Chapter 30

Ambulance 11:40 am

The EMTs have attached all sorts of medical paraphernalia to him. He keeps trying to tell them none of this is necessary, especially not the trip to the hospital; they should just drop him off at his shop and he'll go into his workroom and begin to think about what to do next. For Storybrooke has a major problem on its hands, and nobody seems to realize it, a problem even bigger than Peter Pan (although that problem is pretty huge).

Regina sits in a corner of the ambulance behind him. Although she seems to have recovered, she will require an examination too. Having her behind him where he can't see her aggravates Rumple to no end.

"Why did you lie to Bae?" he hisses.

"Shh, Mr. Gold, try to calm down. Your blood pressure is elevated as it is," an EMT urges, but he ignores the advice and demands again, "Why did you lie?"

"I told him the truth." She leans forward, getting as close to his ear as she can, around the medical equipment. Her breath against his cheek is warm and her voice is velvet. "Just not all of it."

"Why?"

She sits back, pronouncing each word distinctly. "For. My. Mother."

"Isn't it obvious to you? Tamara killed her; I didn't."

She purrs. "I know."

"Then why—"

"Mr. Gold, please, try to relax."

The ambulance hits a pothole and he takes advantage of that distraction to sit up, but they push him back down—gently and respectfully, of course. "The magic will heal me," he insists. "Any minute now. . . . ."

"Of course, Mr. Gold," they agree. "But until then, humor us."

"You're wasting time. We've got a security breach I need to be working on, and enemies at the gate. A very powerful and ruthless enemy; tell them, Regina."

Regina answers coolly, "I don't care. Let Pan have Storybrooke. Let Snow and Emma and Charming die as heroes. Let Pan have Belle for his plaything and you for his welcome mat. I don't care."

"He'll kill you too."

She sniffs. "He won't touch me. I won't be here."

He gets it now. "The beans?"

"My ride home."

He would glare at her if he could, but he has to settle for glaring at the EMT who's monitoring his blood pressure. "I need to go to work, figure out how to mend the breach before he comes barreling in here. Let me get to work—"

"Sure, Mr. Gold, as soon as one of the doc's have looked you over and given the okay." The EMT pushes against his chest, urging him to lie back. He groans but allows himself to be pushed. Arguing with these people is just stealing time away from his thinking. He closes his eyes to concentrate on the breach problem.

It may have happened when the curse was broken, but maybe not: two months had passed between that time and Mendell's appearance in town. But only two days had passed since Gold had shoved Smee over the town line, and only two minutes since Gold himself had crossed the line. The breach, most likely, was caused by the memory-protection potion Gold had created.

In other words, it's his fault. If Storybrooke falls to Peter Pan—or worse, if to magic-seeking tourists and government scientists—it's Gold's fault.

He shakes his head, and his head pounds in protest. Doesn't matter whose fault it is; as the senior mage in the bunch, it's his responsibility to fix the problem anyway. Fault is irrelevant; knowing the cause is necessary only so far as it might reveal the way to a solution. Fault doesn't matter.

Except that it does.

He may be the senior resident mage, with three hundred years of study, observation and practice under his belt, but the truth is, when he created the memory-protection potion he'd been in too much of hurry and he'd ignored protocol. In his hurry to leave Storybrooke, he hadn't carried the experiment far enough. Rumplestiltskin the Master of All Knowledge Magical had screwed up. Worse, he'd known at the time he was doing it that cutting corners was a stupid thing to do.

"Damn," he whispers under his breath. Maybe there ought to be a Magic Review Board, like the one the doctors in this world have. Maybe he ought to create one, if Storybrooke survives this threat. . . put the Blue Fairy in charge of it. . . . . "Damn."

"Mr. Gold?" an EMT asks him. "Did you say something?"

"Why do you keep calling me Mr. Gold?"

The EMTs exchange worried looks. "That's who you are, aren't you?"

"Who I was," he corrects. "But as you can see, the Dark One has returned in all his glory, so you may address me as Rumplestiltskin, dearie." He wiggles his fingers threateningly. Only there's something wrong with his fingers—where are the black claws? Why is his skin soft and pink? And there's something wrong with his voice. Why isn't it high-pitched and nasal?

Regina bursts into laughter.

He sits up, and before they can push him down again he looks at his pants. They aren't leather. He wiggles his fingers again. They should be tingling now; the fingertips should be burning with summoned magic ready to be released. He focuses on his Ferragamos and orders the magic to replace them with his dragon-skin boots.

The EMTs push him back down and he allows it, his head pounding, his wounded thigh on fire. It shouldn't be this way. The magic should have healed him by now—the magic has to heal him—it's the primary law of magic: magic must survive. Even if doing so causes intense pain and permanent damage to the mage, magic will turn in on itself and heal itself. Why isn't that happening?

Why does he still have Ferragamos on his feet?

Storybrooke Sardines 11:40 am

Emma dials her phone and as she waits for Leroy to pick up, she watches Neal. He's cradling his fiancée's body, whispering to her as he brushes the hair back from her face. He needs help now, he needs comforting, but at the same time, the town needs protecting and Emma must be the sheriff first, a friend second. Leroy picks up and reports briefly on the progress of establishing road blocks—seems the dwarves have become very efficient at that task, having had plenty of practice blocking the roads to keep townsfolk from accidentally cross the town line and falling victim of what's being called "the Sneezy Curse." Emma asks him to send two of the dwarves here to help her search for information that might lead to finding Mendell—or learning more about Mendell's employer.

As she hangs up, she reaches out, touching Neal's shoulder. "I'm sorry." It's all she has time to say; it's all she can think to say, anyway. He glares at her: he blames her almost as much as he blames his father. But it's his way: his temper is like a supernova, exploding big before shrinking and cooling. Later, he'll be ready to listen and she'll be ready to talk this out. She dials her phone again to summon the ME's team.

Storybrooke General, Emergency Room 11:50 am

Gold groans as the EMTs transfer him from their gurney to an examining table and he gets a look at the doctor on duty.

"Mr. Gold," Whale greets him heartily. He's putting on his rubber gloves and he snaps the wristband of one of them as a sort of subtle way of reminding the sorcerer who's the boss in this room. "If you wanted an invitation to tonight's poker game, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Son of a slime-lickin' snail," Gold mutters. "You again."

"As I recall, I hadn't released you yet. See what happens when you go sneaking out of the hospital without your doctor's permission?" Whale instructs an orderly, "He's got a leg wound. Cut his trousers."

The orderly snaps a pair of scissors. "Bermuda shorts length, or hot pants length?"

"That wound's on the thigh. Cut 'em off completely."

Gold sits up, shaking a warning finger in the orderly's face. "You're not taking my shoes!" As a familiar brunette nurse enters, he glares at her. "Leave my bloody shoes alone!"

Whale takes a look at Gold's feet. "Yeah, you're right. Those shoes are bloody." He pushes Gold back down. "Take it easy, Gold. You'll get your shoes back when I sign your release. We'll even wash them for you. Now, let's talk about how this"—he pries one of Gold's eyelids up and shines a penlight in it—"this happened. What happened to your magic?"

"Sheep-dip suckin' dung beetle," Gold mutters.

Whale chuckles. "Magic failed you, I take it. Well don't worry; science will fix what your magic can't."

East Storybrooke 11:56 am

Belle and the Lost Boys stand before the Rabbit Hole. She's become suddenly quiet and withdrawn, her cheeks ablaze. As Mitch unlocks the door, she stares at the street, unable to make eye contact with him. Slightly suggests quietly, "We can search here ourselves, if you'd like to wait here and rest."

"No." She raises her chin. "I'll come in."

"Your phone."

She frowns, not understanding. "What?"

"You should answer your phone." And he follows Mitch inside, leaving Belle standing on the street, perplexed—until her phone rings.

Her heart skips a beat, but the caller ID shows her it's Mary Margaret calling, not Rumple. "Hello?"

"Belle, it's Snow." Belle takes notice of which name her caller has chosen to use and wonders at the significance of the choice, particularly since the two women never met in the old world. "I. . . have some bad news."

"Go ahead."

"It's Rumplestiltskin. He's been taken to the hospital. There was a. . . he found Tamara and Greg. They were torturing Regina. He fought them and Tamara was killed; Greg got away. Rumplestiltskin was injured."

"I don't understand. His magic—" Belle struggles for words. "How could he be injured? He can't get hurt; the magic protects him."

"He hit his head, possible concussion. His leg is badly burned."

"But he can't. . . the magic. . ." The street shimmers; Belle finally realizes it's an effect of the tears now filling her eyes. She draws in a breath. "I'm on my way."

"I'll meet you there. I'm sorry, Belle."

She stares at the phone long after Snow has hung up. Slightly appears in the bar's entranceway. "Go," he urges. "We'll keep searching."

She opens and closes her mouth. Words won't come and her feet won't move.

He steps down to the street and squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. "Go on. You need Rumplestiltskin now. Your father can drive you there."

She nods and turns, blindly making her way to the sidewalk. She is knocking on her father's door when she remembers that she has had nothing to do with her father ever since the mine incident, nor he her: all that time she was in the hospital, he never once came to see her. But now is no time for grudges. The hospital is more than five miles from here and she needs a ride. As the curtain over the door's oval window moves and her father peeks out, she swallows her pride, because Rumple needs her.

Or as Slightly so strangely put it, she needs Rumple.

Storybrooke Sardines 12:01 pm

"Henry!" Emma stumbles as her son runs at her and grabs her waist. She hugs him back, then pushes away from him and frowns over his head at Dove, who stands in the manager's office. "You shouldn't be here. This is a crime scene. It's just. . . the dwarves haven't come with the yellow tape yet." There's a warning in her voice: "Mr. Dove. . . ." She shifts her eyes toward the canning room, hoping Dove will understand there's a dead body in there.

"I told him to," Henry says. "I had to come. I had to talk to you."

"I'm sorry, Henry. I need to work. Mendell left a lot of information behind and I need to sort through it." She turns him around and gives him a little push toward Dove. "Please, go back to town with Mr. Dove now."

"I can help." Henry turns back to her. "With the investigation."

"What?"

"I saw what happened."

"You—were here?"

He bobs his head, knowing that punishment will be forthcoming, but he has to live up to his lineage now; he has to join the ranks of heroes. "I heard my mom. She was screaming; they were hurting her, so I came."

Emma kneels to be on eye level with him. "What do you mean, you 'heard' her? You were in the hotel with Granny, weren't you?" She glances at Dove, who nods to confirm her statement.

Henry shrugs. "I heard her in my head. Her magic was blocked off; she couldn't get to it. She needed help, so I—you know—wished myself here."

"She couldn't get to her magic? What are you talking about?"

"They did something. I don't know. It was still there but she couldn't get to it. I could feel it." He sighs. "But she's okay now. She has her magic again."

Emma shakes her head. Gold is going to have to explain this to her; she has no idea what Henry's talking about. But she feels panic creeping in; she asks gently, "Henry, what did you see while you were here?"

In detail that would make any investigator proud, he recounts the events leading to his grandfather's sending him away. What she believed before, Emma now knows for fact: Greg and Tamara came here to kill mages.

She hugs him tightly. "Mr. Dove, please—" She releases him, and Dove steps forward to accept custody. "I'll take care of him, Sheriff."

"I want to go to the hospital," Henry insists. "Grampa needs me."

"No, Henry, I want you someplace safe—" Emma begins.

"Then you have to go to the hospital," Henry demands of Dove. "To protect him. Please. He killed Tamara; Greg wants to kill him." He spins back to his mother. "But it wasn't on purpose; Grampa didn't want to kill her."

"Henry, you told me just a minute ago your grandpa sent you away right after Tamara tried to sedate you. How do you know about Tamara's death?"

"I felt it. I felt what his magic did. She was killing him and he had to stop her. She was taking his magic away so she could kill him, and he stopped her." He turns his arm over and points to the veins in his wrist. "I felt it here."

"What else can you feel, Henry?" Dove asks.

The boy looks over his shoulder. "She took it all. His magic is gone."

What Gold told her before, Emma now knows for fact: Henry has magic that Regina and Rumplestiltskin could only dream of.

Which means Mendell will be after him.

Storybrooke General, Waiting Room 12:20 pm

Snow takes her hand as Belle drops into a Naugahyde lounge chair after yet another unsuccessful trip to the reception desk. "Still no news?"

Belle shakes her head. Her father returns from a vending machine and offers her a cup of coffee. She accepts it, even though she doesn't drink coffee. "Thank you, father."

Moe understands she's referring to more than the drink. "You're welcome." They have much to talk about, but now is not the time for grudges. Now is the time for family, even if Belle has decided the Dark One must be included in the family.

"Try not to worry," Snow urges, but she knows her words carry no weight. "His magic has amazing healing properties. I've seen it heal an arrow wound to a soldier's belly, just like that." She snaps her fingers. "Literally, just like that. Rumple snapped his fingers and the wound disappeared."

"I know," Belle smiles ruefully. "I saw it heal a bullet wound just like that."

Snow chuckles and gives her a hug.

But neither woman will say it aloud: if Rumplestiltskin's magic can heal, why is he here?

Storybrooke General, Room 306, 12:33 pm

Regina is resting comfortably after a thorough examination—but not by Whale. She refused to let the slimy creep put his hands on her; he'd take advantage of the opportunity to cop a feel. Just thinking about him makes her crave a long, hot bath. Well, she can have one soon. Doctor Tippet has assured her that in the morning she will be released; keeping her is just a precaution. Her magic affected her complete recovery, once Mendell's magic-inhibitor had been removed (once Rumple removed it—but she won't think about that, won't think about his rescue of her—she has no doubt he would have walked out on her the way Hook did if Mendell and Tamara had let him).

Let Pan come, hallelujah. Pan will do all the work of destroying her enemies, and with the Charmings engaged in battle, Regina will sweep in, grab Henry before anyone notices her presence, and sweep out again, off to start a new, enemy-free life. Her only regret is that she won't be here to see the end.

Meanwhile, though, she can relish the thought that in the hours they have left to live, the Charmings will be preoccupied chasing their own tails in a mad effort to find Mendell, and best of all, Rumplestiltskin, who knows what's coming, will be powerless to do anything about it. She will have to set some time aside in the next few hours to spy upon him as he frantically struggles to regain his magic and his son, tries and fails, his world unraveling before his very eyes, everything he's stood for, everything he's lived for coming undone.

Regina wonders if there is an afterlife. She's thought about it quite a lot before, in hope that she will see Daniel again. If there is such a thing as a life beyond death, she hopes Cora has a front-row seat to Pan's circus.

A/N. Coming up: showdown with Pan; the end of Storybrooke.