Chapter 18

A/N. Dearies, one of the saddest aspects of season 2, to me, is the fact that Bae is apparently spending no time at all with his father. He's not even staying in that big house while he's in town. For crying out loud, they've been apart for a couple hundred years and they're not even getting together for coffee! So with this story I'm indulging in some wish fulfilment, beginning with Bae, and then Tamara, and finally Belle. Oh, and Dove's tale of his part in the Second Ogres War, I've taken that from parts of "Skin Deep" that were cut from the episode but were discussed in the commentary for the DVD set.

Granny's 3:09 pm

The sign above the entrance says "Yes, We're Open," even though a glance through the plate glass window shows the restaurant to be empty. But Slightly has a mission to perform, and with the sheriff's office also empty, a restaurant seems like as good a place as any to start, so he swings the door open, causing the business bell overhead to tinkle. "Hello?" He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets as he waits awkwardly at the counter for the wait staff to appear.

When they do, he takes a hasty step backward and raises his hands in surrender. "Hey, I just came in for a cup of coffee and some information," he says to the notched crossbow that is now welcoming him to Granny's Café. It's difficult to tear his eyes away from the weapon, but when he does he encounters his second shock: the archer is a little, white-haired lady in a Sunday-school dress and support hose. "Granny, I presume?"

"Sorry." Granny lowers the crossbow. "I was just on my way to the hospital."

"Protesting the rising cost of prescriptions?"

The little lady snorts in a very unladylike manner. "Gonna exchange a few words with our mayor."

"Wouldn't a recall election be less messy?" He nods at the weapon.

A tall, lithe brunette pops up behind Madame Crossbow. "Oh, Granny, put that away." She directs her attention to the newcomer. "I'm sorry, sir; things are kind of screwed up right now. Half the town's over at the hospital."

"I know." Slightly plops himself onto a red pleather stool. He's never been a name dropper, but in a town this size, it makes sense that everyone knows everyone else, so to save time he adds, "I'm a friend of Mr. Gold's."

"A friend?" Granny raises the crossbow again.

Slightly backpedals. "An acquaintance." He sighs and slides off the stool. "Guess I came to the wrong place. Sorry to have bothered you." He turns to leave, but the girl calls him back.

"Sir, please, pay no attention to my grandmother. She's—having a bad day." The brunette moves behind the counter, touches her palm to the coffee pots on the hot plate to determine their warmth, and takes a ceramic cup from under the counter. "Here, let me get you a cup, on the house. Decaf or regular?"

"Decaf," Slightly smiles. "Things are antsy enough already."

Granny shoulders her crossbow. "I'm going back to the hospital."

"No, you're not, Granny," the brunette argues as she pours the coffee and sets out a napkin and a spoon. "David's there; he'll take care of Regina. You'll just make things worse. Sir, would you like to see a menu?"

"I'll be back for dinner later, but right now, I need to find someone. I have a message to deliver." Slightly sits back down, holds out his hand in greeting. "My name's Hayden Caulfield."

The brunette wipes her hands on a towel before accepting his handshake. "I'm Ruby. And that was Granny." She nods to the kitchen door, which has just thumped shut. "She's a great cook. Really. You just caught us at a bad time."

"Do you run the inn next door too? I'm going to need a room for the night, I think."

"We do. I can take you over there when you're ready, get you registered. Who is it you're looking for?"

He pours a little cream into his coffee—it's real cream, not the powered junk—and stirs, allowing the beverage to cool. "Her name is Belle. I don't know her last name."

Ruby suddenly turns away, busying herself with the dishtowel. "That's all right. There's only one Belle in town."

"Where can I find her?"

Ruby still won't look at him and he's beginning to squirm. "I can take the message to her."

He sips his coffee. "Hey, this is good. I'll be looking forward to having dinner here." He sets the mug down and tilts his head, trying to see her face. "The message is very personal. From a friend of hers. I promised I'd see she gets it."

"I see." Ruby turns around and wipes down the counter. "Well, the thing is, I'm not sure where she is right now. There was a disturbance—"

"Regina and Cora."

Ruby jerks her head up and finally looks at him again. "You know about them?"

"I came in on the Jolly Roger," Slightly says gently, "with Rumplestiltskin."

Her mouth drops open. "You're from. . . there?"

He shakes his head. "Not exactly. Have you heard of Neverland?"

Her hand is shaking as she fetches another mug and pours a cup of regular. She grabs a bottle from the liquor stash against the back wall and unscrews the cap, splashing some of the golden brown liquid into her mug. With a raised eyebrow she holds the bottle over his mug; when he nods she adds a splash to his coffee. She sips her Irish coffee thoughtfully, then offers her hand to him, and he shakes it again, puzzled. "I'm Little Red. Of the Enchanted Forest."

He smiles. "I'm Slightly, of the Lost Boys." He reaches into his windbreaker pocket. The letter is crumpled already; he lays it on the counter and smoothes it out carefully. "This letter is from Rumplestiltskin, to the woman he loves."

Red glances from the letter to its bearer, sizing them both up. "It's not his handwriting," she mutters.

"It's mine. He dictated it to me. He couldn't hold the quill."

"I really shouldn't do this, but. . . ." She reads the letter through. "Wow. It's beautiful." She reads it through again. "It's a goodbye letter. Does he still want you to give it to her? Looks like he's going to pull through."

Slightly cocks a smile. "All the more reason she should have this."

Red folds the letter carefully and returns it to him. She leans on her elbows as she considers her decision. "Did he tell you about her? About what Hook did to her?"

The smile vanishes and Slightly sets his coffee cup down. "No."

"Well, it's a long story; if you stick around, you'll probably hear the whole thing. But to get to the point, those of us who live here—we're stuck here. We're under a curse that makes it impossible for us to leave."

"How did Rumplestiltskin manage to come to New York, then?"

"He concocted a curse-breaking potion, but there wasn't much of it. Just enough for one person to go out. Belle went to the town boundary with him to see him off, and Hook followed him. He shot her; she fell over the boundary and the curse wiped out her memory. She doesn't remember her own name, let alone who he is. There's no cure; no medicine, no magic."

Slightly swears and shakes his head slowly.

"So I don't know if this is a good idea, showing her this letter. You see what I mean? I mean, if it was me, this letter would drive me crazy. To find out a guy loved me like that, and now I can't even remember him."

"I see what you mean." Slightly sips his coffee as he thinks it over. "It could hurt—or it jog her memory. Or if she never gets her memory back, maybe this letter could be the start of something new between them."

Red looks at him in surprise. "You sound like a true romantic."

He shrugs. "I've done some realm hopping in my time. There's all kinds of things people believe, but the one constant, I found, is belief in the power of love."

Red makes her choice. "It used to bug Belle that people kept trying to make decisions for her. Let's go ask her if she wants to see this letter or not. I don't know where she is right now, but I think I know who she's with. His office is across the street. We'll start there."

Storybrooke General Hospital 3:13 pm

"Okay, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here," a fresh orderly pokes her head in, and she makes a shooing motion. She seems blithely unaware that a moment ago her co-worker was a small green plant with spikes. "Visiting hours are 7-9 pm. Maximum of two visitors at a time. Out with you now. Mr. Gold needs his rest."

"See ya later, Grampa." Henry gives Gold a quick peck on the cheek. "Glad Hook didn't kill you!"

Gold's eyes widen but he doesn't shrink from the kiss. "Me too," he mumbles. "See ya."

"Call me if she shows up again." David doesn't need to clarify which she he means. As Snow links her arm in his, he takes Henry's hand. "Let's go find your mom, tell her what's happened."

As the visitors say their goodbyes and file out, two remain behind: the silent Mr. Dove, who stands beside his boss' bed, and the perplexed Baelfire. "Never a dull moment," Bae tries to lighten the mood. "Listen, you try to get some rest, huh?" He weighs the dagger in his hand. "I guess I'll find someplace to stash this."

"Far away from Storybrooke," Gold advises. "But not in New York. Hook knows you live there."

Bae slips the dagger into his hoodie. "You, uh, want me to bring you anything? Clothes? Shaving gear? Something to read?"

"Mr. Dove will pack a bag for me."

Bae shuffles from foot to foot, then makes up his mind. "Okay then." He starts forward.

Gold calls him back. "Bae? You and the guys will need a place to stay. I have a four-bedroom house."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"I think that shoe-stealin' bastard took my keys, but Mr. Dove can let you in. You'll need some clothes—Dove will give you my credit card, if Whale didn't swipe that too."

Dove pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against. "I'll take you back to the house, Master Baelfire."

"Okay." Then Bae abruptly wheels and strides back to his father's bedside. He follows his son's example and kisses Gold's cheek, and the old man rolls over and stares up at him. In a hushed tone, Gold says, "Thanks."

Bae seems to have something caught in his throat. "One helluva fight you put up today, Dad. One helluva fight."

"I've had a lot of practice."

"See ya tonight at visiting hour, huh?"

As Dove leads the way from the room, he glances back at his employer. Gold's eyes are ringed with exhaustion, but as he closes them, a small smile steals across his lips—and then becomes a full-blown grin.

He looks so much younger, Dove thinks, when he smiles.

Mayor's mansion 3:30 pm

Regina runs herself a bubble bath. It's hot, steaming hot, yet she steps in without hesitation: she relishes the burn. She sinks in deep and sighs, and she doesn't care when her hair dampens. She slides in all the way, dunking her head under, holding her breath to the count of one hundred thirty—one of many little exercises in discipline that Rumplestiltskin taught her when she first came to the Dark Castle to train with him. When she was young and raw from the loss of Daniel. When she still saw the world in terms of negotiation and compromise.

How long ago was that? She can't tell by looking at herself in the mirror: magic has preserved her beauty and most of her youthfulness, but she has a clue it was a long, long time ago. Many battles, a few losses, and many wins ago.

Has she won this time? Usually her victories are decisive, but this time it was Rumplestiltskin she went up against; even when you win against him, you're liable to feel you've lost. She and Cora failed to accomplish their aims: it was their own fault, for they were pursuing conflicting goals. She'd known that all along, yet she'd hoped in the end Cora would choose family over magic. They lost, but their losses are slight, and they may in the end have gained something with the return of Cora's heart. But Henry. . . standing against her like that, openly defying her, threatening her. Something must be done about Henry; prolonged exposure to the Charmings is corrupting him, and even if she didn't love him—even if she didn't need him—simple logic would dictate that she must win him back.

How could it be that she'd raised this boy from infancy, yet had never seen the signs of his power? Child of Light, Child of Dark: of course he'd be special. Though Gold had arranged the adoption, had set the three-week-old babe in her waiting arms, he, the great prognosticator, hadn't envisioned Henry's future, hadn't sensed the power sleeping in the sleeping child. Before surrendering him, the mighty imp had peered into the face of this baby and had seen his own large brown eyes looking back at him—and hadn't known it. Hadn't recognized his own grandchild. Had surrendered his own flesh and blood to his sometime-enemy/all-the-time rival without the least inkling.

Regina breaks from the water, sputtering and gasping. One hundred fifty!

That was her greatest victory over the Dark One, though it's taken eleven years to be revealed. She giggles, bathwater dripping from her hair into her mouth, and she wonders how long it will take before he comes to the same realization: she has (more or less) legal custody of his son's son. She is the rightful mother of the product of the product of Rumplestiltskin's loins. And she has raised the child who will someday triumph over him. Even more significantly, this has come about not as a scheme of his or a theft of hers, but as an act of the Fates.

The Fates have chosen Regina over him, over Snow, over all of them. The contest isn't over yet, but it's preordained: Regina has won.

Gold's house 3:30 pm

The Lost Boys are respectfully quiet as they enter behind Mr. Dove. No one mentions the fact that the house is pink: considering who the owner is and what he's capable of, he can damn well paint his house any color he likes. Dove shows them around, informs them that they are welcome to enter any unlocked room; the locked rooms, especially the basement, are not to be attempted. Just to emphasize the point (for you can take the Lost Boy out of Neverland but you can't take Neverland out of the Lost Boy), Dove grasps the knob to the basement door and an alarm sounds.

Bae scowls. He has a good idea what's down there.

Before he leaves, Dove gives them his phone number and the credit card, but he adds, "You really don't need it." He instructs Bae, "Anything you want—clothes, food, whatever—while you're here, just say your name and they'll know who to charge it to."

"The power of names." Bae remembers another time, another place, when his father studied that subject in the Dark One's books.

"You probably won't have to do that much," Dove says. "Before the day's out, everyone in town will know who you are."

Nibs asks, "First Lost Boys in Storybrooke?"

"First visitors in Storybrooke. Ever."

"How about that," Nibs muses. "We're a boon to the local economy."

"You guys might want to make a grocery run," Dove advises.

"The kitchen seems pretty well-stocked," Curly reports, his head in the refrigerator.

"Yeah, but everything there is low-fat, no-sodium or decaf. I, uh, do his shopping. The grocer repackages it all for me so that Mr. Gold thinks he's eating regular food." Dove draws himself up to full height. "You won't tell him that, will you?"

The Lost Boys hastily agree to keep the secret. "Okay, boys, let's go shopping," Curly suggests, and Dove hands him a set of keys, pointing out the purpose of each: "House key, garage key, car key."

"Gold must be one generous dude," Nibs speculates. "His credit card, house, car. . . ."

Dove's face is solemn. "Mr. Gold always pays his debts. In his view, he owes you men a favor." As the boys gather at the front door, Dove stops them. "Before you go: Mr. Gold is a private man. Few people have been allowed into his home. He would appreciate it if you wouldn't. . . "

"Go pokin' our noses where we've got no business?" Twin One suggests.

"Blab about what we see here?" Twin Two finishes.

Dove nods. "Know also that Mr. Gold owns most of the property in this town, and as a result, people tend to be envious and resentful. I would appreciate it if you would show some discretion in your replies to any negative comments you hear. There are, after all, two sides to every story."

"Don't we know it," Nibs mutters. "We know a thing or two about being misjudged, Mr. Dove."

Dove nods again and walks with them onto the porch. He points south: "Town square is one mile that way. You'll find a number of shops around the square. Keep going south another mile, then turn right on MacAldonich Avenue. The grocery is on the on the left."

"I'm going to go see Henry. You guys go on without me," Bae says.

"We'll bring you back a change of clothes. Thanks, Mr. D." The boys clamber down the stairs and to the garage. A whoop rises when the garage door does: "It's a Caddy! Boys, we're ridin' in style!"

Dove and Bae chuckle as they watch the Caddy back out of the drive. "I need to gather a few things to take to the hospital," Dove says, opening the front door.

"Mind if I tag along?"

Dove peers at him, then understands what Bae really wants. "Of course, Master Baelfire." As the men pass through the quiet rooms filled with a mismatched collection of antiques, Bae stares. He's trying to learn something about his father by examining how the man lives; Dove understands that and allows him to take his time looking around.

They pass through the parlor to the dining room. "He's cleaned the place up quite a bit in the past few months, getting ready for you. Used to be nearly impossible to navigate these rooms for all the clutter—things waiting to be fixed, cleaned, and taken to the shop."

"He has a shop? What does he sell?"

Dove pauses to look at Bae. The older man's expression tells a rich tale of sadness, determination, trial-and-error-and-trial-again. "I'll be happy to tell you as much as I know, Master Bae. My information is limited; I've been part of his search for only the past two years, since he awoke, but I know the search goes back much, much farther."

"What do you mean, 'since he awoke'?" Bae touches a brightly painted carousel horse that's leaning against an unstrung cello in the dining room. He wonders where the horse came from and what his father means to do with it. There's so much he doesn't know about his father, he realizes—so much he needs to find out before he leaves Storybrooke. . . or stays.

"The curse lifted from him several months before it was broken for the rest of us."

"I want to hear about the curse, and about this town, and Emma and Henry. And him."

"I'm glad to tell you what I know, but I hope you'll ask him too. He'll have no secrets from you. He's been waiting a long time, Master Baelfire."

In a low voice, Bae echoes, "So have I."

Dove leads him to the kitchen and then to the back stairs that lead to the bedrooms. "Mr. Dove, did you know him, back there?"

"He saved my life. I was wounded during the Second Ogres War."

"The Second?" This news lies heavy; somehow, Bae had assumed that one ogres' war would have been enough, after the Dark One ended it. "You were a soldier?"

Dove shakes his head. "A messenger for the Duke of Avonlea." He turns away. "And a preferred pet of his daughter, the Lady Belle. The war was going badly, and the Duke sent me to the Dark Castle with a plea for assistance from your father; I was injured in flight, and your father healed me with his magic. I've worked for him ever since, as a messenger there and a sort of handyman here."

"'Flight'? 'Pet'?"

Dove throws a crooked grin at him. "In those days, I had a different form. The curse changed me—but preserved my name."

"Dove," Bae mutters, then he figures it out. "Dove. You were an actual dove."

Dove has led him upstairs and into a spacious, airy bedroom with a window seat and a four-poster bed. "Your father's room." He opens a closet and finds a suitcase, which he picks up and walks out with.

"Wait, don't you need to pack it?" Bae wonders.

"It's already packed." Dove glances back at him. "It's been packed for two years." He walks back to the hallway. "He'll want his shaving kit."

Bae remains a moment in the bedroom. The furniture and the appointments are nice but nothing extraordinary, but on the dresser is a cluster of framed photos. They're of various sizes, but all of the same subject: a blue-eyed brunette, usually smiling for the camera. Bae picks them up one by one, but he doesn't remember this woman; possibly she isn't from their old world. Her smile isn't of the sort one friend gives another—it's the sort of smile one lover gives another. Bae sets the photos down hastily as he remembers that Emma gave him such a smile—just this morning. Tamara never has.

As he turns to follow Dove to the master bath, Bae spies a sketch mounted on the wall near the closet. It's not the work of some renowned artist, but Bae recognizes it and suspects his father values it as priceless.

Bae remembers clearly the afternoon he posed for this portrait. It was two weeks before Hordor's men robbed the village of Loameth of ten of their children. . .two weeks and three days before Rumplestiltskin the spinner and artist became the seventy-fifth Dark One.

"Master Baelfire?" Suitcase in one hand, shaving kit in the other, Dove appears at Bae's elbow.

Bae clears his throat, still staring at the portrait. So many aches, so many what if's and why's. The shaggy-haired boy in the portrait has such a straightforward gaze, such an open heart. He would've despised the felon and the dodger who stands before him now. Bae truly is a Lost Boy.

"It feels weird," he admits, and Dove knows he means everything here feels weird. He tears his eyes from the portrait. "I'm nobody's 'master' here, Mr. Dove. Call me. . . call me Bae."

Dove bows slightly. "And I'm Frank—though if you call me that when he's around, he'll bark at you for impudence. I need to get back to the hospital, but I can stay a little while. Shall we go down to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee and a chat, Bae?"