Chapter 36

A/N. U2's "All Because of You" inspired this chapter.

Storybrooke General Room 304, Monday, 6 am

He's walking down a long corridor, the walls of which are painted white. He's leaning heavily on his cane; with each step, he leans a little heavier as exhaustion creeps up behind him and slips its cool, dry hands around his throat. He has a vague sense that he's required to keep going, although he doesn't know where: just forward. It seems he's been walking this way for years. He glances up to gain his bearings: the ceiling, so low he could touch it if he stretched his cane up, is painted white. The floor, which absorbs his footfalls and his cane's tap, is painted white. In all this whiteness, he's lost his sense of distance and time.

He craves sound, to give him some sense of the natural, but the harder his feet impact the floor, the more unnatural the silence feels. He breathes heavily, but he can't hear his breath. He calls, but he can't hear his voice: Bae. Belle.

Regina.

All along the corridor he's passed empty rooms, their open doors presenting a promise of more white, more nothing. It occurs to him this journey and all the effort he's put into it have been for nothing: there is nothing to be achieved, no one to see what he's accomplished. Whether he continues, as he's required to, or whether he quits, his choice will mean nothing. Whether he continues, as he's required to do, or whether he quits—that's the last choice left to him. Defeated, he walks into one of the rooms—it doesn't matter which—and slumps to the floor, his back pressed against the white wall.

"It doesn't have to be that way."

Gold thrashes in his sheets, his thigh burning. A hand clamps on his shoulder to steady him. "Shh. Sorry, Mr. G. I was in the hall, taking my turn at guard duty, and I heard you. . . ."

As Gold sits up and twists to the right to eye the intruder, a light in the man's hands comes on. Gold blinks, forcing his vision to adjust to the sudden infusion of light, then glances up to identify the intruder. "Mr. Slightly. What—" before he can finish his question, he glances toward Regina's bed.

It's empty.

"It's okay, she's just running a quick errand. She'll be back in ten minutes or so. Sorry to disturb you at this early hour, but you seemed to need disturbing." Slightly sees that the guest chair is already occupied by Armani, so he gestures to the side of the bed. "Mind if I. . . ?"

Gold makes room for him. "You may be seated, Mr. Slightly."

Slightly pours him a glass of water and as Gold downs it in a gulp, the Lost Boy comments, "My boss says that the trouble with having the gift of foresight is that it's damn near impossible to separate the 'will be's' from the 'can be's.'"

"Indeed," Gold coughs; he shouldn't have chugged the water. "What's that you have?"

Slightly lifts the light-producing object. Gold can now see it's an enchanted mirror. "It's something my boss wanted you to see. The next two days are going to be rough, and there's a lot riding on you. You got to bring your A game. I mean, you're the man with the plan, right?"

"I take it your boss agrees with me about the evacuation." Gold forces confidence into his voice so that his words come out as a statement rather than a question.

"She does. It's going to be an uphill battle, not the least of which is getting the good folk of Storybrooke to trust you long enough to believe you. So here's the thing." Slightly sits down on the edge of the bed. "Something my boss thought might help you sleep better—and a reminder that there's a damn good reason why Belle and Bae are in your life. It's not random, you know: families are put together. So, first off, my boss has a word of advice: Faith is what you need, Mr. G., not magic. You've got a rich vein of love, but a very shallow pocket of faith. Listen, when you went to the well and cast your magic in, it wasn't the magic that brought Belle's memory back. It was my boss, and the reason she answered your prayer had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with your faithfulness. When you said you'd stand by her no matter what, that was a pretty big demonstration of faith in love. To get through what's coming next, you need Bae too. So keep the faith with him; he's coming back around."

Gold twists his mouth, preparing to issue a cutting retort: what business has this kid, telling the Dark One what to do? But in the back of his mind Gold is still in the white room, and he finds he'd much rather dispense with pride than dispense with human (or even fairy) contact. He struggles, but he manages to say, "Thank you, Mr. Slightly, for the advice."

Slightly draws his attention back to the light in his hands. "I don't have any magic but my boss does, and from time to time she gives me a trinket to help me in my work. This is a Mirror of Probabilities. It'll show you a tiny glimpse of something that is likely to happen if you stay on the path you're currently following. You know all the pitfalls of tiny glimpses of the future, but I promise you, no tricks, no hazy word play. After you've had your glimpse, I can answer one question for you, plainly and directly. Will you accept this gift from my boss?"

Gold is fascinated by the mirror, but of course nothing comes free. "And the price?"

Slightly seems offended. "It's a gift. I suppose, if you want to put a price to it, the price is trust. And as I said, it's a probability, not a certainty."

Gold looks a little abashed. "I accept. Thank you."

Slightly presents the mirror. "You have 30 seconds."

Gold stares into the center of the mirror, at first seeing nothing more than his own face, bruised, wrinkled, tired, fighting down a feeling of being haunted. But the image fades out and fades back in again, like a dissolve between scenes in a movie, and as the image enlarges and sharpens, he can see a little blonde-haired girl, perhaps five or six years old, in jeans and sweater, come running into a small house, leaving the front door open. She runs to the fireplace, where a nearly bald man spins wool—wool, not gold—at a wheel: Gold recognizes himself, but it's not exactly Gold or Rumplestiltskin: he's dressed not in Armani or leather, but in plain cotton. The girl starts to climb onto his right knee, then thinks better of it, comes around to his left and hops on, giggling as she sets her hands on top of his, and the four hands together move the wheel.

"Who is that?" Gold blurts.

Slightly's grinning. "Your True Love."

"It's not Belle," Gold objects, then feels rather stupid; all seers must play these cryptic games. Union rules, he supposes; he did it himself when he prognosticated, back in the day.

"You can have more than one, you know; there's more than one kind of true love. In your case, you have seven."

"Seven?!"

Now Slightly's grin grows sly. "When you came to Evaton, you forgot to bring contraceptives. And you and Belle were quite. . . you know…prolific."

Gold's caught on now. "Seven. . . ." he muses.

"Bear in mind, they aren't necessarily all directly yours. Judging from that receding hairline—"

"'Surrendered and retreated hairline' would be more accurate a description," Gold mutters.

"—she could be a granddaughter—just a guess, though; like I said, I can answer only one question. Hmm, Henry's eleven now; she could even be your great-granddaughter. I don't know. But I do know you love her like crazy and her name's Maerwynn." Slightly takes the mirror back and it instantly vanishes. "The next two days, just remember that's what you're fighting for. Have faith that you can pull it off, if you'll trust in your family, your whole family. See you at the meeting tonight, Mr. G. Hope you get some decent sleep."

Gold's House, 7 am

"Rise and shine, boys, rise and shine," Belle calls up the stairs for Gold's houseguests. By the stringent request (he wouldn't dare order her to do anything) of her beloved, Belle spent the night in this rambling house last night. She slept in the only available bedroom, and slept quite soundly under the familiar comforter, with moonlight blanketing the garden below the bay window. She slept on Gold's side of the bed, cuddling his pillow, and when she awoke this morning her eyes opened upon the collection of framed photos on his dresser, photos of him and her. She thinks they should take some photos of Bae too, and then she wonders if they will be able to bring anything as trivial as photos along with them to the Enchanted Forest. Surely, they will have to leave most unnecessary things like that behind, carry only essentials like medicine and tools.

They will have to leave the library behind.

She tries to put that thought behind her by preparing breakfast for the houseguests. She's never cooked for anyone but herself and Rumple before, so she has no idea how much food six men can eat in one sitting. She practically empties the refrigerator and the cupboards, but at last she's satisfied that she can fill every stomach, so she calls them to the table.

They come down the stairs sedately, respectful of their hostess, and one of them withdraws a chair for her as the others stand quietly until she is seated. Once the platters begin to circulate, however, it's a different story. They talk around mouthfuls of food, for there is much to talk about; although none of them plans on accompanying the evacuees to the Enchanted Forest, all of them intend to stay and fight until the moment of the evacuation. Who better, they tell themselves; they know the denizens of Neverland better than anyone. And who is more responsible, they confess in hushed tones, for the current leaders of Neverland were once small, naïve children under the leadership of their own generation. And so they strategize around mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and corned beef hash, their plans ever mindful of the fact that they must not only defeat the enemy but protect the elderly and the children. They are pleasantly surprised when Belle helps them flesh out their strategy, for they have no knowledge of her former life.

Looking upon her with a different kind of respect now, they encourage her to remain seated as they wash the dishes. She wonders if someday, perhaps forty years from now, she will be sitting at a breakfast table, Rumplestiltskin seated across from her, and the kitchen will be bustling, as it is now, with young houseguests, and the offspring of the houseguests, and one of those young men or young women will say to the others, "Do you remember such-and-such," and they will all turn to Belle for confirmation, with a query, "You remember, don't you, Mama?" And Belle will say, "Of course I do," because after her experience with the curse, she knows how precious every memory is, and she holds each one close to her breast, like she once held her babies.

Storybrooke General Room 304, 9 am

As the nurse removes the blood pressure cuff from Regina's arm, Whale enters and approaches the queen's bedside. "How are you feeling this morning, Your Majesty?"

"Considering there's a man running loose out there who killed my mother and attacked me and the sheriff's just sitting in her office flirting with a pirate, I'm just dandy," Regina snarls.

"One ten over seventy," the nurse reports. "Temp 97.9." She types the information into an Ipad.

"Very good," Whale says, then to Regina, "Any complaints—health-related, I mean; I already know you hate our food."

"The accommodations have left much to be desired, too," she tilts her head meaningfully toward Gold, who merely smiles back at her.

"Just cooperating with the constables," Whale shrugs. "Well, Your Majesty, you're fully recovered from your ordeal and you're free to go. If you experience any symptoms, call me. Though I doubt that will be necessary."

Regina makes a little dismissive grunt as she rises from her bed and waves her hand to pack her overnight bag. With another wave of her hand, her silk negligee is replaced by a skirt and blazer.

"The healing properties of magic," Gold comments. "Once again trumping science." He emphasizes the point by swinging his injured leg off the bed and onto the floor, wincing at the ensuing pain.

"Why are you dressed, Mr. Gold?" the nurse gripes, for the man has reclaimed his suit, right down to the tie and jacket. "You know that's against the rules. We can't change your bandage if you have your trousers on."

Gold stands, leaning on his cane for balance. "I shall tend to the bandages myself, thank you."

As he slides his feet into his Ferragamos, the nurse rushes to his side, her hands on her hips. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Mr. Gold, you seem to think I've discharged you too," Whale observes. "Not the case. We'll have the pleasure of your company at least another two days. If that burn isn't properly tended to, an infection—"

"If Storybrooke isn't properly tended to, an infection will be the least of my problems." Gold glares at the doctor, then at the nurse, who takes a step backward, granting him room to move away from his bed. "Or haven't you heard we're in a state of high alert?"

"Mr. Gold, a third-degree burn is a serious event. It'll be at least a month before you heal. In the meantime, you could develop pneumonia—"

"Pan is coming," Gold snaps, as if that announcement should be sufficient. He brushes past the nurse. "I don't intend to die in bed."

"All right," Whale sighs, to the consternation of the nurse. He instructs her, "Get a package together for him: acetaminophen, antibacterial soap, antimicrobial cream, roller gauze, Cuticerin." She frowns but leaves the room. Whale types into his Ipad as he lays down the law for Gold: "Keep the leg elevated. You shouldn't even be walking—stay off your feet. Let other people do the grunt work. Twice a day, wash the area with the soap, pat it dry, apply the clean bandage. Watch for drainage, nausea, fever. The swelling should go down in another day or two, if you stay off your feet. Drink 10 glasses of water a day. High carb diet. Can you remember all that?" He types again. "Here, I'm emailing it to Belle. Call me immediately if you experience blurriness in your vision, slurred speech, extreme drowsiness, problem recognizing people, confusion—"

"We're all in for a lot of confusion in the next two days," Gold interrupts. "Tell you what, doctor: if you see any symptoms of extreme magic, you can call me." He approaches Regina and offers her the crook of his left arm. "If you're ready, Your Majesty?"

The queen hesitates before slipping her arm through his. "Very well, Mr. Gold." As he escorts her to the elevator, she has to shorten her steps to match her pace to his. She should be smirking right now, she thinks; here is proof positive she's won. Her enemy is nothing more than a frail, ageing human, while she is in the prime of her power. But walking along beside him like this, hearing his labored breathing, glancing surreptitiously at the bruises beneath his eyes, Regina feels robbed of her victory.

She presses the elevator button just as the nurse, panting, runs up and thrusts a plastic bag full of medical supplies at Gold. "Allow me," Regina offers, indicating the bag. "Where shall I send these?"

"My house, the kitchen table."

In a blink the bag has been transported. The elevator arrives and he follows her in. "And now, if you please, I'd like you to come with me. I have a bit of a lab set up in my basement. Nothing like the labs I had at the Dark Castle, alas."

The skin around his lips has turned white, and Regina wonders if she should press the elevator button again, take him right back up to the third floor. She looks at the button.

He's figured out what she's thinking and he shakes his head. "We have work to do. It will take both of us." The elevator arrives on the first floor and the door slides open. "May I propose a truce, long enough for us to dispose of Pan?"

Regina has no horse in that race. She has the magic, she has the beans, she can grab Henry and run any time she likes, and all the better that Pan is coming, for once he's finished with Storybrooke, there will be no one left to pursue Regina. She's made a deal with the Charmings, but unlike Rumplestiltskin, her magic doesn't compel her to keep her word. She's free.

As they walk out into the sunshine, into the pretty little town she (with some help from the imp) created, she breathes in the crisp morning air.

Gold raises his hand to summon his magic, then growls, remembering. He digs into his suit jacket for his phone. "I'll call for a car."

Regina pats his arm. "Not necessary." She snaps her fingers, thinking only later that perhaps it's not a good idea to transport a sick man by magic. She lands them in front of his spinning wheel; he reaches out for it, steadying himself.

He glances at her with a little pleasant surprise in his eyes. "Thank you, Regina." He's referring to her cooperation in more than just the transportation.

Regina surveys the bottled potions on the shelf behind the spinning wheel. "What are we conjuring today—master?"

He flashes a small smile at the old form of address. "If you'll bring me Protective Spells and Potions Vol. II from my shop, we'll get started."

"Let's get to work then." Regina is free, except she's not: she's still burdened with a heart.

The book appears on the base of the spinning wheel. He lays his hand on the cover and turning away from Regina, he murmurs to himself, "Pan's coming, but so is Maerwynn."

Sheriff's Office, 10 am

The dwarves are out patrolling the borders, on the watch for unfamiliar vehicles; the Lost Boys and Belle are out searching the West Woods; David and Snow are cataloging the contents of the U-Haul while an electrical engineer from the Utilities Department studies the electronic devices, starting with the most familiar-looking. While Emma continues to try to hack into the laptop she confiscated from the cannery, Hook persists in pushing her buttons. He's switched his tactics, though; this morning, instead of flirting, he's prodding her to allow him to help in the search. "I do have a little more experience with Greg than any of you do," he points out; Emma points out that Hook has changed sides more often than a runway model changes clothes, and doesn't bother to answer when he asks, "What's a runway model?"

The deeper she dug into the files yesterday, the more convinced she became that this "Home Office" is much more than an office: although only a few years old, the Restitutio Initiative is a global operation with nonprofit status and a great deal of money behind it. It claims as its mission the rectification of imbalances to natural law caused by supernatural phenomena.

"Sounds like hogwash whitewashed in mumbo jumbo to me," David comments when Emma reads this mission statement aloud. "So what kinds of things have they been tracking? Ghost sightings and that sort of thing?"

"That's the interesting part. From the description, you'd expect they'd be all up into paranormal stuff like that, but it seems not—unless Greg and Tamara were, like, part of a special unit focusing on magic, 'cause that's all they did: they went around the world investigating reports of acts of magic."

"Must've spent a lot of time in Vegas, then," David says dryly. "Penn and Teller, David Copperfield, Criss Angel. . . ."

Then Snow throws her for a loop: "Just a cockamamie thought here, but what if all this"—she waves her arms over the boxes—"is fake? An elaborate con game—a, what do you call it?"

"'Long con,'" David supplies.

"Right, a long con meant to trick people like Tamara and Greg into doing Pan's bidding? Or for that matter, to trick people like us into surrendering?"

"Or running away instead of fighting," David adds.

"I've been able to verify the existence of the major funder behind this operation: the Hanso Group. And I've found newspaper articles about some of the scientists mentioned in these documents," Emma says. "I think we have to operate like we think this thing is real. We've got a hundred kids to worry about; we can't take chances on conspiracy theories."

They fall silent for several long minutes, each becoming engrossed in his or her work, when suddenly Emma exclaims, "Crap on a cracker!" and she fumbles for her phone.

"What've you got?" David abandons the box he's organizing to come to her side.

She points to the laptop screen. "I got in, that's what I got, and look at this email Tamara sent two years ago."

David leans over her shoulder to read the screen as Snow comes in to join them. David releases a long, low whistle, then reconsiders, "It could be a lie."

"Could be," Emma agrees, "and this could be fake too, but I kinda doubt it." She opens a jpeg attached to the message. The fuzzy photo shows an elderly Asian man with a patchy white beard. David shrugs. "So?"

Emma points to the man's feet—which are elevated about a yard above the floor. "Okay," he says slowly, "but Criss Angel does that all the time."

"Yeah, but if this guy's just another entertainer, how come Tamara buzzed him with her magic-stealing thing and killed him?" Emma ponders.

Snow points to the date line of the email. "Take a look at this."

"October 26, 2011," David reads. "So, about 19 months ago."

"Four days after Emma came to Storybrooke and time started moving for us again," Snow points out.

"Folks, I think this is the real deal," Emma decides, dialing her phone. "Mr. Gold?. . . Yeah, everybody's fine. But listen to this." And she reads Tamara's email. There's a long pause as she waits for Gold's reaction; when it comes—a simple, "Indeed? How interesting"—she's disappointed. "I've just given you news that would set this world on its ear, and that's all you've got? 'Interesting?'" She listens again. "Yeah, okay. . . . Well, that's police evidence. . . . Yeah, yeah, you're right."

As her parents watch in amazement, she rises, unlocks the evidence closet, and removes 1-B, the plastic bag containing the magic-dampening wrist band. She draws in a deep breath, stares at the bag, and in a puff of yellow smoke 1-B vanishes. She resumes her phone conversation. "You got it now?. . . Okay. I'll check in with you later. Let me know when you've got something."

Snow grabs Emma's elbow. "Well?"

"Well." Emma blinks. If she takes a moment to reflect on everything that's happened since she arrived in Storybrooke, she'll freak; she can reflect on nothing; everything here requires belief to be seen. "Did Scotty just beam us up? Because Gold is building a Romulan cloaking device—and Regina's helping him."

Gold's Basement, 10 am

"What was that about?" Regina doesn't look up; she's in a delicate stage in the process of heating a potion.

"It seems, my dear, we were misinformed when we were told this is a land without magic. A genuine mage was discovered, and assassinated, in Thailand two years ago."