CHAPTER 5
A few months passed the way they usually did in Storybrooke; that is to say, uneventfully. As summer became fall, very little of importance, good or bad, befell the citizens of the little Maine town.
Amy and Mr. Gold settled into a routine. She cleaned the house, which she had, as he suspected she would, come to love as though it were her very own. Ashley still came in a couple of days a week to do some of the more arduous tasks, such as moving the heavier pieces of furniture, and Amy looked forward to the days when her friend came. They were usually able to complete the housework fairly quickly and would spend the rest of the day sitting and talking, or watching movies, or the other things they'd always done together. Occasionally they would go into town and visit Granny and Ruby at the diner, mostly on the days when there were other errands to run like grocery shopping or dropping the dry cleaning off. Ashley was much less nervous about cleaning Mr. Gold's house now that Amy was there, and as a result had fewer catastrophes, but increasingly Amy began to think of herself as the main housekeeper.
Aside from her sorties into town with Ashley, her regular errands, and of course her trips to the doctor, Amy seldom went into Storybrooke. This was by choice. Mr. Gold was very lenient about her hours and was always telling her to take a night off and go out with her friends, but she found that she preferred to stay close to what she had begun to think of as "home". Always a loner, now entire days would pass when she saw no one but Mr. Gold, and that suited her fine. She wasn't bored. She often walked in the woods surrounding Mr. Gold's house or along the river behind it. On the days she didn't feel like walking and the weather was fine, she would sit on the back porch and read. On the days when the weather wasn't so good, she did her reading curled up on the antique sofa in the library that had turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.
As Mr. Gold had encouraged, Amy had indeed availed herself of his library. Mr. Gold was astonished to discover that she was something of a speed-reader and had a near-photographic memory to boot. It wasn't uncommon to see her curled up on the sofa just beginning one of the leather-bound volumes, then walk by an hour later and see that she was halfway through it. Most of their dinner conversations now centered on what she was reading. He had almost always read whatever she was reading at the moment, and they enjoyed trading insights about the stories and characters.
One of the first books she chose from his library had been Jane Eyre. She had read it years before, in middle school, and had liked it, but now it struck a new chord with her. She couldn't help but see the parallels between the story and her own situation. The young woman alone in the world, thrust suddenly into a new role in a beautiful house, owned by a wealthy, mysterious man…of course, Mr. Gold wasn't hiding an insane wife in the attic (she should know; she had been up there a few times) and Ashley was no Grace Poole, but the similarities were uncanny. Amy was amused to realize that she had more or less stepped into the pages of a Gothic novel. This was one insight she chose not to share with Mr. Gold. For most Gothic novels, including Jane Eyre, ended with the young penniless heroine marrying the mysterious, dashing older man. That, she knew, was where her ending would differ.
Amy knew what people in town probably thought about her and Mr. Gold's "arrangement", but Mr. Gold had been a perfect gentleman the entire time she had been in his house. He had never said anything untoward. He had never touched her except by accident, like when his hand brushed hers as he handed her his breakfast dishes one morning. True, it seemed he was always following her around with his eyes, but she never saw anything lustful in his gaze. She assumed it was just the novelty of having another person to watch after living alone for so long. It honestly never crossed her mind that he might ever be interested in her as a woman.
But Amy was a deep sleeper, especially since her pregnancy. She didn't know that many nights—most nights, even—Mr. Gold would come into her room and watch her sleep. The first few times he had simply stood and watched, barely daring to breathe in case she woke. Then one night he had come in to discover she had kicked all her blankets off, and was curled on her side in a shivering ball. Before he thought, he had gathered the blankets and tucked them around her. When he realized what he was doing he froze. Surely now she would wake up, and she would probably assume the worst. He tried to think of an excuse. He would say that he had been investigating a strange noise. Would she buy that? Maybe. He cast about in his mind for other excuses, but none came. This frustrated him. He was normally the consummate master of thinking on his feet. What was it about this girl that so often discombobulated him?
But she didn't wake. That was when he realized how deep a sleeper she really was. After that, hardly a night passed when he didn't make his nocturnal visits to her room. He never did anything that could really be considered improper; master of manipulation though he was, he drew the line at physically forcing himself on a defenseless girl. And he could hardly imagine the girl offering herself to him willingly. So, mainly, he just watched. If she had kicked the blankets off he tucked her back in. Occasionally he would smooth her hair back from her face; it was just as downy soft as he had imagined. And as her pregnancy progressed and her stomach began to rise under the blankets, he would sometimes find himself laying a protective hand on the small mound of her belly. At times when he did this he could nearly see another hand over his own, almost in pentimento, a hand as long and graceful as his but nowhere near as well cared for, a hand with long, sharp, shiny nails, a hand that seemed to sparkle with some glittery substance. At these times, he would feel the strangest sense of déjà vu. There was something so familiar about this girl, about her face in the moonlight, her body under the bedclothes. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had known her before, somewhere, somehow.
Amy was a deep sleeper, but she was also a very vivid dreamer. Mr. Gold never knew this. His visits to her room always occurred well after she was past the REM phase and into deep sleep. He never knew about the dreams she had about him, or rather some version of him.
The dreams were slightly different each time, but the basic premise was the same. In them, she was with a man she assumed was Mr. Gold. The man had Mr. Gold's features, but in other ways he was markedly dissimilar. His hair was the same length, only wavier and much grayer; most times it was downright unkempt. Mr. Gold wore his hair long, but it was always smooth and neat, never a strand out of place. The hands were as slender and fine as his, but instead of the short, neatly trimmed nails she knew the long fingers ended in greenish-gold talons.
But the most striking differences were his eyes and skin. In her dreams, the Mr. Gold-man's eyes were not quite human. The irises were unusually large, with very little white showing and sometimes none at all, and instead of Mr. Gold's chocolate brown they were a murky caramel color. Indeed, they resembled the eyes of a lynx or some other animal more than those of a human. Oddly, Amy wasn't alarmed by this in the dreams. Nor was she surprised by his skin, which seemed to be coated with some sort of gold dust.
It wasn't the man himself who alarmed her in the dreams, but what he was doing—or rather, what they were doing. For in every dream she could recall, she and the Mr. Gold-man were making love.
Sometimes it seemed to be night, and they were in a room lit only by firelight. Sometimes it was daylight, and they were outside in the grass beside a clear rushing stream. Sometimes the sex was slow and tender and passionate; often it was frantic, almost rough, but no less intense. Amy often found herself doing things to and with the Mr. Gold-man that she had never thought about in real life. Some of the things she hadn't even realized could be done. And in every dream, she thrashed and moaned and often cried aloud as she had never done beneath the boy who had fathered her child.
Amy would wake from these dreams sweating and gasping, not a few times still in the throes of an orgasm—she, who had never been able to climax through intercourse, only when Todd would use his hands and mouth on her. He had been amused by this at first, reassuring her that it was no big deal and gave them something to look forward to. Later it had annoyed and frustrated him. Finally, he had given up trying to make her come at all.
But that wasn't a problem for the Mr. Gold-man. No matter where they were, what position they were in (and that was another thing; judging from his flexibility, the Mr. Gold of her dreams obviously had no need of a cane) he had no trouble at all bringing her to and beyond the boiling point. Her orgasm would always trigger his own, and he would empty himself into her, shouting just as loudly as she did and sometimes louder, often biting her neck or capturing her lips in a searing kiss. Usually what they shouted was the other's name, but of course she didn't know Mr. Gold's first name, and whatever he called her wasn't "Amy". It was something similar, but once she awoke she could never remember what it was, nor she could remember the name she had called him.
The first time she had one of these dreams she was absolutely mortified when she woke, wondering how she could ever face Mr. Gold in the morning. For she had seen her partner's naked body in all its glory—and had had her hands and mouth all over it—and, skewed though it was, she was fairly certain that was what the real Mr. Gold's body looked like under those perfectly tailored suits. Even in her humiliation Amy felt herself growing wet at the thought of that small, lean, wiry body that had done so many unspeakable and wonderful things to hers. No, no, no!
There was no more sleep for Amy that first night. She sat up until dawn puzzling over the dream, and what it meant, and how she could put it out of her mind when she next had to face her employer. Finally, she chalked it all up to hormones. She had read that pregnant women often had a high sex drive during the early stages. She had also read that very strange and vivid dreams were common during pregnancy. When you combined these two facts, the dream made perfect sense. Mr. Gold had been literally gold in the dream because that was her subconscious mind's literal interpretation of him. She had read of cases where women had lurid sex dreams about their OB-GYNs. Dr. Dockery was a little too grandfatherly for even her subconscious mind apparently, so it had chosen the next best thing: the man who had literally taken her in off the street. Perhaps there was some sort of gratitude mixed up in there, too. She truly appreciated everything Mr. Gold was doing for her and had been trying to think of ways to repay him ever since she first moved in; evidently her subconscious believed that "making sweet sweet love" to the man (as Ruby had jokingly put it) would be a fine way to compensate him for all he had done for her.
But that was silly. Mr. Gold had never once shown any sort of attraction to her, unless you counted his keen interest in her mind. In point of fact, she had never seen him show signs of attraction to anyone. She'd never even seen him steal a glance at Ruby in one of her outrageous outfits, when she'd seen every other man in town from little Henry on up do so. Briefly, she wondered if he might be gay, but quickly discounted that. She couldn't say why, she just instinctively knew that he wasn't. Rather, he seemed to be uninterested in sex of any kind, with either gender. She didn't think of him as asexual so much as above the pleasures of the flesh.
And here was the kicker: even if Mr. Gold was interested in the joys of fleshly congress, why would he be attracted to her? A man of his wealth, power and sophistication could have any woman he chose. The mayor, for example. She was an equal match for Mr. Gold in every way. Amy wondered how it was that the two of them hadn't entered into some sort of alliance long before now. Although, like Mr. Gold, the mayor seemed to have little to no interest in sexual matters (Mr. Gold had never clued her in to the mayor's arrangement with Sheriff Graham). Still, there were other women in town much prettier than Amy, probably as intelligent, certainly better off financially. Even if he didn't want to risk gossip by having a hot affair with a Storybrooke citizen, there were other towns, other women. Why, out of all the women he could have just with a lift of those eyebrows or a flash of those dimples, would he choose a nineteen-year-old bookworm who was also the town fallen woman?
With these thoughts in mind it was easy for Amy to decide how to handle the situation. If she ever felt the slightest sexual tug towards the man, she would keep certain key points in her mind: A. She was hormonal, and therefore not in her right mind. B. He was her employer. C. He had never shown the slightest bit of attraction to her. If she kept these points firmly in her head at all times, Amy reasoned, she would be able to keep her composure around the man and not make a total ass of herself.
It was a good plan in theory, but putting it into practice was harder. When she went into the kitchen that morning to fix Mr. Gold's breakfast, the man himself was already there. Though it was just past six, he was already fully dressed and looked as elegant and put-together as always. At his cheerful "Good morning, dear," Amy was instantly catapulted to the events of her dream the night before; specifically, a vignette in which he had had her legs around his shoulders and was plunging into her with wild abandon.
As the blood suffused her face and neck it was all she could do to mumble, "Morning, Mr. Gold," hearing over her words the screams of ecstasy he'd torn from her throat in the dream.
He tilted his head and looked at her penetratingly (oh, God…penetrating). "Amy, are you all right?" She heard the question, but underneath it she heard his wild laughter that had spiraled into a cackle at her first soul-shattering orgasm.
She felt a terrible urge to grab the older man, slam him against the kitchen table, and crush her lips against his. Instead, she turned her back to him and walked over to the fridge. Not facing him made things much easier, and she was able to reply. "I'm fine. Just had a restless night." She opened the fridge and stared in at the contents. The eggs and bacon were in their usual spots, but she made no move to grab them. She needed a moment to regroup, and the chilly air felt good on her feverish skin.
He frowned. Amy wasn't acting like herself. She was always kind of quiet first thing in the morning, but today she was…abrupt. It was almost as if she were angry at him or something. Had he done anything to upset her? He racked his brain but couldn't come up with anything. He hadn't made his usual stealthy visit to her last night, so it couldn't be that. Perhaps she was unwell. She was spending an inordinate amount of time with her head stuck in the refrigerator, as if she saw something quite interesting in there. Just as he was about to go to her, she finally grabbed the bacon and eggs and closed the door.
"You're sure you're all right, dear?" he repeated. Amy could hear nothing in his tone but concern…an almost fatherly concern…and she was able to turn to him again and flash a tired smile.
"I'm sure. Like I said, I had a restless night. I don't think I got more than a couple of hours of sleep." She moved toward the stove to begin preparing breakfast.
He was somewhat reassured, but not entirely. She sounded more like herself now, but he could see the dark circles under her eyes. And her skin was flushed the way it was when she was embarrassed, but what in their interaction of the past few minutes could have possibly embarrassed her?
He surprised himself and Amy by moving quickly to her side. Even with his limp, he was capable of moving fast when it suited him. She nearly dropped the carton of eggs when he felt her forehead. "You're warm," he said. "Might you be coming down with something?"
She was struggling just to breathe. Having him this close to her, being able to smell his clean, somehow woodsy scent, especially the feel of his cool hand on her hot forehead, threatened to undo her entirely. She forced herself to think of cold showers, morning sickness, Richard Nixon, anything that wasn't remotely erotic. This helped enough for her to catch her breath and answer him.
"I think I might be," she said. It wasn't untrue. She did feel as though she was coming down with something.
He took the bacon and eggs from her and laid them aside. "Go back to bed," he ordered. "Take it easy today. Don't do any housework; just try to relax. Catch up on your sleep, if you can. I'll come home and check on you when I close the shop for lunch. If you're not feeling any better I'll take you in to see Dr. Dockery."
Amy had had so much success with the unsexy thoughts that she dared to turn and look at him, a denial on her lips. It was a fatal error. Oh, no, Mr. Gold, I'm really fine, I'll take a nap later and I'm sure I'll be back to normal after that…she had the words all planned, but they died in her throat as she looked at him. The jowly face of the 37th President of the United States gave way to the image of her sliding her mouth from the Mr. Gold-man's neck on down the length of his body, until she finally came to the juncture of his thighs and wrapped her lips around…
She realized she needed to get out of there pronto. "OK," she managed to gasp before she literally fled the kitchen.
Mr. Gold stared after her, an expression of bemusement on his face that no one in Storybrooke would have ever thought possible. The confusion cleared as he realized she had probably retreated to vomit. She had mentioned that she occasionally suffered from morning sickness. The poor dear…he hoped this wasn't going to be a difficult pregnancy for her, at least physically. Emotionally, it was probably already far too late for that. But he sensed a reservoir of strength inside the girl. He had no doubt that she would bear her pregnancy and the events afterward with resilience.
In any case, if he was going to have breakfast before he opened the shop, he had better leave now in time to grab a quick bite at the diner. Whistling a jaunty tune (no one in Storybrooke would have believed the sight of Mr. Gold whistling either), he left the house for another day of wheeling and dealing.
…
Amy did manage to get some sleep before he came home at noon, and her slumber was mercifully dreamless. When he returned on his lunch break to check on her as promised, he was pleased to find her up and about and entirely herself again. The feverishness of the morning was gone, too. Even so, he bade her take the rest of the day off and not worry about getting dinner. He would bring something home.
After that first day it got easier. Even the most lurid and erotic dreams become commonplace if they occur often enough. As time went by, Amy was able to do what she had promised herself and separate the carnal bliss of her dreams from her daily interactions with Mr. Gold. For his part, Mr. Gold was able to divorce his own nocturnal visits to the girl's quarters from his contact with her in the daylight hours. Their relationship continued much as it had before.
Other things occurred in Storybrooke that fall, though Amy was unaware of most of them. Henry Mills began fourth grade. His teacher was one Mary Margaret Blanchard, who, a decade before, had been Amy's own fourth-grade teacher, although the woman was only in her mid-twenties. Had she been more involved in the goings-on of the town and had her memories of childhood been less vague, Amy would undoubtedly have questioned this; however, her mind was occupied with weightier matters.
Miss Blanchard, a kind and discerning soul, sensed the unhappiness and loneliness of the mayor's son. In an effort to alleviate the boy's sadness, she gave him a book of fairy tales, never dreaming of the events she was setting in motion.
Autumn settled upon Storybrooke. Amy's pregnancy progressed into the second trimester. The morning sickness disappeared entirely, much as Dr. Dockery had predicted it would. She continued her walks and the lighter housekeeping with his blessing, and felt as healthy and strong as she ever had. Her belly began to round slightly, and her bras were getting uncomfortably tight. She had to wear her loosest tops and keep her jeans unbuttoned. She attempted to keep this from Mr. Gold, but of course he noticed; Mr. Gold noticed everything. In his inimitable way he provided a solution: one night he simply brought home a catalogue from an upscale maternity boutique in Boston, told Amy to select the things she thought would do, and ordered her choices without comment. She didn't argue with him, and when the items she had chosen arrived she simply thanked him and went on about her business.
He was pleased by this, pleased that she no longer struggled against accepting his largesse. He still hadn't broached the subject of selecting an adoptive family, although he knew he would have to before much longer. He had already begun putting out tentative feelers, searching for wealthy childless couples in the Northeastern area. Several prospects had come to his attention, but after careful consideration he had rejected each. He was determined to find just the right family for Amy Miller's child: a family who could provide for the baby's every material need and want (as well as Amy's compensation and his own stipend), and also were truly desperate for a child, and would cherish the little one as it deserved. So far he hadn't found a couple who met both criteria, but he wasn't unduly concerned. There was still plenty of time.
He was also giving serious thought to Amy's future once she gave up the child. For his part, he would have been perfectly happy for their arrangement to continue as it was after the birth and adoption. But, he knew, that wouldn't be fair to Amy. A girl of her intelligence and other qualities deserved more opportunities than working as a housekeeper. It was bad enough that she would have to give up the child she so obviously wanted to keep; she shouldn't have to give up her whole life. Of course, she wouldn't be able to leave Storybrooke and make a fresh start elsewhere, although that would undoubtedly be the best thing for her. But there were ways for her to have a decent and productive life within the town. With the compensation of the yet-to-be-chosen adoptive parents, as well as the bank account he had quietly opened for her in lieu of a paycheck, she would be able to afford a nice place to live. If she chose, she could also obtain a college degree (online, of course). He hoped she decided to do so. It would be a shame for such a fine mind to go to waste. She could teach, perhaps, or work at the library. Eventually, she would meet a man who would truly love her, not just use her for his own ends and abandon her when he no longer had any use for her. She would marry him, and finally she would be able to have the child she longed for.
He found he could hardly stand the thought of this. But he dismissed it as silly sentiment. There was no way a girl like Amy could ever want a man like him, more than twice her age, infirm, hated by the whole town. It would be enough for him to see her living her life contentedly. It would have to be enough. In Storybrooke, there were no truly happy endings. The best one could hope for was peace and comfort, and even this didn't come without sacrifice.
…
One night when Amy was in her fifth month, Mr. Gold didn't come home at his usual time of half-past six. At first she was surprised, but not concerned. Before she had come to live in his home and work for him, she knew he had often kept his shop open past the posted hours. Since she had been there, though, there had been few nights when he hadn't closed promptly at six and hurried home. This touched her, somehow, the thought that she had made his home a pleasant enough place that he was eager to return to it. Still, every once in a while he had stayed open late, or had a business engagement after hours. But he always called when this was the case. He didn't call on this night.
At seven, when he still hadn't returned or called, Amy put the beef stew she had made for that night's meal in the refrigerator. At seven-thirty, she began to be annoyed. By eight, her annoyance had given way to anger. She called the shop and got no answer. She called his cell phone and got his voicemail. She managed to leave a pleasant enough message: "Mr. Gold, it's Amy. I hope everything's OK. I don't remember you saying you had a meeting or anything tonight, but maybe it's just pregnancy brain. I'll probably be going to bed soon, but there's beef stew in the fridge and I made some molasses cookies today. See you in the morning."
By nine, there was still no word from him. Now furious, Amy reheated a large bowl of beef stew for herself and ate five molasses cookies for dessert. How dare he be nearly three hours late without a word of explanation? Even her father had been more considerate. Well, actually he hadn't. But he had never been home at a regular time, and by the time Amy was a teenager she had known not to wait up for him. She had thought Mr. Gold was different, but apparently not. She was especially upset because she had just finished Dickens' Bleak House and had looked forward to discussing it with him over dinner. Maybe Ruby was right; maybe all men, deep down, were just assholes.
By nine-thirty, Amy's fury had been replaced by concern. Something was wrong. It had to be. Maybe all men were assholes, but Mr. Gold was a meticulous asshole. If he had known he wasn't going to be home at the usual time, he would have let her know somehow. If he couldn't call for some reason, he would have had someone else call, or come to inform her. What if he'd had a heart attack or something at his shop? What if he'd been in an accident on the way home? She almost began to cry at the thought of Mr. Gold crumpled behind his counter or lying hurt in a ditch. She didn't though; when her morning sickness had abated, so had her easy tears. She wasn't nearly as emotional as she had been during the earlier months of her pregnancy.
At ten, she called the shop and his cell again, with no answer from either. Amy gave in to temptation and called the hospital. She didn't say who she was; she only asked if a middle-aged man had been brought in that evening for any reason. She didn't give the receptionist any specific information. She couldn't. While she was on the line with Storybrooke General, Amy realized she didn't know her employer's first name, or his exact age. More than forty and less than fifty was her best guess. It proved to be academic anyway; no one had been admitted to the hospital that night. As Amy thanked the receptionist and hung up, she was seized with a chill that wasn't entirely due to her concern for Mr. Gold. How could she have agreed to work for the man—and live under his roof!—while knowing so little about him?
By ten-thirty, she was dissolved in tears on the antique sofa in the library. She knew, she just knew, that Mr. Gold was dead. She wept for the loss of the man who had been so kind to her, for the man she had in her more fanciful moments believed she could love. More pragmatically, she also wept for herself. If her benefactor was dead, what on earth would become of her…and her baby? This thought led to an entirely unproductive grieving session for the child she already loved so, yet knew she wouldn't be able to keep.
But by the time the clock in the library had chimed eleven, the weeping had given way to the intestinal fortitude Mr. Gold had credited her with. Something had befallen Mr. Gold, and lying around crying wasn't going to help either of them. Amy determined that she was going to go and look for him. She would drive into Storybrooke, checking every curve and ditch along the way. If she hadn't come upon him by the time she had reached town, she would go straight to the pawnshop. If he wasn't there, she would go to the sheriff's office. If she did come upon him somewhere between the house and the sheriff's office, well, she would cross that bridge when she got to it.
Amy was in the foyer, shrugging into the maternity jacket she had ordered from the boutique in Boston, the keys to the XL in her hand, when the front door opened and Mr. Gold strolled in as if it was just any other evening and he wasn't four and a half hours late without a word of explanation.
Although it had been a long day, he looked as impeccable as ever. His longish hair was slightly messy, but that could have been from the wind that had recently picked up outside. He began to greet her with his customary "Good evening, dear," but found the air knocked out of him when she hurled herself into his arms.
"Amy," he gasped when he finally regained his breath. "Dear, whatever is the matter?"
Her tears had burst forth again with her immense relief. "Mr. Gold, where have you been?" she cried against his suit jacket. "I've been so worried…so scared…I called the shop, I called your cell, but I couldn't get an answer…I even called the hospital…what happened?"
Inexplicably, now that she knew he was all right she wanted nothing more than to beat the living hell out of him. "Why didn't you call?" she cried accusingly. Without warning, she pulled away from him and began to pummel at him with her small fists.
The blows barely hurt, but he shielded himself from them anyway. "Amy, dear, calm down," he pleaded. "I'm so sorry, darling. It didn't occur to me that you'd be so worried. I meant to call, but things were happening so fast…and I didn't realize my phone was in the car…AMY, STOP IT!"
His last words were a shout as he grasped her shoulders and shook her firmly, but not roughly. The raised voice and the shake had the desired effect. Amy's hands dropped to her sides and she goggled at him uncomprehendingly. In the back of her mind she thought: That's almost how he sounds in the dreams.
But the thought was forgotten almost as soon as it occurred. She could only stare at him with a mix of relief, rage, and confusion.
He forced his hands to relax their grip on her shoulders. Right then he wanted nothing more than to pull her back to him and hold her…just hold her. The rest could come later, if she wanted, but right now he wanted nothing more than to feel her pressed into him again. The warm scant length of her felt so familiar, so comforting. But once he gauged her expression he knew that if there was ever going to be a time for him to just take her in his arms, it wasn't now. With a tremendous effort, he slipped into the role of Mr. Gold, employer and avuncular figure.
"Let's go into the kitchen, dear," he said in his gentle yet firm voice with which he could persuade her to do almost anything. "I'll make us some tea, and I'll explain what happened tonight."
The kind but commanding tone worked as it always had. Amy allowed herself to be led into the kitchen and sat at the small table. He put the kettle on and found the Earl Grey in the cabinet above the stove. If she noticed how his hands were shaking as he busied himself preparing the tea, she gave no sign. Odd, he thought, how he had managed to remain perfectly composed during the events of the evening, yet had almost lost control as soon as he entered his own home. It wasn't like him. There was no doubt about it, something about this girl brought out the deeply buried emotions in him.
Neither of them spoke until the tea was ready. He poured the Earl Grey into two solid ceramic mugs (he didn't trust himself or Amy with a delicate china teacup right at the moment) and brought the mugs to the table. He set one on front of her, and then took a seat opposite her with the other mug clasped firmly in both hands.
"Drink some," he told her. It wasn't a request. Numbly, she brought the mug to her lips and sipped gingerly at the scalding liquid. It burned her tongue but calmed her nerves. She began to realize just how foolishly she'd acted.
"I'm sorry," she said almost inaudibly.
"No, dear," he said, taking a sip from his own mug. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I should have realized you would be worried. The time got away from me, but that's no excuse. You're in a delicate condition; I should have realized you'd be upset. I wasn't thinking."
Now that she was relatively calm, she was finally able to voice the thought at the forefront of her mind.
"What happened, Mr. Gold?"
He sighed, twirling his mug in his hands, trying to figure out a way to put it so as not to upset her further.
"Henry Mills ran away from home tonight," he began. At her gasp, he raised one hand. "No, it's all right. He's home now, safely in his bed. Apparently he managed to track down his biological mother, and he went to find her. A woman named Emma Swan; she's been living in Boston. She's the one who brought him home."
This was too much information to digest all at once. She needed him to walk her through it step by step. "Henry ran away?"
He remembered then that she had babysat for the mayor's son on numerous occasions, and had a special bond with him. Mentally, he kicked himself for not recalling this sooner. "Well…I wouldn't say he ran away so much as went on a day trip. Like I said, he somehow tracked down the woman who gave birth to him—"
Uncharacteristically, Amy interrupted. "He found his birth mother? But how? I thought you said it was a closed adoption!"
He was mildly peeved at the interruption but in light of the circumstances he decided to let it slide. "I'm not sure. No one is. But even with closed adoptions there can be loopholes, and Henry is a…resourceful boy, as you undoubtedly know. In any case, there seems to be no doubt that this Emma Swan is in fact the woman who gave birth to him and placed him for adoption."
"And she brought him back here? To the mayor?" Amy had a hard time fathoming this. If her child showed up in ten years, she knew her first instinct would not be returning her (or him) to the adoptive parents. Rather, if her child were so unhappy she (he) felt the need to seek out the mother who had given her (or him) up, her first thought would be to flee with the child somewhere they could never be found. But then, she realized, that would be a foolish and dangerous thing to do. She hoped, if she ever found herself in such a situation, that she would be able to do the responsible thing and contact the child's adoptive family. Perhaps they could get to the source of the child's unhappiness and some sort of livable compromise could be reached. However, if her child came to be in the clutches of a woman like Madame Mayor, she couldn't picture any sort of civil resolution.
"Yes, she did. She brought the child straight home, apparently had a few drinks with the mayor, and then…" He hesitated, debating whether to tell her the rest of the story.
"What?" Amy breathed. The tea, the anger, the near hysteria were all forgotten. She had to hear the rest of this.
"Well, she had a wreck right at the city limits. DUI, it seems. She is currently residing in one of the jail cells at the sheriff's office."
Amy shook her head, trying to take it all in. Poor Henry. She knew instinctively why he had gone to find his birth mother; he had finally been unable to handle the strain of living with an adoptive mother who had no love for him. She couldn't blame the little guy. Actually, she had to admire his courage. There weren't many ten-year-olds who would have the guts to board a bus to a major city four hours away and introduce themselves to a woman they'd never met, a woman who had given them up at birth. And then to have the woman return him to Storybrooke and the cold mayor…and then to have the woman involved in an alcohol-related car accident almost immediately after…Henry must be devastated. What kind of a woman was this Emma Swan?
"So that's where you've been all this time," she finally said.
"Yes. When Henry's teacher realized he was missing, she called Sheriff Graham. I happened to be at the sheriff's office on an unrelated matter and offered to help look for the boy. We searched everywhere we could imagine he might be, but of course there was nothing. Then Dr. Hopper—he's been counseling Henry for a while, as you may know—had the idea that the boy might have gone to try to find his birth mother. We went to the bus station, and sure enough, a child matching Henry's description had boarded a bus to Boston earlier this morning." Mr. Gold was a little amazed by this. Like Amy, he couldn't imagine a ten-year-old performing such a daring act. The Mayor's son was a most unusual boy. Gold thought in passing that he'd like to get to know him a little better. Moreover, he was amazed that the boy had actually been able to leave. Of course he had been back in less than a day's time, but still…that never happened in Storybrooke. No citizen of the town ever left it, not for good.
Maybe Henry Mills had never had any intention of leaving for good, though. Maybe he had simply wanted to meet this Emma Swan and bring her back to Storybrooke…but for what purpose? He could guess easily enough why the boy would want to leave Storybrooke and locate his birth mother; but why would he want to come back?
Well, that was easily explained too, he realized. He hadn't wanted to come back; Emma Swan had brought him back. And judging from her unfortunate accident later that evening, she had had no intention of remaining in town. Her car had literally crashed into the "Welcome to Storybrooke" sign. She had obviously been hightailing it right back to Boston. Once she had sobered up and gotten the necessary repairs to her car, she would hightail it out of town for good.
This was what his logical mind told him, but the other, deeper part of his mind wondered. It was odd that the accident had occurred just as she was about to reach the city limits. That was the sort of thing that would happen to a Storybrooke citizen who was trying to flee. But an outsider? They had no trouble coming and going. Perhaps this Emma Swan wasn't as much of an outsider as she seemed.
Emma…the name rang a faint bell, somehow. Not because he had known her when he "arranged" Henry's adoption, of that he was quite certain. He had never known anything of the boy's biological mother, except that she had signed away her rights at his birth. One of his "associates" in the Southwest had contacted him with the news of a healthy newborn baby boy who had been placed for adoption. The mayor had come to him several months before that and announced her wish to adopt a child, quickly and quietly, without having to wade through the mess of legal red tape that adoptions through the state always produced. Somehow his "associate" had managed to get the child out of Arizona (Gold never knew exactly how, nor did he ask) and had brought him to Maine, where Gold had turned him over to the mayor in exchange for a hefty sum and several favors to be called in at later dates. And that had been that.
No, there was no way he had known Emma Swan before. Just as there was no way he had known Amy Miller before. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he had known them both at some point. Furthermore, he couldn't shake the feeling that both young women were going to change his life in ways he had never thought possible.
But that was ridiculous. How could he have possibly known either of them at any point in his life, given that Miss Swan was at least fifteen years his junior and Amy was younger than that? By the time they were both born, he had been well ensconced in Storybrooke. He had seen Amy around town through the years, yes, but always from a distance. There was no rational reason he should feel the familiarity he had felt towards her from their very first meeting. But he had, and now he felt the same sort of familiarity regarding Emma Swan, or at least her name. The only answer that made even a little sense was reincarnation, but of course he didn't believe in such things.
He shook his head to clear these thoughts. It was late, nearly midnight. He had to be up in a mere six hours, and so did Amy. He could get by with very little sleep, but he knew Amy couldn't, especially in her present condition. So he rose and said, "Come, dear. It's late; you should have been in bed hours ago."
She got up and met him in the doorway of the kitchen. Looking down at her, Mr. Gold saw the exhaustion on her face and the dried tear tracks still on her cheeks. He felt a pang of regret, an emotion almost completely alien to him. He had been the author of that exhaustion, those tears. Suddenly, he envisioned himself cupping that sweet face in his hands and leaning down to kiss those soft, luscious lips.
He banished the thought before it could go any further. If he ever dared such a thing, he would get nothing but a good hard slap; of that he was certain. And he would deserve it. The girl had no romantic feelings for him, and why should she? A girl of her attractiveness and intelligence and sweetness could have any man she wanted.
Looking up at Mr. Gold, Amy saw the tiredness in his eyes. His limp was more pronounced than usual, too, the way it was when he was truly fatigued. Her heart wrung with sympathy. She thought about offering her arm to him and helping him to his room, but dismissed the notion immediately. He would probably be annoyed at being treated like a feeble old man. Or, worse, he would think she was attempting to seduce him or something. He would rebuff her, probably laugh at her, and even though she wasn't trying to put the moves on him she would be crushed. It would just underline what she already knew: that a man like Mr. Gold could never want a girl like her.
Their gazes held for an inordinately long time, dark brown eyes meeting soft blue. Neither was aware of the thoughts going on behind the other's eyes; neither would have believed it if they had known.
Mr. Gold finally broke the silence by saying, "Don't worry about getting breakfast in the morning. You've been up far too late, and all on my account. I'll get something at the diner before I go to the shop."
Amy dropped her eyes, effectively ending the mini-staring contest. "If you say so, Mr. Gold," she murmured, that familiar blush creeping up her neck once again.
The clock in the library bonged midnight, startling both of them. That reminded Mr. Gold of something else unusual that had happened that night. He had meant to tell Amy about it before getting sidetracked by her meltdown.
"Oh, by the way," he began. "I have another piece of interesting news."
She perked up a bit. "Really? What's that?"
"You know the town clock? It's been broken for…I'm not sure how many years. Since you were a child, probably, maybe since before you were born. But for some reason, it started working again tonight."
She opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut as a pain suddenly gripped her abdomen.
He saw her wince and the way her hand flew to her midsection. Warning bells sounded in his head. "Amy, are you all right?"
She nodded. "I…I think so. Just a stomach cramp, I think." Just as suddenly another pain came, this one sharper. She couldn't help crying out.
In one swift move he had his arm around her waist and had turned her in the direction of the foyer. "I'm taking you to the hospital," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Amy nodded, clutching her stomach. She wouldn't have argued anyway. Something was wrong, she realized.
Even with his cane and bad leg, Mr. Gold still managed to support her with little difficulty. She had a moment to marvel at his strength. The thought came to her mind unbidden: maybe he's not really as frail as he wants people to think.
Then all thought was gone as a third pain, even worse than the first two, engulfed her. She couldn't even scream this time; she hadn't enough air for that. "Oh, God," she whispered. "My baby…"
Unlike the first two contractions—for there was no doubt in her mind that was what they were—which had come on rapidly and then abated, this one seized her and wouldn't let go. She felt her legs begin to give way beneath her. Her vision began to blur. She opened her mouth to tell Mr. Gold, but couldn't draw in enough air.
He had guessed anyway by the sudden dead weight of her. Yet another emotion he had rarely experienced coursed through him that night. This one was fear.
He was yelling, but though he was right beside her his words seemed to come from a great distance. "Amy! Amy!" The thought came to her clear and whole and perfect: that's not my name. Then a wave of blackness rolled over her, and she thought or knew no more.
Sorry it took me a while to update, but it's been kind of crazy lately. Here's a nice long chapter to make up for it, though. I kept trying to end it or divide it or something, but apparently I had a case of Uncle Stevie syndrome. It just kept going and going and going…
As you can see I changed the rating from T to M. I don't think the sexydreams are all that graphic (at least I tried to write them not to be) but I figured better safe than sorry. (I will admit, though, that after writing that section I was taking a cold shower of my own.)
Let me add my vote to the "I can't believe they killed off Graham!" camp. I'm hoping, though, that things aren't really as they seem. Maybe what Mr. Gold was burying in the woods that morning (gardening my ass!) was a lockbox containing Graham's real heart? After all, if Regina still has some magic in Storybrooke, why shouldn't Mr. Gold?
Disclaimer time: I own no one but my OC and her worthless deadbeat ex. All other characters belong to ABC, Disney, et al.
And as always, warm fuzzies to my readers and reviewers. Hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season!