Chapter 20

Storybrooke General Room 304, Friday, 9am

Whale is standing over his impatient but impeccably dressed patient. "So got chilly in our hospital gown, did you? Or was it just your maidenly modesty?"

Gold tugs at the cuffs of his midnight blue silk shirt. "I'm on to your little games, Doctor. Those hospital gowns are just to make certain the patients won't sneak out without paying the bill."

Whale chuckles. "Nah, the gowns are to keep you patients too embarrassed to argue with us when we jab you with our needles."

"Regardless, no amount of intimidation on your part will get me back into one of those perverted excuses for nightwear—nor make me forget that you swiped my shoes."

Whale displays his foot, now shod in (Gold shudders) Hush Puppies. "I'll get 'em back to you. They aggravated my bunions. You got some tiny feet on you, Gold."

"Large enough for me to plant one of them in your arse," Gold mutters.

Whale ignores the remark by scanning through some lab reports on his Ipad, and he's taking his sweet time about it, too. He's not trying to decide anything or figure anything out; by biding his time, he's reminding the patient just how complicated the practice of medicine is, and by so doing he's preserving the healer mythology. Gold knows this and he taps his fingers on the bed. In the mythology of his own profession, the opposite is practiced: a good mage never lets his clients see him sweat. Interestingly, Gold has found these two mythologies adhered to in every land he's visited: those who heal with science would have the public see their work as a highly advanced skill, years in the making; but those who heal (or harm) with magic would have the public see their work as an effortless talent, bestowed by the gods upon select few.

Whichever side of the fence one stands on, Gold thinks, it's all a part of the show, and the better the show put on by the practitioner, the higher the price that may be charged.

"No trace of the poison," Whale says, and he tries to keep it out of his voice that this statement is an admission of the success of Gold's potion. "No organ damage." He casts a wicked glance at Gold. "No apparent brain damage."

Gold sniffs, taking the remark as an insult of sorts.

"We'll need to watch that wound for infection, keep it bandaged another couple of days, and then let it get some exposure to air. Your blood pressure's elevated; could just be white coat syndrome, though. People often get nervous around doctors."

This time Gold snorts.

"I hear our hospital food's not good enough for you. Just make sure whatever you sneak in is low-sodium—and liquid. No solids yet." Whale sets the Ipad aside and pulls down the skin under Gold's eyes to examine the whites. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

Gold wrinkles his nose. "With the noise and the odors, how can one be expected to rest here?"

Whale steps back and picks up his Ipad again. "Look, I'll share a trade secret: sleep is a powerful medication. Get some." He types some notes, then pauses. "Considering that the man who nearly murdered you is still on the loose, anybody'd be stressed out. It'd do you some good to talk to Archie."

"Archie's where he needs to be." They both know he means helping Belle. "If I'd run crying to a shrink every time someone made an attempt on my life, Archie would be the proud owner of a rather large estate and I'd be in the poorhouse."

Whale shrugs; he's known Gold too long to waste his breath on this argument. But he has another approach: "Hey, I'm on ER duty tonight, but usually that just means it's my turn to buy the sandwiches for the poker game we got going on in the doctors' lounge. I don't expect it to be any different tonight; the three of you seem to be mending all right."

"Our motorist friend from Pennsylvania—how soon can he be ushered out of town?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. We're releasing him today, but he already said he's going to stick around a few days. Says he likes the 'ambiance' of our quaint little village."

"You know, don't you, that the only reason he's still alive is that Regina's been distracted lately and he's managed to slip under her radar."

Whale rubs the back of his neck—funny how any mention of Regina tends to produce sudden neck pains in most people. "Yeah. He's lucky she hasn't turned him into a tree frog or something. David's keeping an eye on her, as best he can, since she keeps vanishing in clouds of smoke. And Emma's got constant surveillance on Cora, so we may have a day or two of peace and quiet. Anyway, as I was starting to say, if you can't sleep tonight, the game starts at 10. Bring cash."

"Only if you bring my shoes."

"Penny pinching old shyster," Whale snipes.

"Shoe stealin' old witch doctor," Gold snipes back.

Whale laughs in surprise. "Hey, considering I got Cora upstairs and you here, I guess that does make me a witch doctor." He pats Gold's shoulder. "See you tonight, Gold."

"See you tonight, Victor." Something new, now ingrained in him by a woman who insisted she saw good in him, pushes Gold to add, "Hey, Victor—thanks for the science."

Whale taps his Ipad against his left arm. "Thanks for the magic."

As soon as Whale has gone, Gold yanks his phone from under his pillow and shoots off a text message: Bring me that copy of Poker for Dummies that's in the discard box in the workroom. And a bowl of clam chowder. This is his first invitation to a poker game, but Gold's not about to let Frankenstein know that.

He might want to be invited back again.

Mayor's mansion, 9:15 am

So Gold didn't sleep last night.

Regina's heels strike the kitchen tiles, making a sound like two pistols being shot off, as she loads her dishwasher. She's just been to the hospital to bring Cora a decent breakfast (eggs benedict, fresh fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice from Granny's. No mother of the Queen's is going to eat that slop the hospital calls food) and they've had a long, friendly chat—after chasing away the dwarf on guard duty and the orderly who dared to insist "Visiting hours don't start until 10 a.m."

A long, friendly, informative chat, wherein Regina learned for the first time just how her mother acquired magic. Until then, Regina had assumed, based on the tale her father told, that Rumplestiltskin's role in Cora's life had been limited to that of teacher. Now she knows it was so much more: corrupter (of course, it makes sense now! Hadn't he done to same to Regina?), abuser. . . and seducer.

Cora hid her face in her hands as she exposed the bitter truth—as though she were giving a confession, as though she had cause to feel shame! Regina had grasped her hands and pried them away to allow the tears to flow freely, and then she took her mother in her arms and assured her she had nothing to feel guilty for. "I understand now," Regina cooed, stroking her mother's hair. "I understand everything, and it's not your fault."

"It was him who came between your father and me," Cora sobs. "He used his magic on me. I couldn't fight it; you know how powerful he is. He used me and when another toy came along for him to play with, he abandoned me, left your father to pick up the pieces. Well, I was so crushed, I couldn't bear the pain, and that's when I took out my own heart. It was the only way I could live with myself. . . with what he'd done to me."

And then Regina made her promise: for every minute of shame, regret, humiliation and emptiness that he had made Cora feel, Regina will extract an hour of agony from the giggling torturer. He's weak now, exhausted, distracted by his son and Hook; this is the time to mete out justice. Regina promises her mother she will strike directly at the monster's heart—except, unlike Hook, she won't be quite so literal.

The Charmings' apartment, 9:15 am

Emma awakes with a start and slaps at her alarm clock, which she assumes is broken until she examines it and finds the alarm was turned off. Mary Margaret greets her at the foot of the stairs with a cup of cocoa. "I don't have time for breakfast," Emma puffs on the cocoa to cool it. "I overslept. I was sure I set my alarm."

"I turned it off." Before Emma can argue, Mary Margaret rushes on, "You really needed the rest, Emma. Think about everything you went through yesterday."

"I got one witch and one evil sorcerer in the hospital, and another witch running loose. I'm going to be fighting magic all day today."

"All the more reason for you to start the day rested."

One of these days, Emma decides, she's going to have to have a long talk with Mary Margaret about her attempts at mothering. Not that Emma doesn't appreciate the attention and the concern, but she is, after all, kinda-sorta the same age as Mary Margaret now, and besides, she's got a public image to think of: she's the sheriff.

As she grabs her jacket and runs out to her Bug, she shakes her head to clear it. Geez, this whole town is full of reunited parents and children all trying to work out their confused relationships. If she were a psychiatrist instead of a sheriff, she'd be inclined to think the curse wasn't really about revenge against Snow White: it was about Regina's mommy issues, and all these other sets of parents and kids are just living Barbie and Ken dolls that Regina's using to figure out how to handle Cora.

Thank the gods she's the sheriff and not a shrink. Fighting dragons and one-handed pirates is rough enough: Emma can't imagine having to counsel all those screwed up moms and dads. Once she and Neal (or should she start calling him "Baelfire" now?) haul Hook's behind back into Storybrooke and send him packing, Emma thinks she'll take a nice, relaxing vacation—like, a campout in a rattlesnake pit.

Granny's, 10 am

Slightly perches on a vacant red pleather stool. For most of Storybrooke, breakfast was over a couple of hours ago, so the restaurant contains only a few Saturday morning shoppers grabbing a cup of joe before they hit the bricks. That's just as Slightly planned. Bae's gone off to the hospital for visiting hours, Dove's catching some much-needed sleep, and Henry's rounded up some neighborhood kids to play against the Lost Boys in a game of baseball, so Slightly's got time for himself. . . time for Red.

"Oh, hi," she dimples as she emerges from the kitchen with a rack of freshly washed glasses.

"Hi yourself. Came by for another cup of Granny's coffee—and to thank you for your hospitality yesterday."

"My pleasure. You're our first tourist, you know." She slides the rack under the counter and fetches a mug, which she fills with decaf and sets in front of him. She busies herself by straightening the napkin holders and condiments on the counter, and he understands why: she'd like to chat with him, but she's not sure if it's she or the coffee he's really come for. Or more likely, additional information.

He knows what she's feeling because it's what he's feeling. Is she being friendly with him because he's a customer or. . . ? "I think she's going to go see him today," he blurts, and then he reddens and has to explain himself. "Belle, I mean. Go see Rumplestiltskin."

Red sets her chin in her hand and thinks about it. "I don't know, maybe. Belle would do it—Belle would've climbed up a tree and snuck into his window last night so she could be alone with him after visiting hours. But. . . ." Red shrugs.

"Love is more than shared memories, Red," he says. "It's a jumble of other things too: chemistry, a gut-level trust, a communication between souls, and a heavy dose of alchemy performed by the Fates."

"I hope you're right, because there doesn't seem to be much hope of them reclaiming those shared memories." Red runs her finger through the ring of moisture his coffee mug has left on the counter. "You seem to know a lot about romance, for a guy."

"I've seen the power of True Love overcome the most impossible obstacles. Can I tell you another secret, Red?"

Now she brightens and leans forward to whisper, "I won't tell a soul."

He leans forward too and sets his hand on top of hers. "After I left Neverland, I wandered from world to world for several years, still a Lost Boy, even though I was full grown by then. And then I went to work for a powerful being, and these things I'm talking about, I saw happening right before my eyes, though I've yet to experience them myself, and I wasn't lost any more."

She frowns a little, perplexed. "I don't follow you."

He lowers his voice. "Bae thinks it's just a stroke of luck that the other guys and I happened to be in New York, where he could find us. But the truth is, my employer set it up that way, so that we could be here to help. You probably think that the Blue Fairy and Regina and Rumplestiltskin are the most powerful mages in the world."

She nods, confirming it. "Aren't they?"

He shakes his head. "There are those who are more powerful, and who have a keen interest in what develops here. Plans, you might say—well, hopes would be a more accurate word. Little Red, there are certain broken relationships that have to be mended, certain hearts that have to be healed, in order for good to win. Because for good to truly win, it's not by destroying evil—it's by converting it."

Red is beginning to catch on. "Slightly, who sent you here?"

He raises from the stool so he can whisper in her ear, "My employer was—and is—the Goddess of Love."

Storybrooke General Room 304, 10 am

"How'd you sleep, Dad?" Bae's entire posture has changed overnight: he saunters into the hospital room, his eyes fixed on the patient, his smile wide and unguarded. Gold wonders what's got into him, but he's not going to risk upsetting the applecart by asking; he's just going to accept it gratefully. Bae plants himself in the guest chair, still parked near the bed from last night's visit.

Gold would love to open up too, but that's never been in his nature. Even when he was a young man, sound of limb and newly wed, he kept his thoughts to himself. The son of the town coward dare not draw undue attention to himself, so Rumplestiltskin had never confided in anyone, not even his wife. It was through a bargain with her father, not through a mutual attraction, that he won Milah's hand in marriage, and though he thought he had eventually earned her affection, he suspected he'd never earned her respect.

But oh, he wishes he could tell Bae of his journey yesterday to the Afterlife, confess his fears, and receive in return the reassurance that free will still reigns and the Dark One has a choice whether he ends in Paradise or Hell.

Through his open door he watches Mother Superior pass by, on her way to visit some patient perhaps—but she won't visit Rumplestiltskin. He burned that bridge to the ground long ago.

Gold sidesteps his son's question. "I'll be glad when I get a decent meal."

Bae winks. "Now, Dad, tell the truth: Dove's been sneaking food in, hasn't he?"

"Yeah, but—soup! That's just an appetizer. I want steak, roast beef—even a turkey sandwich would help." They chuckle a bit, then Gold grows serious. "Bae, I wanted to say thanks. For bringing me here, and for sticking around a while."

"I wanted to," Bae says, then he tries to lighten the mood. "Hey, Mr. Dove showed us your shop this morning. Was that my old kickball you've got displayed in the window?"

"It is indeed. I managed to bring a few things over from the old world."

"Would you mind if I give it to Henry?"

Gold grins. "That's the perfect home for it." Then he grows quiet. "You hanging in there, Bae? A helluva lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours."

"Yeah." Bae sighs. "Tamara will be here this afternoon, so some degree of normalcy will return. I hope."

"She gives you a sense of stability?"

"She does, Dad. She's a strong woman. Good listener. And always looks on the bright side; that's something I need."

The hole in his chest gives Gold a sudden stabbing pain, but he masks it. "I'm glad she's in your life, then. Everyone needs someone like that."

"Dad, those photos in your house—is she your normal?"

Gold drops his gaze. "When you were talking about Tamara, that could've been me talking about Belle. But I don't see an engagement in our future. I'd walk away from everything I own without a second glance if I could only change that."

"Sorry, Dad." Bae never has been good at the social niceties; he doesn't know what to say.

Gold clears his throat. "Bae, we need to talk about Henry."

"Don't worry, Dad, my running days are over. Tamara's convinced me to settle down. I have a pretty good job now: I install home security systems, make a decent living. And New York's not that far away. I'll be back a couple of times a month, and Henry can come see me during his school breaks, if it's okay with Emma."

"Well, his situation is complicated. You need to be prepared: there may be a custody battle, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure Emma can win." He explains the circumstances of Henry's adoption, admitting that he had acted as the legal go-between.

"Wow, Dad." Bae begins to pace; it's too coincidental to take at face value. "Wow. And you had no idea?"

"None." Gold shakes his head in disbelief. "I arranged for the adoption of my own grandchild—to a woman who would just as soon kill me as look at me. And I wasn't aware of either one of those facts at the time." He then explains about the curse. "For twenty-eight years, I thought I was just an ill-tempered recluse with a bum ankle and a lot of money, and I thought Regina was just a control freak in a pencil skirt. And then Emma rode in on her little yellow Bug and changed everything just by introducing herself."

"So how did it happen? I mean, it's creepy. There are, like, 7 billion people in the world. There must be a million adoptable kids. How did one man, in one small town, happen to randomly choose the one baby in the world that he's related to?"

"And adopt that baby out to the last person in the world he would've chosen. Bae, you've got to believe me, there's no way in six hells that I would've given Henry to her, if I'd been awake at the time." Gold has trouble sustaining eye contact, but he has to try: the fragile relationship he's building with Bae depends upon their willingness to believe each other.

"It's not the first time magic has f—d things up for us," Bae grumbles. "But I dunno, if anybody but Regina had adopted Henry, Henry wouldn't have tried to find his birth mother. Emma never would have come back into his life and the curse never would have broken. And I," his tone turns bitter, "never would've known I have a son."

"Now that we know—"

"I'm going to do everything I can be a good father to him."

"And I'll do everything I can to protect him, with the law or with magic," Gold promises. "But Bae, you need to always bear in mind: Henry's no ordinary child. You could try to deny him the use of his magic, but son, magic is what he was born for, and there's a reason he was chosen to have it. We may never see that reason, but you can be sure it's there: the Fates wouldn't have gone to so much work to set this up if they didn't have a need for Henry. And Bae, if the Fates are involved, as I suspect they are, there's nothing you or I or anyone else can do to prevent Henry from fulfilling his purpose."

Bae thinks this over. "Is that true for the Dark One too, Dad? Nothing you or I or anyone else could've done to prevent you from becoming the Dark One?"

"I wish I could make things easier on both of us and say yes, but the truth is, I don't know. If my life as the Dark One had any bigger purpose, I haven't seen it yet." He lowers his head. "And if what I saw of the Afterlife is any indication, I'd have to say my being the Dark One served no one's purpose other than my own: to prevent you from being drafted, to find you again when I lost you—and to protect myself from people like Hordor."

"You talk about it like your life is over. Seems to me there are people who need you. Henry and Emma, for two, and Belle, and me."

Impulsively, Gold grasps Bae's hand. It's a display of sentiment, and perhaps sentiment is weakness, but he can't help it.

"And if Henry's going to be a game changer like you say, seems like the Fates need you too, to mentor him." Bae squirms; it's too soon in their new relationship to swim in such deep waters of conversation. He shifts the topic onto more neutral ground. "Something I've been wondering about. You said Henry's got the powers of both Light and Dark magic. I get where the Light magic came from, but you became the Dark One after I was born, so if there is a 'magic gene' I wouldn't have had it to pass on to Henry."

Gold's dark eyes twinkle. "Son, did you ever wonder where fairies come from?"

A bubble of surprised laughter bursts from Bae's chest. "If this is going to be my 'birds and the bees' talk, you're a few years too late, Dad."

"Think about it," Gold presses. "Have you ever seen a male fairy?"

"No."

"Nor has there ever been a child of a Dark One. Magic isn't genetic, Bae; it's an assignment. The Fates choose who will carry the burden. The preferred victim is usually a desperate soul, because those are the people who will seek out magic—and use it. A contented man might dabble out of curiosity, but he will not surrender himself, body and soul, to magic. Magic is meant to be used. Along with disasters and diseases and decay, magic is how the Fates make dramatic changes in the world when Nature and mankind are moving too slowly.

"Henry is an anomaly, one of a kind. Never before have the Fates mixed Light and Dark magic. My hunch is that it will never happen again. I think this particular child was chosen for this particular moment in history because this world is ready for a cataclysmic change, and the bearer of this new magic must be nurtured equally by both forces, that is, by both Emma's side of the family and yours. If Henry is to fulfill his destiny, you and I must be involved in his life, just as much as the Nolans are. The Fates chose to place this boy between these two families, the House of Good and the House of Evil, to be created by both, to be nurtured by both."

So the topic Bae thought would be relatively shallow has turned deep. "Maybe to demolish both."

"Or to repair both," Gold amends. "The decision will be Henry's."

"What a crappy fate. Why couldn't the Fates have chosen him to be a plumber or a cab driver?"

"Indeed."