Chapter 43

A/N. The inspiration for this chapter came from U2's "Running to Stand Still" and David Bowie's "Ashes to Ashes."

Bae brings Archie, who brings his medical bag, and the two men take him to the unfinished house he and Bae have been sharing and ease him onto his bed. As Archie takes his vitals, Bae fetches a pail of water from the communal well (crops, livestock and basic shelter have had to take priority this year; next year, Evaton will tackle plumbing). "You're running a slight fever," Archie reports. "Blood pressure a little high. I don't see anything we ought to worry about, but I'm not really a physician; I'd feel better if you'd let me send for Whale, especially considering your recent history of medical events."

Rumple's eyes slide to Bae. This is a defining moment in their relationship, Rumple believes. He has two choices: he can ask Bae to leave, and hope that Bae won't take offense, and hope that by keeping his condition a secret, he can preserve the respect that Bae has come to feel for him in the past six months—a hard-won respect, earned with every bead of sweat, every callus the two of them have acquired without complaint, working side by side in building this community. The way Bae looks at him now, the way Bae talks to him over the dinner table, the way Bae asks his opinion and requests his assistance—it's everything he ever hoped for, and he knows that this solid relationship is what Bae needs too. It would shake that foundation like an earthquake for Bae to learn—to learn he was right all along about the irreparable damage magic has done to his father.

But to shut him out. . . Bae is an adult; he needn't be protected from the harsh realities of life, and he can't be hoodwinked. He knows something serious is wrong and to be shut out—or worse, lied to—would endanger their relationship too.

But this house is too small to store secrets in. If Bae doesn't know just yet, he soon will, and he'll be furious that his father didn't trust him enough to share such important health-related information.

"No, the kind of help I need"—and Rumple wonders at those words falling out of his mouth: Gold would have been far too prideful to speak those words, and Rumplestiltskin would have giggled at the notion—"is in your line, not his. These attacks. . . I've had four of them in the past two weeks. They're. . . related to the loss of magic."

"I'm not sure I understand," Archie says.

"I'm going through withdrawal." Rumple yanks the word out of his gut.

"Oh. . . ."

He closes his eyes briefly, then he opens them upon Bae. "Like alcoholism or drug addiction. I used magic so often, for so long, so—dependently, that I—came to need it."

"I see," Archie says.

But it's Bae's reaction that Rumple is watching for. It comes swiftly, in flashes: amazement, disbelief, acceptance, anger—and then what Rumple had hoped for. Bae grabs his hand and squeezes. "It's gonna be okay."

Rumple takes this to mean we're gonna be okay. He squeezes back. "Thank you, Bae."

Archie observes the interaction and smiles approvingly. "We can beat this, gentlemen. With some hard work and time, yes. I'm sure of it."

A corner of Rumple's mouth slides into a wry smile. "So you've treated magic addition before, Dr. Hopper."

"Well, no," Archie backpedals. "Actually, you're the first case for me."

"I'm the first case for me too. Everyone I know of who's lost their magic did so through death. But I have seen a few sorcerers who have temporarily been unable to access their magic, for various reasons; their bodies reacted the same as mine has."

"That information may prove valuable in determining your treatment."

"You'll take my case then, Doctor? I'm no longer able to pay you."

"Yes, you can." Archie nods at two works of art hanging on the bedroom walls: the sketch of Bae that Rumplestiltskin the spinner drew centuries ago and a recent portrait of Belle, created with paints made from berries and vegetables. "Paint me a scene from Storybrooke. I. . . find it's starting to fade from my memory already."

"It's a deal."

"Fine. We'll start tomorrow at sunup. David told me he'd come across a hut about five miles into the forest, along a river. I suggest a retreat."

"Is that necessary? I have a lot of projects that need to be finished before winter."

"Let someone else do them," Archie says firmly. "You need to put yourself first. That's the first step toward recovery; if you can't make that commitment, you won't get well."

"Harvest is over," Bae reminds his father. "The others will have time to pick up the slack."

"All right," Rumple agrees. "Bae, will you fetch Belle? I need to tell her."

Bae stands. "Yeah. But listen: I'm coming with you."

Archie glances quickly between the two men. "I, uh, I'm not sure that's a good idea. The patient needs to be able to talk openly. . . ."

"And he needs to able to eat. Dad doesn't know the first thing about hunting, and I bet you don't either, do you, Dr. Hopper?" Bae folds his arms. "And what would you do if you ran into a bear or a wolf? Invite it lie down on your couch and describe its relationship with its mother?"

Archie chuckles and turns red. "I suppose you have a point, but I must ask that you allow us privacy during the therapy sessions."

Bae drops his arms. "Sorry, Doctor, didn't mean to sound disrespectful. It's just that if you're going to be out in the woods for several days, you need someone along who knows how to manage out there. Yeah, I'll bug out when you tell me to. Getting my father well is a priority for me, too."

Archie turns to his patient. "Then, Mr. Gold, I'll leave the final decision to you."

"Bring your fishing pole and some books, son," Rumple answers. "Now, if you'll fetch Belle?"

She won't leave him. He's sure of that; after all she's learned about him, if she hasn't run yet, she's not going to. Still, just because of all she's learned about him, he hates to pile one more crime on. Just how strong can love be? He's put theirs to the test far too many times.

Belle rushes in from the little house she shares with a former physical therapist and two ex-grocery clerks. She's in her nightgown and robe already; without electricity, they've all become early risers and early sleepers. She barely notices Hopper as she sits down on the bed and presses a hand to Rumple's forehead. "What's wrong? Should I get Whale?"

"I've had a couple of. . . incidents . . . .Belle, I'm going to have to go away for a while. To get well. Dr. Hopper recommends it."

She frowns at Archie. "Dr. Hopper? I don't understand."

He takes up her hands in his. "I need therapy—psychological therapy. Belle, I have a problem, an addiction."

A question forms on her lips but she doesn't voice it; he gives her the answer anyway. "I'm going through withdrawal symptoms and I need therapy. Belle, I'm addicted to magic."

He sees in her eyes sympathy, and something he hasn't seen before: fear. "I can come with you, be your caretaker."

"I'm sorry, Belle, this is something he needs to do alone," Archie says gently.

She swallows the lump in her throat and gives her beloved all the courage she can muster. "I understand. Go, and do what you need to. I'll be waiting here, and praying for you."

"Belle." He rests his forehead against hers.

"I just realized, I've never asked you, since coming here, what you'd like to be called."

Although no woodsman, Archie leads the way along an overgrown path through the forest. Packs of food, cookware, blankets and clothes, along with Archie's medical bag, have been slung over Rumple's horse, one of the small herd he bought in Gloucy. Although horses have never been a part of his history, since returning to this land, he's paid close attention to everything David's had to say about them; a horse may mean the difference between survival and death here. The mare is of an unusual coloring, a liver chestnut with flaxen mane and tail—there was no other in Gloucy like her. She's an alien among her own kind, and so he bought her, because she reminds him of himself. He suspects she understands that, because she forgives him his mistakes.

Archie is leading them to a two-room hut that once housed a woodsman and his two children but now is occupied by mice and a flock of sparrows. They've packed their bags: they're going to be here a while.

"I've been calling you 'Mr. Gold,' as if we were still in Storybrooke. But you don't seem like Mr. Gold any more," Archie continues.

"I suppose not." Rumple walks along, thinking it over. He is not Gold: that was just a role Regina cast him in. And he's wondered a bit about her costuming decisions: she put him in the clothes and the speech of a cultured man, but the long hair and the gold tooth, what were they about? A little joke? He must ask her sometime. Once Emma had arrived and he'd awoken, he'd taken on his own little rebellion over her version of Gold with letting his hair grow shaggy and his chin grow scruffy.

Since coming to this world, he has changed, and his appearance reflects that. When he looks into the water in his wash basin as he shaves, he sees deeper lines in his face, caused by exposure to the elements. There is more gray in his hair; his body, no longer immortal, is aging. He's beginning to have problems getting his eyes to focus so he can read. Yet his skin is tight against newly built muscle and his walk, always purposeful, is now more casual, his shoulders relaxed, his stride looser. Perhaps that's because now, as he walks through the village, he no longer feels hateful or fearful stares. There's nothing quite so equalizing as sweating and straining and grunting alongside other people in a struggle for mutual survival.

No, he's not Mr. Gold any more, but he's not Rumplestiltskin either, the abandoned child, the bullied teenager, the naïve young husband, the self-mutilated father, the powerless pariah, the Dark One, the feared father, the vengeance seeker, the Jaded One.

A new man requires a new name. "Let me think about it."

Archie glances at him but shows no surprise. One of the first things Jiminy learned, when the imp started fencing his stolen goods, was that Rumplestiltskin believes deeply in the importance of names. Jiminy never quite understood what he meant when he talked about names having power, but Archie has come to understand that a person wears a name the same as he wears clothes: it presents to the world his definition of himself.

"How do you want to be called, now?" Rumple asks.

"Regina may think she created a spineless guy when she created Archie," he speculates, "but I like the guy, a lot better than I liked Jiminy. I'm keeping him."

Rumple chuckles. "And you, son? Do you still prefer to be called Neal?"

From the other side of the horse, Bae looks over at his father. "It's the man Emma fell in love with," he says thoughtfully. "But Neal Cassidy's like Gold, I guess: a fake. And not a very good one. Baelfire never would have run from his own father."

"No," Rumple agrees, "he would've stood his ground and tore the old man a new one."

"Baelfire was a name to be proud of." Bae gives the horse a decisive pat on the neck. "Someone I want my son to know."

"What were you doing, just before the first symptom came on?"

Rumple tries to remember so he can answer Archie's question. They are chasing out the mice and sweeping out the ankle-deep dust, and Bae is chopping wood to lay a fire. Later, they will bring in armfuls of grass and leaves to serve as mattresses for their blankets. "Just having dinner. David was telling you and Henry about the herd of deer he'd tracked."

"I remember."

"Snow and Belle were talking about some books that they plan to teach school with. Bae was sitting on my right; we were talking about the properties of different stones. . . . Emma was on my left. She was talking to Whale. . . ." Rumple's frown vanishes. "I remember now: she passed me a plate of bread, and my hand brushed against hers, and I felt an electrical shock. She must've been thinking about magic, because her skin was radiating with it."

Archie nods. "The touch of a hand doesn't seem like much but I've known alcoholics to be set off by a beer commercial. The subconscious mind is a force to be reckoned with."

"But why now? I'm happier than—well, than I can ever remember. I have no desire for magic."

"Maybe the Dark One's taking one last stab at you. Or do you think you got rid of him when you got rid of the magic?"

"That's a unique way of looking at it," Rumple chuckles. "'Got rid of the magic.' As if it was as a bad debt I unloaded."

"Might do some good if you started to think of it that way. It was a rotten deal, wasn't it? All those people—the desperate ones, the greedy ones, the stupid ones who dug themselves into a hole and expected you to get them out. All of them screaming your name, night and day, and all the selfish, stupid, greedy things they wanted from you, and the way they'd try to cheat you. I was there; I saw how frustrated you'd get. They wouldn't leave you alone, would they?"

Rumple's eyes darken. "It was. It was a damn burden."

"It was a curse," Archie pushes. "Look what it did to you. You had riches, but not one single person who cared about you. You had associates, people you trusted enough to deal with, but nobody you trusted enough to take into your confidence. I traded with you for, what, twenty years, and you never once mentioned to me that you had a son. That's a sad way to live. A harmful way to live. What it does to the body, when you shut yourself off from other people: you may have had eternal life, but you looked every year of your age. What it did to your mind, your heart, that the only contact you had with people was when you were making deals. Do you know, in all the times I came to your castle, you never once offered me a cup of tea? I used to think that because you weren't human, you didn't need friends, but as I got to know you better, I realized you were determined to isolate yourself."

Rumple blinks. He's mulled over the question before, but in an intellectual way; now he cares about the answer. "Not human. Am I, now? When the magic left me, did I become human again?"

"That matters to you, doesn't it?"

"I used to wonder if I ever found Bae again, how could I be a father to him, when I was—I didn't know what I was, because there was no one else like me. They called me an imp, but I wasn't that either. I was nothing created by nature; I was a freak that dark magic had made."

"But now?"

"I don't know. I don't see any traces of the thing I was. I bleed, my hair turns gray, I get sick, I will die, just as any human does. But has magic altered me in ways I can't see?"

"Biologically?" Archie speculates. "That would be easily answered. I can ask Whale for your medical charts. But if you're asking about your heart and your mind, I can assure you, you're entirely human: as complex, perplexed, confused and confusing as any of us. The question I asked you earlier, I think you've just answered with your own question. Magic was a curse to you and still is, because it has you doubting your very nature. Even if you didn't have all these other problems associated with it, I'd say that it was a very tragic day, the day you became a sorcerer."

Rumple falls silent in contemplation.

Belle props open the shutter and stares out the hole that is meant to be a window. She misses glass, the ghostly image of herself that it reflected back to her at night, the deceptively invisible shield that it provided from the weather. She misses glass, she misses music, she misses telephones and running water and bubble baths. But more than anything else, she misses Rumple.

Her housemates come in from their dates—even in this world, people will find a way to conduct romances. They greet her, but then they leave her to her reverie. They recognize the look of a worried lover.

At sunrise Archie starts again as he puts some porridge on to boil. Everything becomes something to be studied, starting with the red cracks in Rumple's eyes. "You didn't sleep much last night."

Rumple is making coffee—coffee strong enough to stand a fork in, because he suspects this will be a long day. Coffee is a precious commodity; Gloucy imports it, and the many ports it passes through place taxes upon it, but Rumple had traded two spindles of gold for ten pounds of coffee and thought himself lucky to get it because Bae loves it. "I guess not," he admits.

"Do you usually have trouble sleeping?"

"Yes, ever since I was poisoned."

"Have you talked to Whale about it? Make sure there's no physical cause?"

"I had no interest in staying in the hospital any longer than necessary."

"Do you dream about magic?"

Rumple sets the coffee pot on the stone hearth. He watches the flames lick at the bottom of the pot before he finally answers, "Rarely."

"What do you dream about most times?"

Rumple glances through the open doorway. Bae's out there, cutting branches for fishing poles. Rumple's tempted to lie, with Bae able to hear everything, but that would delay the inevitable. "Dying. Or, more accurately, the afterlife."

"What kind of an afterlife do you see for yourself?"

He sighs deeply. "Hell. A hell designed especially for me, by someone who knows what I deserve."

"Who's that?"

"Me."

Taken aback, Archie loses his wooden spoon in the pot. He doesn't bother fishing it out; he just lets the porridge bubble and lump. He sits down at the table to gather his thoughts. "Describe one of your dreams." But the tone of his voice carries a second message: I'm sorry.

Over the next two weeks, Archie and Rumple probe every aspect of his life, including those that would seem to have nothing to do with magic—for as Archie points out, they could have everything to do with addiction. They talk as they fish, they talk as they scavenge for vegetables and nuts, they talk even as Rumple works a hand spinner just to relax. At first it's like cleaning a fish: when Archie insists he talk about his father and Milah, Rumple feels as though his guts are being scraped out, but after a while, the memories and the guilt don't hurt as much, and then the therapy becomes the removal of the small, fine bones that have been needling him throughout his long lives.

Something else changes too: gradually, Rumple gets used to Bae's presence during the therapy sessions; Bae never says anything, and he stays far enough away to avoid distracting his father. Slowly, Rumple comes to realize that it's a relief that Bae now knows the full story: all the wrongs Rumple has done and all the wrongs that have been done to him. And as Rumple becomes more comfortable sharing his history with his son, and as Bae becomes less judgmental listening to it, gradually, Bae comes in closer, emotionally as well as physically, and Rumple finds he's talking to his son as much as he's talking to his therapist.

Henry is having a sleep-over. That's not what he calls it: sleep-over (or worse slumber party) is what girls have; he's just having a few of the guys over to hang out at his mom's castle, and since it's kind of far from Evaton, and the castle's got, like seventy bedrooms (well, not that many, but you get the picture), the guys are staying over for the night. Mr. D. will take them back to Evaton tomorrow in his wagon. No big whoop.

Except for Henry—and therefore Regina—it really is. Henry's never had guys over to spend the night before. He's never had guys to hang out with. But a lot's changed for him since coming to the Enchanted Forest: for one thing, he's grown a full inch. All those riding and sword-fighting lessons and all the construction work and farm work he's been doing have made him stronger physically, and that's made him stronger emotionally. Splitting his time between two castles and two queens, a prince and a princess has enhanced his social skills. And best of all, the détente that his two moms have reached has given him a sense of security. The way he looks at it, he has an elder for every purpose: there's Gramps to teach him to the fighting stuff, there's Regina to teach him the etiquette stuff, there's Gran to teach him the diplomacy stuff, there's Emma to teach him strength of character, there's Belle to share books with, there's Grampa to teach him all kinds of stuff about working with his hands (best of all, magic, but not until he's a couple years older, Emma says) and there's Pops for sports. All in all, Henry figures he's got a sweet deal.

All these changes must be showing, because, working alongside the other kids, he's kind of found a place for himself. He's not the class clown or an artist or a leader; he's more like an Archie Junior: kids come to him in pairs to settle their arguments or privately when they have a personal problem. All that time in therapy comes in handy. And maybe, having a family that's all over the map like his is, is a good thing, because he can see more than one point of view. He's even beginning to see Regina's. It helps, of course, that she's mellowing out some. She seems to have resigned herself to the fact that Emma's here to stay, that David and Snow and Belle and Rumple and Bae all take good care of him, and that none of them will bad-mouth her or infringe upon her time with him if she'll play fair with them. And those times when she does get snippy or manipulative, Mr. Dove gives her The Look that reminds her she's got it good now; she shouldn't blow it, and then she backs down.

One thing Mr. Dove's frowns haven't gotten her to do yet, though, is cut back on the magic. Deep down, Henry still knows she shouldn't be using it to try to impress his friends (though it works, every time) or win him over (which never works) or just do things the lazy way. But sometimes she makes him an offer that, well, he just can't see the harm in, like tonight: after a nice dinner (holy Toledo, she put on an apron and cooked it herself!) when it was too dark to play outside and the guys kind of lumped around the sitting room, looking for something to do, she conjured a TV and a broadcast of a Yankees-Twins game. Henry's not sure if it's a live broadcast, but he figures it has to be a real game, because Regina doesn't know the difference between a short stop and hot dog vendor.

The guys are having a great time, so, though Henry wonders if this is a kind of cheating, he accepts it as Regina intended: a gift meant to entertain him. Maybe it's not so different from the wooden sword Gramps carved for him or the paints Grampa made for him. They used what they knew how to do, to make gifts for him; Regina's just doing the same thing, in her own way. So he takes out the Murderers Row baseball, which he keeps in its Plexiglas case but carries everywhere, now that his dad's gone, and the guys all wish on it like they would on falling star that the Yankees will win, and they settle in front of the TV with popcorn that Regina's conjured.

After the guys fall asleep in their blankets on the stone floor—and a head-shake from Mr. Dove prevents Regina from transporting them into beds ("let 'em sleep on the floor," Dove whispers. "Roughing it is a guy thing")—Henry thanks Regina with a peck on the cheek. The way she beams, you'd think she just got an A on an exam.

Rumple walks out to the lake to watch the moon rise over the water. He's tired of talking, tired of feeling; he's railed against the world, berated himself, chided the Fates, cussed his father, raged against the Seer, spoken in hushed tones of his aunts, his son and his beloved. He's thrown some dishes, smashed his fist against walls, slammed doors.

And cried. Right in front of Archie, sometimes. And a few times, right in front of Bae.

He's emotionally empty now, and he only wants to watch the moon.

Bae strolls out too. At first he stops several yards off, uncertain of whether he's intruding, and he is, but an intrusion from Bae has never been unwelcome. The distance between them is too great for them to speak, so Rumple merely waves. Bae can't see his father's face in the darkness, but he takes the wave as an invitation, and he approaches, prepared to leave if it turns out he's misinterpreted the wave.

He finds he isn't wrong. Rumple smiles at him, then returns his gaze to the moon. They stand like that, not looking at each other, not speaking, but together.

A/N. Coming up: four weddings ( if you count a double wedding as two) and no funerals!