Chapter 38

Gold's House, 4:05 pm

Gold leads Regina from the basement to the garage, only to find his Caddy missing. "Belle and the boys must have taken it," he murmurs, but before he can suggest an alternate mode of transport, Regina snaps her fingers (she's learned not to ask him first before using magic) and lands them at the front door of his shop. "Every minute counts," she starts, in case he wants to argue, but he merely unlocks the door and flips on the lights.

"So, Plan B?" she prompts.

"This is your solo." He selects another key from his ring and moves around, rapidly unlocking all the display cabinets. When he comes to the one upon which his cash register rests, he freezes, that old familiar lip-peeling anger creeping across his face. Regina feels right at home now.

"What is it?"

"Someone's been here." He runs his fingers along the cabinet's lock. "Someone with a key—or magic." He's about to ask her to turn around, but then he remembers that anything of this world that he owns will become worthless to him tomorrow, for he can take very little of it with him to the old world. So fighting the instincts natural to a shop owner, he allows her to watch as he swings aside one of his landscape paintings (his paintings, painted by him in the empty nights before Emma came to town: only after the savior kissed the curse broken did he realize that memories of the Enchanted Forest had leaked through the murkiest pools of his imagination and become tangible proof of his homesickness. No one, not even Belle, has ever asked the name of the artist who created these landscapes, nor their meaning, so he's never told anyone: it's his last secret).

"Not very original, Rumple," Regina critiques. "In every old movie, the rich guy's safe is always behind a painting."

He ignores the comment and opens the safe, and out of the corner of his eye he watches her eyebrows shoot up as he retrieves the sole object in the safe: a frayed and faded wool scarf. The sorry scrap doesn't even to pretend to have once been pretty. "No money or jewels? No handwritten spells? No blackmailable secrets about your enemies?"

"That's what safe deposit boxes are for, dearie," he answers dryly. But her remark reminds him that when Nature swallows Storybrooke whole, all his tightly pinched pennies will be swallowed too: the dollars, the stocks and bonds, the contracts, the property titles will all blow away in the wind, and the coins and the jewels will sink into the mud, perhaps to be found again someday by wilderness hikers, but perhaps not. The long hours of planning, recordkeeping, negotiating, finagling, haranguing and tramping from one end of town to the other in every kind of weather to collect his due will have been for naught. Tomorrow, when Nature subsumes his wealth, twenty-eight years of Goldness will come to a meaningless end.

He chuckles to himself.

"What?" Regina asks suspiciously.

"Nothing," he says, and it truly is: his wealth amounts to nothing. He slips the bit of cloth around his neck.

"You sure that's a good idea? That thing could be infested with lice."

"It's only infested with memories, Regina." He closes the safe, not bothering to lock it.

"So what did they get?"

"Hmm?" He continues about the shop, unlocking cabinets and cupboards.

"The thieves. What did they take?" Regina walks around to the cash register. "Doesn't look like they bothered with this at all."

"Oh." He waves vaguely at an empty space inside the display counter. "A baseball."

"A baseball?" Regina crouches to study the empty space. She too sees no signs of disturbance. "They didn't touch the cash register but they took a baseball?" She snorts. "Must've been high on drugs."

"An autographed baseball from the 1927 Yankees."

As if that explains it. Regina smirks. "Now I know they were on drugs. They didn't even bother to steal a new one."

He bursts out laughing. He reaches into the cabinets and begins to set objects on top of the glass. As far as she can tell, there's no rhyme or reason to his selections: some of the objects appear to be valuable, but others no better than baubles, and some, simply junk. . . until he brings forth a tiara: the silver has been shaped to form flower stems and pedals, and diamonds form the stigmas.

Glory of the Snow flowers, Regina remembers. This is Snow's tiara, an inheritance from Eva.

Dark flares up in Regina's soul and she thinks, when Rumple's back is turned, she will take that tiara—a valuable thing for its artistry and jewels, but for Snow, a priceless thing for its heritage. Regina, the only rightful queen, will take this symbol of Snow's attempted theft of the throne, and she will crush it into ash, just as she has crushed more hearts than she can remember. She doesn't even have to wait for Rumple to turn his back: she's the one with the power now. He's got—hell, he doesn't even have his raggedy old baseball any more. She can take what she likes.

She reaches for the tiara, holds it up to the fluorescent light, recalls each and every royal ball or knighting or procession at which that cow of a handmaid set this trinket on Little Snow's pretty little head. Princess Snow, third in line to the throne—who could only become queen if Regina abdicated (ha!) or died. Regina's hands clench around the tiara.

"Find something else to crush." Gold rumbles from across the room. "We need that for the war."

And though she's the one with the power and he's nothing but a scrawny old man, she sets the tiara down. For now. To remove herself from the temptation she strolls, as if bored, through the curtain and into the workroom. Gold usually doesn't permit anyone back there, least of all her, so her intrusion is a small way she reminds him she's in charge. He ignores her, seemingly far more interested in unloading his treasures (does he intend to take them to the Enchanted Forest tomorrow? All that junk through the portal? Really, dearie?).

She snoops freely, even moving some things around just to show she's been here. Of course, disrupting the order in which he's arranged his workroom (discernable only to him) would mean a lot more if he were actually going to be here tomorrow to be irritated by it. Lying on top of an open jeweler's kit is a handwritten note on Big Chief paper. The paper reminds her of Henry; the handwriting does not. She reads the note anyway, then because the message has no value to her, she carries it to Rumple. "Here, found this on your table."

She can't put a name to the look that passes over his face as he reads the note, but she's sure she's worn that look a few times herself: the day 7-year-old Henry brought home his plaster hand impression, for instance, and every time he presented her with a crayon-illustrated Mother's Day card. Rumple's message conveys nothing special—just the explanation that Bae and Henry took the baseball—but his eyes shine anyway. There isn't even a "dear" in the salutation or a "love" in the signature line, so what's got Rumple stirred up, she wonders—and then she realizes, maybe the medium is the message. Maybe it's just the fact that his son came here and took that ratty old baseball (although why, when he could get a brand-new one for a couple of bucks at Robin Nottingham's sporting goods store—what kind of man would give his son a smelly old hunk of worn out cowhide? This Nealfire must be a real cheapskate.). Or maybe it's that Nealfire bothered to leave a note, the first baby step in opening up a line of communication, maybe. Inspired, maybe, by an early-morning visit from a certain queen.

Regina preens. That's another favor the old imp owes her.

He folds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He then sets his hands upon the glass counter. "Plan B. Remember the scene in Blazing Saddles when the townsfolk build a fake Rock Ridge to trick Hedly Lamarr's thugs?"

"You do realize, don't you," she says, "that movie was meant to be a farce, not an instruction manual on how to win a war."

"Ah." He raises a warning finger. "But it makes my point. Remember our first magic lesson?"

She frowns. "Not really."

"The coin behind the ear?"

She snorts. "That wasn't magic; that was a trick! And come to think of it, the fact that you tried to pass it off as a magic lesson was a trick in itself, and not the least bit funny. You still owe me for cheating me out of a proper lesson."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. "Regina, Regina, Regina. Your impatience still overloads your intelligence, even today. Don't you remember what I told you after I showed you that trick?"

"Something like, 'waste not, want not'?"

"That was part of it. I said, 'Use your magic sparingly, because every use of magic comes with a price, and every act of magic comes with a risk. When you can, use a trick instead."

"Oh yes. You worked both your favorite clichés into that lesson: 'magic comes with a price' and 'perception is everything.'"

"Correct. And that's what Blazing Saddles is all about: whether it's the scene where the sheriff pretends he's abducting himself, or the Waco Kid's fast draw, or the fake Rock Ridge. Perception is everything. So we're going to create a fake magical Storybrooke. When Pan's thugs ride in, they're going to think every last kid, coot and codger here have magic."

"That'll work for all of two minutes."

"All we need is two minutes." He pushes the tiara at Regina. "Start enchanting, Your Majesty." And he starts to walk away.

"Hey, where are you going? Aren't you going to help me with this?"

He shrugs. "All I can do is provide the materials. You're the one with the power, remember?"

Granny's Diner, 4:15 pm

Granny hadn't planned on remaining open, considering this could be her last evening in Storybrooke: she figured she and Red had some things to talk over before the meeting. But her "CLOSED" sign doesn't seem to work any better than Gold's, and now she has a restaurant full of hungry customers, anxiously waiting out the last hours before the meeting that will decide Storybrooke's fate—the meeting in which they will take their futures into their own hands for a change. So with a heavy sigh Granny ties on her apron and fires up her stove, and Red picks up her order pad.

The customer bell above the door jingles crazily as five young men and Belle burst in and make a beeline for the counter, where Emma and David are enjoying what may be their last taste of Granny's burgers. Two to-go boxes sit on the counter next to their pitcher of soda: final burgers for the prisoner and Snow, who's guarding him. Emma closes her eyes to savor the last bite.

"The secret's in the pickles," David whispers. "They're homemade."

Emma giggles and rescues a drip of ketchup before it lands on her blouse. And then her peace comes to an end too, for the Lost Boys gather around her and her father. "We found 'em!" Nibs announces to her, then he turns sideways so all the customers can hear: "We found 'em!"

A cheer goes up even before Nibs has defined who "they" are: the Boys have spoken to every citizen in Storybrooke this weekend, so everyone knows who they've been searching for.

"'Them'?" David echoes. "So Mendell did meet up with Pan."

"Yeah," Nibs admits. "They're camped on the west shore of the Neowa, about four miles east of where FM 194 intersects with Highway 5. We left Curly to keep a watch on 'em. But Pan hasn't arrived yet."

"We can't be sure of that," Twin Two objects. "Just because we didn't see him doesn't—"

"Yes, it does," Nibs interrupts. "If he was there, it would be obvious. He needs to make a display of himself."

"We didn't get close enough to count heads, but it looks like there's close to a hundred," Twin One says. "They could have more coming in later."

"Like he said, we weren't close enough to see for sure, but knowing Pan, we're sure he's brought pirates with him."

"Pirates, sorcerers and witches," Twin One says. "We saw scorched patches of earth—signs that they're practicing their fire magic—and severed tree limbs—lightning magic."

"Wait a minute, I thought Pan was supposed to be an enemy of pirates," David objects.

"In the old days, yeah," Nibs says. "Pan the Fourteenth is no respecter of traditions."

"Or laws or morals or decency in any form," Twin One adds.

"Does he command loyalty?" David asks. "Will they fight for him to the death?"

Nibs shrugs. "He commands fear, and sometimes that's better than loyalty. He also has a handle on their greed. Right now they're probably spying on us, already assessing what kind of loot they'll get and divvying it up."

"Optimists, are they?" Emma ponders. "How many of his troops have magic?"

Nibs shrugs again, and Twin Two answers, "You can bet it's a lot more than the four you have."

Twin One elbows his brother in the ribcage. "Than we have."

"Right. We."

Slightly has urged Red off to the side for a moment of personal conversation. The hungry customers will wait: they have dear ones to think about too. "Do you know where you'll go tomorrow, Ruby?"

She wipes her hands on her apron; they're damp, but it's not from carrying glasses and pitchers. She bites her lip nervously. "I don't want to leave here. I mean, I used to: I thought this was the dullest place in the universe, but now that we have to leave, I don't want to."

"I understand. I thought that way about Neverland, once. I changed my mind when I got settled in New York, though."

She leans forward to speak confidentially, though everyone in town knows her secret. "I can't go back. I'm a werewolf."

This comes as no surprise to Slightly. "If you cross the town line, I have it on good authority that your curse will be broken."

"Are you sure?"

"My source never lies." He touches her elbow encouragingly.

"I could go out there, to the camp with Curly. As a wolf. I could blend into the woods; I could listen to them talk. My hearing, in wolf form, is extraordinary."

"That would be a great help."

"Tomorrow, if I cross the town line, I'll forget being Red." She studies the linoleum as if an answer is written in the tiles. "I'll forget Snow and Charming, Geppetto, Jiminy."

"But you'll remember Mary Margaret and David, Marco and Archie."

She giggles. "And Regina."

He chuckles. "Well, who could forget Regina?"

"I'll just be Ruby, a waitress from a small town in Maine." She meets his gaze. "Granny and I can start over."

"I know a lovely little town in upstate New York that could use a diner that serves home cooking."

"That would take money. . . ."

"An investor. I happen to know a man who has a lot of money he won't be needing in the Enchanted Forest. Perhaps he'd like to be the silent partner in a new restaurant."

Ruby's eyes widen. "How would we pay him back?"

"You won't. But he can't take it with him, so. . . .I'll mention it to him tonight."

"Oh, you don't know Mr. Gold. There's no way he'd just give us money."

Slightly considers this. He could debate the question; he's pretty sure the future father/grandfather of six has had a shift in his interests lately and can be persuaded to let go of that which he must leave behind anyway. But time is running short, so Slightly settles for an easier reply: "I'll mention it to Belle tonight."

Ruby lifts her chin, grinning. "In that case, let me invite you to be the first customer at the all new Granny's Diner."

"I'll be there." He kisses her cheek. "That's a promise. Be careful out at the river. If they see you. . . "

"You haven't seen me in wolf form," she says wryly. "I'm an alpha."

"I suspected from the beginning that you're special."

"I'm glad I met you here," she says. "So I can remember you on the other side of the line."

Belle has scoured the diner in hope of finding her beloved here, but no one has seen him today. She checks her phone messages. "Hello, love, it's about a quarter to four. Regina and I've been working on something but it's not going well, so we're moving on to Plan B, at the shop. But I. . . I think I'm going to try to see Bae before the meeting. It might be my only chance. . . Tomorrow he'll be going back to New York and I. . .should say goodbye, at least. I'll see you at six."

It's just a gut reaction: she catches herself talking back to the voice mail—"Good luck, sweetheart; I'm proud of you"—and almost doesn't hear the end of his message: "I love you, Belle." As she dashes out the back door, she's still talking to the phone: "I love you, too, Rumple." Clicking off the phone, a piece of his message comes back to her and she yelps, "Regina?!"

Dove's House, 4:15 pm

Without magic or a car to transport him, Gold is left to do something he's never done before: call a cab. As good as his leg feels now, he could easily walk the six miles to Dove's home, but he can't spare the time. Jack Be Nimble Taxi Service arrives, as promised, in less than five minutes, and as promised, Gold pays double the fare (it's only money, he reminds himself with a chuckle; soon it will be blowin' in the wind).

It's only as he knocks on the front door that Gold realizes he has no idea what to say. He blames Wood Boy for that: he'd poured his heart out to August W. Booth and got kicked in the teeth for it. Aw hell, this is no time for grudges against puppets. He knocks again and tilts his head up so that Dove's security camera can get a good look at him.

Dove opens the door. "Mr. Gold. Please come in." Dove stands aside politely.

Gold enters and turns back to say thank you, but Dove has already vanished into the woodwork. A class act, Dove is; he really must receive a raise. Gold glances around; he's never been here, so, though it's too late now for curiosity about his employee, he checks the place out, subtly, of course. For a tough guy, Dove (or was it the curse that decorated this house?) has sophisticated taste.

A ball of energy flies into the living room and wraps its arms around Gold's waist. He looks down. "Hello, Henry."

"Grampa! You aren't dying any more!"

Gold stifles a chuckle. "I'm well, thank you, and you?"

"I'm okay. Just kind of bored, you know." He whispers conspiratorially, "Pop knows a lot about baseball, but he's not very good at MLB 10."

"Be patient with him." Gold pats Henry's back. "Even a father can learn."

"Even an adult son."

Gold looks up to find Bae standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. "Even a father with three hundred years of regrets."

Henry steps aside, allowing Gold to walk forward.

"Your leg." Bae gestures.

Gold's shoulders droop a little. Bae's going to think he's still hooked on magic; he'll throw him out without even a "hello." A lie, a lie, Gold's got to come up with a lie quick. But what comes out of his mouth is "Magic. Regina—I allowed her to—"

Bae nods, and it's his turn for slumped shoulders.

Gold sighs and, head lowered, turns around, starts for the front door. "Well." Damn it, what's happened to his smooth eloquence? Centuries of searching and dreaming and hoping and worrying, and it all comes down to "Well."

No it doesn't. He readjusts the shawl across his shoulders: at the least, he won't go until he's given this cloth to Bae and explained its significance. Annoyed, he comes back around and walks up to Bae, and stops only when he's within a handshake's length. "Bae, I'm not leaving until we've talked this out."

Bae's body shapes into a block and his chin rises; he's feeling backed into a corner, Gold realizes, but there's no time for delicacy: it's now or never, so Gold will spar with him, if that's what it takes. He'd rather take the punches and back away bruised than to duck and run. "I understand if you can't forgive me, but wouldn't it give you some peace, to tell me what's on your mind? It's our last chance, son."

"No."

"You won't talk to me?"

The skin around Bae's eyes relaxes. It's a tiny sign, but a hopeful one. "No, I mean it's not our last chance. I'm going back to the Enchanted Forest, to be a father to my son."

Gold holds his breath, hoping for the phrase that doesn't come: and to be a son to my father. They stand there in silence, each of them searching for words, both of them knowing what needs to be said but not certain how to begin.

"I guess I'd better put the kettle on." Bae steps back into the kitchen and motions for Gold to follow.

"Thank you." Gold releases his breath. It's a start, and once he's started, Gold can be a very persistent man, as two hundred years of searching have proven. They will talk. They'll say as much as can be said in the 90 minutes they have left, but there are words that are weighing so heavily on his chest that Gold has to get them out now. His hand shoots out to grab his son's arm. "Bae, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Bae rubs his nose. "Me too, Dad." He pulls the old man in for a hug.