a bit disconcerting," he added. "And since the discoloration mainly shows up in clear fluids, it's not really all that noticeable unless it soaks into something light-colored. Like the suit."

"Or Gold's sheets?" Emma asked. "Or a tissue?"

Whale nodded. "If you're asking whether he'll spot it, that's a yes." He pressed his lips together. "And he's not likely to be as calm as you were a minute ago, to put it mildly."

He regarded her soberly. "I've been meaning to sit down with him and go over some of the more… interesting things he can expect to experience during treatment, but for the first couple of days, he wasn't exactly focused. And," he added, "he's taking four main drugs right now. They each have their own list of drawbacks. There's some overlap, but it's still a long list. I didn't want to risk overwhelming him before he was ready. However," he sighed, squared his shoulders, and absently fiddled with his stethoscope, "if he's conscious and coherent, then I think it's probably best he hears what he could be in for."

Emma gave him an understanding nod back. "Is that something Belle and I are allowed to know, too, or is it confidential?"

"Well," Whale admitted. "I can't go into the specifics of his case without his authorization, but the treatment for TB is fairly standard and the drugs and their known side effects are pretty easy to Google. Put it this way: if you have a question that I can answer without having to look at Gold's chart, say, 'What drugs would commonly be prescribed for a patient with active TB?' as opposed to 'What drugs have I prescribed for Gold?' I'll be happy to answer it."

"Got it," Emma said. She had a feeling that Whale might have fudged a bit by mentioning the Rifampicin right off the bat, but then again, he hadn't actually said that it was what had caused the stain or that Gold was taking it; he'd only said that it looked like it. Maybe he shouldn't have, but she doubted that anyone was about to call HIPAA on him over it. Or that the Department of Health and Human Services' Office for Civil Rights was going to be able to investigate if they couldn't even find Storybrooke on a map. And even if they did, what would they do? Take away the license Whale got in another realm—if he'd gotten it at all? No, she was letting this one slide. "Oh," she added, remembering, "Belle wanted to know if you could give her a call when you've got a minute."

Whale smiled wearily. "So I've heard," he said. "You can tell her that I'm picking up my messages and I will return them as I'm able." Then he pulled up his mask and went into Gold's room.

Gold was lying in bed, his eyes wide with apprehension and a white tissue clenched in one tight fist. Whale couldn't see whether there was any orange on it, but going by the expression on his patient's face, he thought he could guess. "Hey," he said. "Good to see you awake. I think now's the right time to go over some details of your treatment with you…"

After Whale left, Rumple was alone with thoughts that would not quiet. Always, in the past, he'd known that if he didn't look out for his own interests nobody would. Oh, he knew that he could expect a certain modicum of assistance. If he were to collapse on the sidewalk, he was reasonably certain that someone would lift him up and carry him out of the way of passing pedestrians—if only to prevent them from stumbling over him. At any given time, a number of people in town were indebted to him and could be called on to discharge their obligations. And, if nothing else, his knowledge and power made him, at least, useful to have around.

He couldn't say that he was surprised that Regina had brought him here. Despite their frequent mutual antagonism, they'd often united toward a mutually beneficial end and, in getting him the help he needed, she had placed him squarely in her debt. But ill though he'd been when he'd returned here, he hadn't been so far gone as to miss her concern.

It's going to be okay. You're back. You're home.

We'd better get you to the hospital.

And then, enlisting Robin Hood's aid in keeping an eye on him. Almost on reflex, he gripped the edge of the cotton blanket that covered him now, but he was thinking about the one Robin had wrapped about him before helping him into the car. It had been quite a bit coarser than this one, but still welcome and far finer than any he might have thought he could expect from a man whom he'd brutally tortured back in the Enchanted Forest, and whose son he'd threatened—however unwillingly—in this land.

More. He remembered Regina's reaction to the most recognizable symptom of the condition plaguing him now. He would have understood revulsion and recriminations. She might have demanded, however unfairly, to know why he hadn't warned her at once as to what she might be exposing herself to. Accused him of endangering the town, even. Instead, once she'd understood what was going on, she'd taken matters very much in stride.

He wasn't surprised by Belle's reaction to his return, but he certainly couldn't have predicted Emma's. And as frightening as it was to be lying here, hooked up to an IV, ill, weak, vulnerable… Understanding what was going on made the situation somewhat easier for him to bear and he had Whale to thank for that.

He wasn't used to any of this. He was used to being left alone to lick his wounds and soldier on as best he could. He was used to being expected to push his own turmoil aside, pull himself together, and help the town—no matter how many times he rebuffed such appeals. Something had changed. Something was different.

Was it them?

Or was it he?

Had he changed something in the past that was making them so solicitous now? Doubtful, he realized. In the time he'd spent in the Enchanted Forest, most of Storybrooke's current residents had yet to be born. And he certainly hadn't had any encounters with the pirate. So, what then?

Had they always been like this, while he'd been too caught up in his own Darkness to recognize it?

These last years would have been enough of a gift even if it had only been that he'd spent them with Bae, but clearly there had been more than that. So much more…

"Forty-five shillings and four pence a week to start," Rumple's new employer said flatly. "Subject to review in three months' time."

Rumple nodded. "That would be acceptable," he said, hoping his nervousness didn't show.

"By the way, Mr. Cassidy, I mark a Scots cadence in your words, but none in your boy's. If anything, he sounds like an American."

Rumple nodded again. He'd been prepared for such an inquiry and coached Bae on the story he'd concocted to explain matters. "Well, I was born in Glasgow," he said, ducking his head a bit, "but I married an American woman and we settled down in a small town in Michigan, several miles outside of Detroit. Bae was born there. Tragically, I lost my wife some three years ago." He shook his head. "They say time heals everything, but there were just… too many memories. I thought a change of scenery might be in order and, enticed by stories of gold in the Klondike, Bae and I headed west into Canada. We got as far as Vancouver and decided to settle there instead. It seemed a more wholesome place to raise a child than a prospector's camp in the Arctic," he added with a self-deprecating smile.

"Yes, quite," his interviewer agreed, clearly fascinated by the tale Rumple was spinning.

"Well, building a house was the first order of business, and it was in the construction that I lost my footing and was pinned under a log." He sighed and let his hand stray to the top of his cane, resting against the chair in which he sat. "I'm afraid that the damage to my ankle was permanent."

"I'm so sorry," the other man murmured.

Rumple sighed. "I've grown used to it. Though it did squelch any dreams I might have yet retained for further adventures. We settled in. I opened a pawnbroker's shop. As it happened, I had more of a head for business than I'd realized." He shook his head sadly. "Just six months ago, I received a telegram that my father had passed away. I came here with Bae to settle his estate and," he inserted another sigh, "discovered that there wasn't any."

"Gone?" the man across the desk inquired with a note of sympathy.

Rumple gave him a pained smile. "My father lived off the income of his investments. When I went through his papers, I quickly discovered that much of his portfolio had been devoted to ventures of high risk. The hoped-for commensurate returns, however, failed to materialize." He lowered his eyes. "A gentleman must pay his debts, of course and, for the most part, I have done so. But it was at the cost of liquidating all of his estate's assets and all of my own. I'm afraid that Bae and I have come down quite a bit in the world, now. But we are making the best of matters, I assure you, Mr. Darling."

George Darling nodded, but there was no mistaking the shock on his face. Rumple had been expecting that, too; there weren't many gentlemen taking entry-level clerical jobs in this time and place. On the other hand, his story did much to explain his accent and Bae's. If they occasionally phrased things differently or didn't understand the local jargon, they could chalk it up to having lived elsewhere—and Rumple doubted that many of the bank's customers would be hailing from the US, much less Michigan. As for British Columbia, that province was clear on the other side of North America, bordered by the Pacific Ocean. Rumple rather doubted any of its denizens were likely to step through the bank's doors either. While this backstory was unusual, it wasn't completely implausible. And it wouldn't be easy to disprove.

Purporting to have come from so far abroad would help his cover—and Bae's—in more ways than one. Should his speech and manners seemed to be more polished than the likes of Bae's new friend or the other clerks in the office, then that could be attributed to the life he was claiming to have led before coming to such reduced circumstances. It was easier than trying to pretend that he and Bae were native Londoners, accustomed to their current position in society. Rumple had noted that, for all Robertson Ay attempted to imitate the speech and manners of a more educated social class, his regular speech patterns came through every now and again, when he dropped an 'h' or added one that didn't belong. And that lad was merely trying to affect the air of someone from a more well-to-do section of the same city. Rumple knew that he and Bae would give away their foreign origins a dozen ways daily. Far better to embrace that status and fasten it to a backstory that was unlikely to be vetted. There were no computers in this time. No internet. Rumple rather thought that any such inquiries might take months to bear fruit—if they bore it at all. Meanwhile, it was clear to him that the man seated behind the desk had taken his story at face value and swallowed it completely.

"I'm so sorry," Mr. Darling said, dismayed. "Well, at least your penmanship more than qualifies you for this position, and there is opportunity for advancement in time. And if you should require any manner of assistance as I can provide, I trust you'll call on me."

Rumple nodded and murmured his affirmatives, even as he resolved to do nothing of the kind until he could discern whether the offer was genuine, or just a polite nicety, never intended to be taken seriously.

"Right," Mr. Darling said, pushing the employment contract across the desk. "If you'll take a few moments to peruse that and sign at the bottom, I'll show you where you'll be starting."

Rumple accepted the sheet. The terms of the offer were straightforward, he noted, with none of the loopholes and twists he might have inserted in days gone by. He picked up the fountain pen and signed the name he'd chosen for himself the night before: Gilbert Trout Cassidy. As he'd told Bae earlier, the name 'Rumpelstiltskin' would never work here. But with a bit of finagling, 'Gilitrutt' was a different matter entirely…

On the whole, Rumple reflected, they were better off than they could have been. Yesterday, Robertson Ay had stopped by and offered to show them about the area. While so doing, he'd cheerfully imparted useful tips about which green-grocer could be counted upon to discount slightly irregular produce and which baker made the best bread. And you'll want that bread. We used to buy elsewhere, but it oftentimes made us poorly." Their guide had dropped his voice to an undertone as he clarified. "Trots and bellyaches. I had a friend worked in this one and he told me they add bean flour to the mix so they can sell cheaper-like. He said other bakeries add other things, but we never got sick off of bean flour, none of us, so now we know, we're not about to look elsewhere."

Rumple had nodded and tried not to shudder. Such adulteration had been known in the land he and Bae had left; when most of the wheat harvest went to the rulers and the soldiers, bakers found ways to make the flour stretch. Bean flour was, indeed, one of those ways. Alum salts and chalk were two more, either of which might cause the symptoms Robertson Ay described. At least bean flour was meant to be eaten.

Thanks to their new guide, Rumple and Bae now understood that humble though their lodgings might be, they were fortunate indeed to have them—and to be their sole users. Many boarding houses rented rooms in shifts; each bed might have as many as three lodgers, each occupying the mattress for a maximum of eight hours.

There were 'doss houses'; common lodging houses where a bed could be had for pennies a night in a communal sleeping room that might accommodate upwards of forty people. If one couldn't scrape up even the modest four-to-sixpence required, one could choose to rent the bed for a shift as well. Or barring that, a 'penny hang', which—as the name implied—involved paying a penny for the 'privilege' of sleeping over or against a rope stretched between two supports. Upon hearing that bit of information, Rumple had resolved on the spot never to complain about the long staircases leading up to their current accommodations. To be sure, he'd remain on the lookout for something nearer the ground that wouldn't tax his ankle nearly as much, but understanding how much worse their lot could have been, he was rather inclined to count his blessings for the moment.

Right now, he and Bae were both employed. And while their wages, from what he'd adduced thus far, wouldn't suffice to lift them out of the area in which they now resided, they would be sufficient to meet their needs and, perhaps even set a bit by.

Rumple had lived through enough lean times to know the importance of setting a bit by. And his time in Storybrooke or, more to the point, his 'curse memories' had given him enough broad-strokes knowledge to navigate this new place in which he found himself. He might have more grounding in the political history—that of rulers, governments, wars and revolutions—than in the cultural and social history that made up this era's day-to-day life, but he would learn quickly.

He spared a glance for Bae, walking easily beside him, though the boy could have gone much faster and farther, had he not been matching his steps with his father. A look of pain crossed his features and seeing it, Bae stopped.

"Papa?" he asked, "Do you need to rest for a moment?"

Rumple shook his head and forced himself to smile. "No, I'm fine, son," he said. "Besides, we're nearly home."

Home. It didn't much feel like home, not yet, but for now, it would do quite nicely. He wanted better for Bae, though. The land they'd left had had a rigid class structure and, though there was room to rise beyond one's birth rank, it was no easy task. Had they arrived in this land a hundred years from now, Rumple knew that Bae's prospects would have been far better, but even here, he thought that there was some opportunity for rising above one's circumstances. Bae wouldn't be a messenger all his life; Mr. Darling had made it clear that there was room for advancement for both of them within the bank. And beyond it? Rumple wondered which avenues would be open, to Bae at least, if not to him.

He'd need to make inquiries about schooling; he couldn't recall whether one needed to pay for such things in this time, nor whether there were community schools or if it was mainly governesses and private tutors. Somehow, though, he would see to it that Bae obtained whatever education and skills he might need to make his way in life.

He ruthlessly stamped down on the traitorous voice in his head that reminded him that Bae hadn't spent long in this time. He and his boy were together now, as they should have been from the start. In this version of events, there was really no need for the boy to go to Neverland, was there?

Emma. Henry.

Rumple clenched his teeth and flung a furious thought at his memory of a father who'd thrown him away for a promise of perpetual youth. You won't get your hands on him this time. You don't deserve him and he doesn't deserve you.

And as to the family that Bae would have in the future? Rumple was certain that if they were meant to be, Fate would arrange it somehow.

He simply refused to accept the most obvious way in which it might.