Chapter 19

A/N. A little breather from the action, to give our characters time to reflect and connect (another thing I'd like to see more of in OUAT, especially for those principal relationships that drive the main storyline), but Tamara's on her way. . . .

Archie's Office 4:40 pm

They've had to wait more than an hour for Belle, but Slightly doesn't mind. He's a naturally easy-going guy, and when Red removes her apron and offers to provide a tour of Storybrooke, the wait becomes all the easier. Besides, when Red phones Hopper and learns the reason for the delay, he'd be a cad to be less than patient. So he and Red stroll around the town square, and as she points out the more interesting aspects of what appears on the surface to be a quaint, sleepy village, his hand just naturally reaches out for her non-pointing hand. He can think of no better way to burn an hour.

When Archie and Belle catch up to them outside the former's office, their frazzled state rubs off on Red. Slightly feels sorry—not just for Belle, but for Red, who feels a frustration of her own, that she can't help her friend—can't even tell her the whole truth, because Belle freaks out whenever magic is mentioned, so the whole town has been withholding information from her. Slightly objects to this approach: everyone seems to think that Belle's condition is caused by some physical or emotional trauma, and that when she feels better, her memories will come tiptoeing back. But, he argues, the cause is magic, and time and deception will fix nothing. Of course he's never met Belle; he's not even a native of the Enchanted Forest, so he has no right to speak, he admits. Still, the portrait that Rumplestiltskin painted of Belle, as he lay dying, leads Slightly to think that one of these days soon she will get fed up with the kid-glove treatment and will demand full disclosure.

Red tilts her head to consider his suggestion. "You know," she says at last, "I really hate hiding things from her. But what if the truth about this place pushes her over the edge?"

"Can it be any worse than it is now? She's got to know everyone's lying to her."

"Hmm." Red falls silent until they pass under a clock tower. "It's after five. They should be back from the hospital now."

He can understand the temptation to treat the girl like a china doll, though, Slightly thinks as Red introduces him to Belle and Archie. When she shakes his hand and ducks her head a little, he concludes that she's shy. When he looks into her striking blue eyes, he sees something familiar: she's a Lost one too. He can almost hear the scream behind her eyes. He wonders if Red's right that the letter might make things worse, as it informs her that someone out there loves her deeply and forever, and yet she can't remember a single moment of their time together. But Belle must be allowed to decide how much truth she can handle.

He keeps it short and direct. The way Red and Archie act around her, he suspects she's been kid-glove-handled ever since Hook attacked her, and the plea in her eyes as she looks back at him convinces him she's more than ready for straight talk. So Slightly explains, without sugar-coating, how the letter came to be written. "Mr. Gold's expected to be okay," he assures her. "But under the circumstances, I figured it would do more good if I gave you this letter anyway. He might rather I give it back to him, but I think the ball should be in your court. I mean, if you feel—felt—half as much for him as he feels for you, you're better together. And even if you don't, Hook's still a threat to both of you; I figure you'd be safer if you stuck together. But it's your call." He holds the letter out. "I just don't think you should walk away without at least trying to find out whether you and him were the real deal."

A glance from the corner of his eye tells him Archie thinks this is a mistake, but the shrink won't interfere. But it isn't Archie that Slightly's asking, and maybe if people start giving this girl some information so that she can think for herself, she'll start to feel more like herself. As he holds the letter out and Belle struggles to decide whether to accept it, Slightly begins to doubt himself. After all, he's no shrink; he doesn't even know these people. But he does know Hook, and that's why Belle needs to be brought up to speed as quickly as possible.

And maybe, just a little, he knows Gold. You don't hear a guy pour his heart out to his girl without learning something about him. Yeah, Slightly decides, he's doing the right thing. If Belle and Gold are going to bust up, it should be because they can't stand each other, not because of some pirate. Besides, Slightly would get an immense kick out of seeing the look on Hook's face when he comes roaring back into town and runs smack-dab into a healthy, happy and ready-for-action Mr. and Mrs. Gold.

Belle takes the letter and thanks him. She doesn't open it.

Archie mumbles some polite and trite words signaling a farewell, and Red leads Slightly outside again. His mission over, he can relax now, for the moment—knowing Petey, though, this is just a rest stop. The Boys will be headed back for New York—and Hook—in a day or two. "Little Red," he says, "will you join me for dinner? I'm ready for that menu now."

"A little reward for doing your good deed of the day?"

"Hope so, Red. If you could've heard his voice when he was telling me what to write. . . yeah. A good deed."

Room 304, 5 pm

"How's your Jell-o?"

Gold hasn't touched it, nor the watery beef broth, nor the fat-free yoghurt; he hasn't even drawn the wheeled dinner tray towards him. After an hour of uninterrupted sleep, he was awakened fifteen minutes ago by a disgustingly cheery orderly who still lives with her parents in a symbiotic relationship created by the curse: they live off her income, she lives off them. He knows this because he owns the house they live in. They are not behind in their rent, however, so she can afford to be cheery.

Whale leans against the door jamb. He needs a shave and a comb, but that's okay; Gold is his last patient of the day; he can go home soon. . . to a house Gold owns.

"Little Miss Sunshine woke me from a much needed sleep for this sheep dip." Gold gestures to the tray.

"Well, it's Thursday. Thursdays are sheep dip; Fridays are cow patties. Stick around for Sunday dinner: that's when we serve tonsils, gall bladders, appendixes—all the leftovers from the week's surgeries."

Gold folds his arms. "Mr. Dove will bring me a steak."

"No he won't. You're on a liquid diet for the next three days. Your body took quite a pulverizing; it's not ready for big boy food."

"You're doing this for revenge, aren't you?" Gold mutters. "First my shoes, now my steak."

Whale chuckles. "As a wise man once said, 'Magic, despite all its ancient lore and mystery, is but a candle flickering in the darkness of ignorance, compared to the blazing sun of science.'"

"Yeah, well, I was drugged at the time. When do I get to go home?"

"That's right, you've got a son to go home to now, don't you? Congratulations. You finish your bowl of sheep dip and maybe I'll let you go home on Monday."

"Oh for cryin' out loud, you pill pushin'—"

"'Magic, despite all its ancient lore and mystery'"—and Whale's recitation fades as he wanders back down the hall, to go home.

Gold grabs his phone and texts Mr. Dove: check renewal date for Whale's lease. It's time to raise the needle jockey's rent. And bring me a ste—then he hits the back key and retypes: bowl of soup. Tomato, from Granny's. And my pyjamas.

Room 304, 7 pm

Bae arrives promptly at 7 p.m., the start of visiting hours. Dove beat him to it, waltzing in to Room 304 at a little after 6: the staff pretended not to notice as he walked through the corridors, big and bold as brass. Few people ever bothered Mr. Dove.

"Crap, Dad, you're bleeding!" Bae turns to shout for a doctor but Gold stops him.

"No, no, I'm fine." Gold follows Bae's line of sight to a bright red streak on his pyjamas. "It's soup." He points to the heart monitor to which he's still attached. "It's hard to handle a spoon when you're tied up."

Bae draws up a chair. "Oh. How ya doin'? Get any sleep?"

"I was sleeping fine until the Jell-O Queen woke me and tried to inject me with lemon-lime. How about you?"

"I've been walking around town. Walked Henry back to Emma's, had supper with them. Listen, Dad, as soon as they let you out of here, Emma and the boys and me are going back to New York to look for Hook. We've got to stop him before he comes back here—or before the Bloods or MS-13 get a hold of him."

Gold starts to argue, but it's Bae he's talking to: Bae the bold. And Bae's right: Hook can't be allowed to wander in the non-magical world. So Gold nods and takes a different approach. "Emma, huh?"

"Well, she's good at finding people."

"I see." But clearly, from the sparkle in his eyes, Gold has another thought in mind.

"Don't go there. Dad, I have a girlfriend. Almost a wife. We're planning on getting married on New Year's Day." Bae digs out his phone and shows Gold some photos. "Her name is Tamara. She owns a rare book shop in Manhattan. I've asked her to drive up for the weekend—got her a reservation at Granny's. I, uh, I'd like to bring her by to meet you."

Gold touches the tiny screen as though touching his future daughter-in-law's cheek. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"I haven't told her about Henry yet. Still getting used to the idea of fatherhood, I guess."

"You'll find your way, son. And if she's meant for you, she'll help you find it." Gold's eyes cloud for just a moment as he remembers the women who weren't meant for him: Milah, Cora. . . Belle. He's lived a long time and he knows that sometimes True Love isn't enough.

He recalls an evening just four months ago, he and Belle, relaxing on his couch, her head in his lap, a bowl of popcorn passing between them as they watched a DVD from her ever-expanding collection. A chick flick, he'd thought, but he was so happy just to be with her that it didn't matter if no one got punched out, shot, stabbed or blown up. A classic, she had announced as she pressed the key on his remote. And she was right. As she was about most things. "I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."

Nor do the problems of a former duchess and the former Dark One. The Fates have bigger issues to deal with, apparently.

But after Casablanca, Belle had discovered To Have and Have Not, and then she was hooked. She read biographies of Bogart and Bacall, bought up all their movies. "He was more than 20 years older than she was. He had a reputation for hard living. A tough guy, that's how he wanted the world to see him. But she saw through him. She loved him for everything he was, and he accepted her for everything she was. And in the time they were together, they made each other better."

Gold smiled wryly. "Do I hear a less-than-subtle message here?"

"A proof that love works."

"Oh, I never doubted that, sweetheart." He had kissed her hand. "I've seen your power and I'm in awe of it."

"But you doubt yourself, even now."

"The Dark One is immortal, Belle. I'll never be rid of him."

"Love can break any curse. It worked for Bogie and Bacall. Why shouldn't it work for Rumplestiltskin and Belle?"

"My eternal optimist. Keep believing, Belle, and I'll do my best to believe too."

"Tell me about her," Gold urges. "Tell me about Tamara." And he watches closely as Bae describes his wife-to-be. . . and he begins to wonder, because he sees neither excitement nor sentiment in his son's expression as he tells the story. Rather, what he sees is a lonely man who's found someone to lean on.

A tendency to run away isn't the only quality that's been passed down through this family, Gold thinks with shame; so has the dependence upon crutches. But maybe the Fates strengthened the bloodline when they introduced the DNA of heroes. Henry will break his paternal line's curse of cowardice.

And if Bae sticks around, maybe he'll wake up to the opportunity that's been sat in his lap: the father and the son who are waiting for him—and the wife that the Fates selected for him. Nothing against Tamara—Gold is sure she must be a nice enough woman, if Bae cares for her—but he's equally sure she's not meant to be Bae's wife. In the threads of life Clotho has woven for this family, Bae already has a wife.

Maybe this excursion to hunt down Hook will serve a higher purpose.

Room 666, 7 pm

Cora is awake, sitting up and flipping through a worn issue of House Beautiful. That's the first thing Regina notices as she sails, head high, past one of the dwarves (she's not sure which, but at least it's not the pushy drunk).

Cora hasn't touched the meal on her tray: the grilled fish, fruit cocktail, wheat roll and green beans. That's the next thing Regina notices.

"You really should try to eat something," Regina prompts. She's nervous, and when she gets nervous she gets bossy. She doesn't know what to expect: after all, she's never spoken to her mother under such circumstances—Cora sick, vulnerable. . . and carrying her heart inside her. "You need nourishment."

"I need food," Cora complains. "This is. . .what do you call that material you people make boxes out of?"

"Cardboard." Clue number one that Cora hasn't changed: she lumped her daughter in with "people."

"My magic seems to have dissipated," Cora says. "Would you mind? I'd really like a meal like you cooked for me last night."

"I'm sure your magic will return when you're better. And I'm sure the hospital meal would be better for you than steak and potatoes." Regina sits down in the guest chair. "How do you feel, Mother? Did you get some rest?"

"At least they've unhooked me from those infernal machines. The doctor says I can go home on Monday." She looks meaningfully at her daughter; she's waiting for an invitation that doesn't come. Of course she will live with Regina, but Regina doesn't have to like it. Cora turns the magazine around and points to a five-piece bedroom set. "Isn't this lovely, dear? Of course, the way you have the guest room decorated now is nice, but the mattress is rather lumpy, and I thought, as long as we're replacing the bed, why not get something more modern?"

Regina glances at the glossy spread. "Mother, that magazine is from 1985."

Cora frowns slightly. "And what year is this?"

Regina leans forward, pushing the magazine away. "Mother, this is my world. Not yours."

Cora's lips quiver a little. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to listen to me."

Cora folds the magazine and stares at her hands. "It is your world, and without magic, I'm powerless."

"I didn't mean it that—"

"No. You're right, Regina. I understand that now. But you must understand, I was the decision maker for so long. I was always the one who knew what to do, and when. But this is your world, your life, and all I want is to be part of it. If you'll let me in?" She strokes Regina's hair, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she's mussing up a carefully styled 'do. "Things are different now. That thirst for control, that hunger for power; I don't feel any of that now. What I feel"—she places her hand over her heart—"for the first time, what I feel is a need for other people. I want to get to know you, Regina: I realize now I never did. And Henry—I want to know him and get to love him too."

Regina narrows her eyes. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"I had power. I had status and wealth. I had them on their knees, and I felt nothing." She brushes a stray lock from Regina's forehead. "When I awoke this evening, for the first time that I can remember, I felt content. I had a home and a daughter to go back to, and that meant more to me than all the titles and all the toadies I had in the old world."

"Really, Mother?"

"Really." She rubs Regina's back in little circles. "When power is all you know, force is how you get things done. I can feel it now, Regina, that we went about this in the wrong way. If we want Henry in our family, we need to give him the sort of family he wants to belong to. Tell me about Henry, darling. Help me to understand him."

Regina rests her head against her mother's shoulder and begins to talk.

Room 304, 9 pm

A woman in white wanders in, pokes a thermometer in his mouth and straps a blood pressure cuff onto his arm. "Time to say your goodbyes," she cautions the visitors. She knows one of them, the sheriff; the other is one of the strangers she's been hearing about. There's another man, a big, solemn man standing in the corner, but she doesn't count him as a visitor. She doesn't remember his name, but she knows he's here to guard the patient, and considering the afternoon's disturbance, that's a good thing and she won't interfere. To the others she says, "You can come back at 10 tomorrow morning."

"Sorry, Dad, maybe she'll come tomorrow," Bae says. Earlier tonight, he informed Gold that Slightly delivered the letter to Belle and updated her on Gold's condition; they've both been glancing at the doorway every five minutes just in case. "Guess we'd better head out."

"You guys got everything you need, then?"

"Yeah. I'll see you at 10." Bae stands, pats his father's shoulder. "Sleep well."

Gold raises himself. His chest still hurts but another ache needs tending to. He closes his hands, now free of all electronics, around his son's cheek and draws him in. In a whisper—for he is Gold, and he has an image to maintain—he says, "I love you, son." He presses his lips to Bae's forehead.

"Love you too, Dad."

Bae stands back, and Emma, scrunching up her face, slides her arms about Gold's shoulders. "I know you're not the hugging type; me neither, but I'll never hear the end of it if I don't pass this along for Henry."

Gold allows the hug. Maybe he even hugs back, just a little. It's none of his business—Bae and Emma are adults; they know their own hearts—but he's just one kiss shy of calling Emma "daughter." Well, if there's one thing Rumplestiltskin has learned over three centuries of studying human nature, it's that when it comes to love, people have to find their own way.

And if there's one thing he knows about Emma, it's that she can find anybody, even a Lost Boy.

Gold's house, 10 pm

Falling back into old, bachelor habits, the Lost Boys are downstairs in the living room, watching TV and eating pizza. This has been an adventure for them, and despite protests from wives, girlfriends/boyfriends and employers, they're going to see it through, until Hook has been sent back to Neverland (or if magic can't accomplish that, to jail). Hook is their problem; Hook, they understand. The other troublemakers—the witches they've been hearing about—they'll leave to Rumplestiltskin and Petey.

Bae is upstairs. In selecting their rooms for the night, the Boys naturally steered clear of the master bedroom: it's only right that Petey should have that one. But Petey surprised them, claiming, without explanation, the smallest of the four bedrooms, the one closest to the master bedroom. He's there now, lying in the dark in the twin bed. Too much has happened today and there's too little he's learned, so he's restless, but he now has a warm, comfortable feeling that was never there before, like he's just filled in the last pieces of a jigsaw it's taken years to put together and though it looks nothing like the picture on the box, the image this puzzle has formed pleases him. Maybe, even, it's better than he'd expected.

When he first entered this room, however, he had a moment of doubt. The furnishings here are all half-size. The dresser is filled with t-shirts, jeans, jockey shorts and socks for a kid; the trunk at the foot of the bed is filled with sports equipment. The closet's filled with toys and games.

Dove had told him a bunch of other stuff this afternoon—Bae now even knows what kind of music the old man listens to when he thinks nobody's around. So why the hell didn't Dove tell him he had a brother?

Because clearly he does. What else is this bedroom for, if not some kid? And where is he now, this kid? More aggressively, Bae digs through the room's holdings again, seeking clues. He's pissed when he finds his old fishing pole on the closet shelf. Not that he would want it back, but it kind of bugs him that the old man's giving away his stuff without asking.

From the stuff in the trunk, it's apparent the kid likes pretty much the same activities Bae did—or would have, if he'd grown up here. The books are all action-adventure stories; some of them are the choose-your-own ending type. Bae would've liked these when he was a kid, if they could've afforded books. In the closet is a chemistry kit—oh ho, sneaky old Rumple is trying to win the new kid over to magic by introducing him to the wonders of science.

Something odd, though: none of the boxes have been opened. None of the clothes have been removed from their packaging. Huh. Maybe it's like his situation with Henry: maybe Gold's a weekend father, with the weekends being months or years apart.

Bae can almost feel sorry for the old man. Losing two sons has got to hurt.

He sits down on the bed and idly flips through some of the books. He wonders if he'll meet his brother before he and Emma take off for New York.

Downstairs, the boys break out in raucous laughter; they're watching a classic they rented at the grocery: Animal House. Thanks to Mr. Dove, Bae knows his father's a closet Westerns aficionado, but he never watches the same movie twice.

Bae picks up Riders of the Purple Sage, wonders if they've read it together, Rumple and his son. He flips back the cover and finds a nameplate—and that changes everything. Now he understands what this room is for, and now he knows his father, for all his prophecy and research, would have been better off if he'd brushed up on basic arithmetic, because Rumple's calculations were off by about 220 years.

The name inscribed in the book is Baelfire.

Room 304, 10 pm

The evil nurse has turned out the lights and has banished Dove to the hallway. She made him put his phone in a drawer, but not before he checked one last time for messages (several get-well wishes but none from the person he most wishes to hear from tonight). After the lights went out, he poked around among the plants on his nightstand: no roses, no cards signed "Belle."

Of course not. It wouldn't have been logical. To her, he's a stranger, maybe even a stalker.

He lies back. He should send Dove home, but the man would only come back. It's perplexing: he doesn't pay Dove well enough to merit such loyalty.

He closes his eyes, but he won't sleep. Won't, not can't. He'll never admit it to Frankenstein, but that pain-killer he prescribed works pretty well. Gold won't sleep, though, because he doesn't want to dream. If he dreams, it's likely to be of that endless stretch of empty rooms. He doesn't ever want to go back there, even in his thoughts. It's what he deserves, it's his destiny, but he's going to run from it as long as he can. Besides, he has too much to live for now.

Granny's B & B, Room 7, 10 pm

The girl the hospital calls Jane Doe shivers. It's not that the room is cold; oh no, Granny turned the heat on when she brought her up here after supper. It's just that she's uncomfortable being behind a closed door with no nurse to check up on her every two hours. There's no one in rooms 1-6 (Granny and Ruby live in an apartment on the third floor), but Granny left the hallway light on so that it kind of reminds Jane of the hospital. Jane turns on the little TV and tries to fall asleep to the classic movie channel.

"You know, Steve, you're not very hard to figure. Only at times. Sometimes I know exactly what you're going to say. Most of the time. The other times—the other times, you're just a stinker."

She keeps stealing glances at the letter that Ruby and that guy Slightly brought her today.

"My darling Belle."

But her name isn't Belle. She doesn't know what it is, but she's sure it's not that, and that old man in black who kept sneaking into her room isn't someone she knows or wants to know. She tried to tell Slightly that, but he pressed the letter into her hand anyway and said it was her choice whether to read it or not, but if she did, maybe it would help.

My darling Belle,

Hook has had his revenge at last. In all worlds, even this one, with its dependence on the rule of law, justice demands a life for a life, and I have escaped justice for more years than anyone in this world has been alive. If you ever remember me, don't be sorry for me, Belle. I have a lot to answer for. I caused havoc and destruction in too many lives. Some of it I thought I was doing in the name of justice; all of it, I thought I had the right to do, because of what was done to me. But even after the Dark One took my soul I knew the ends would never justify my means.

But you, Belle, have a world awaiting you, and life and love to be pursued, as you have always done, whole-heartedly, fearlessly. Go out into the world, Belle; you will find yourself there. Don't worry about the memories you can't recover. Fate is giving you a second life, blessing you with freedom from the past. No matter what you can or can't remember, you will become the woman you're meant to be if you listen to your heart.

But if you do remember anything about me, let it be that when I was lost in the vortex, only you had the courage to reach out your hand to me, and when I was hiding behind the mask of the monster, only you had the faith to try to love me. You are an uncoverer of the truth, a recoverer of the lost. That is power of the kind the world needs far more than the power I pursued.

Go out and wield your power, Belle. And know that it's not fear I'm hanging onto any more. In the end, you really did recover me.

Love,

Rumple

She shared the letter with Archie. He just looked sad and gave it back. "I'm sure he seems creepy—before yesterday, most of us would have agreed with you on that. But he was dying when he wrote this. I think you should believe it's what he really feels, and a man who can feel like this, maybe there's more to him than we gave him credit for."

"Are you saying I should go see him in the hospital?"

"Not if you think it will upset you. You've been through enough. And there is time enough, if you change your mind: Gold's recovering nicely."

In the end, you really did recover me.

She dozes off in Granny's soft, deep bed, the letter and the remote in her lap and Bacall's purr weaving through her dreams. "You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and. . . blow."