Chapter 7
The Dark One has been played like an accordion in the hands of a street busker.
He's shattered, too shattered even to smash up his shop. That would require strength and he's been robbed of every ounce. He retreats to his basement, to the books, to the potions he's been experimenting with. He hides there through Tuesday and even through Wednesday as Belle comes and cleans and cooks. He emerges to apologize for missing dinner Monday night; "an opportunity arose–a business opportunity." She answers softly, "You don't have to apologize to me," and he has to duck out fast. Her patience, her kindness—her Belle-ness—makes him want to confess everything.
When supper is ready, Belle taps on the basement door and calls his name, his fake name, softly. When he first hired her, he instructed her to stay away from the basement, and she's always obeyed; though curiosity runs deep in her, honor runs deeper.
And sympathy even deeper. He's silent as she serves the meal (he doesn't even notice what she's prepared, though he manages to remember to thank her and he eats a few bites out of courtesy). She respects his privacy, doesn't attempt even a mundane conversation, and as she clears the table she moves quietly.
Once she's filled the dishwasher, he rises from the table. "Shall we?" he asks, as he always does; it's his invitation to the TV room.
She seems surprised. "Should I leave? Would you rather be alone?"
"Please stay." He sets a hand lightly on the small of her back. "I'm sorry I'm not good company tonight, but I still need. . . .Anyway, it's the Moscow Ballet's Peter Pan tonight." All the more reason he requires her comforting presence. Someday, long years from now, he'll tell her the truth about Peter Pan, but tonight he'll pretend that this world's fantasy represents Pan accurately. Tonight of all nights, he can't bear to think about yet another betrayal.
Gold thinks he would have preferred that Pinnochio stab him in the chest to take the dagger away. It would have been more honest, at least, than pretending to be Bae.
Belinda sits on one end of the couch and he, the other, as proper. She picks up the remote and toys with it but instead of turning the tv on, she twists around to face him. "Mr. Gold? Do you want to talk?" The concern in her eyes slices right through him, right through the wall of disdain he's built brick by hard brick between himself and the world. There's a shimmer in her eyes, the beginning of a tear–that's Belle, he's sure of it, struggling to emerge so she can reach out to him in his terrible need. Belle knows without his explanation that he's cut to the quick. If she could break through, she'd open her arms without a word and he'd clutch her round the waist, lay his head in her lap, and she'd file her fingers soothingly through his hair, just holding him silently as he cried and cussed. And when he finally burnt himself out, she'd say, "August Wayne Booth is not worth another moment of our time. Screw him. We've got a savior to convince and your son to find."
But instead Belinda says, "Mr. Gold? I may not have any answers to offer, but I'm a good listener and I can keep a confidence, if you'd like to talk."
He shakes his head slowly. "Someday, Belle, but not yet. It's too raw."
She toys with the remote again. "Okay. Whenever you're ready, then. Should I turn on the TV?"
He nods, but just before she does, he grasps her wrist. "Belinda, would you call me by my first name?"
"All right," and she frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't know what it is. Your signature on your checks, it's just 'R. Gold."
The curse never gave him a first name. He's not sure he'd use it now, if he had one: yes, this world is very comfortable and the living is far easier here than in the Enchanted Forest; in fact, if not for Regina's little prank, he would probably have stayed here, living as Mr. Gold, after he reunited with his son. But thanks to Regina's sick joke, he's on fire now to recommit to his family and recover himself. . . if he could sort out who that is.
He will dare to at least take back his name–and if Regina should happen to hear Belinda use it, let that be a gauntlet thrown down. He's ready for that fight. "My name is Rumplestiltskin."
A flame flickers in her eyes. "Rumple. . ." He thinks she's remembering, but he soon learns she's just trying the word out. "Rumplestiltskin. An unusual name."
He tries once more. "My family called me Rumple."
"Is that what I should call you?"
His hopes sink to his shoes. "Yes."
She smiles. At least she's not wrinkling her nose at his name; he supposes he should be grateful for small favors. "I'll be glad to. And thank you, Rumple."
He realizes instantly he was wrong. It hurts to hear her use his name but not recognize him. "Let's watch Peter Pan," he suggests, worn out by words.
She turns on the television. Tonight they refrain from commenting on the performance. Although there's a yard of space between them, he feels her warmth, listens to her breathe. It helps him to remember that, despite the bitter pill of disappointment he's had to swallow, she's here, alive, safe, and soon she'll return to him; and a baby is coming; and Bae is out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Gold will pull himself back together, go back to work on revealing the dragon-fighter in the swan, but not tonight.
He's not aware how it happened, but when the ballet concludes and he reaches for the remote, he becomes aware that he's been holding Belle's hand—Belinda, Belinda's hand.
The hurt doesn't go away, but he picks himself up and resumes his work. The next few days are critical: Emma is on the verge. She tried to snatch Henry and escape from town last night. That's a good thing, actually: she's desperate.
He goes to the shop every day, as if the world just beyond his door isn't about turn inside out. He repairs, he tinkers, he polishes, he plays dominoes, he eats Belinda's worldwide cuisine, he sits on the couch with her on Mondays and Wednesdays, just as normal, allowing Josiah and Belinda a few more days of feeling secure. He never again holds Belinda's hand, and she says nothing more about the forty-nine kisses she owes him.
She does, however, mention the bedroom he's remodeling. He divides his free hours these days between his basement and that bedroom. "You're painting it yellow," she remarks one day.
"You don't like it?" he asks.
"Well, it's not for me to say. I mean, this is your house—" She shifts from foot to foot. Her ankles are still bothering her, and her back is beginning to ache when she's on her feet for long. She needs to learn a new way to stand, to distribute the added weight.
"I'd like to hear your opinion. You. . . " he almost says matter to me. He settles on "have good taste."
"Well, before, the rooms were all color-coordinated."
He smiles slyly. "Perhaps I'll just repaint the others, then, to match."
A week later, the painting's done and he's got a parade of cutout ducks glued to the baseboards. He hasn't built the crib yet, but he's affixed a Winnie the Pooh cover to the light switch and he's placed a restored antique rocking chair in a corner. When he arrives home that Monday, Belinda looks up from the mushroom risotto she's preparing. She isn't humming and she doesn't smile. "Mr. Gold." The way she says it, she's intentionally creating distance between them. "What are you doing in the yellow room?"
He doesn't insult her by pretending he doesn't understand the question. "It's going to be a nursery."
She turns to face him directly. "Why?"
For Adelena, of course. For our baby, he wants to answer. "After the baby is born, when you're ready to come back to work. . . so you can bring her with you."
"Oh." Her face relaxes and she returns to her cooking.
"I can always redo it, if she doesn't like yellow. Or ducks." He reaches into the refrigerator for the pitcher of tea.
"That's awfully generous. An entire room, just so I can bring the baby along."
He shrugs. "The room was unused and I was. . . looking for a project to keep me busy." He pours two glasses of tea, doctoring hers with a teaspoon of sugar. "Did I do something wrong? Are we back to 'Mr. Gold' and 'Ms. Dove' again?"
She smiles in relief, accepting the glass. "No, of course not. I was just in a mood. I don't know what I thought."
After sipping his tea, he ventures, "Belinda, I suppose you heard about the contract I had with Ms. Boyd."
"I heard, but—I don't pay much attention to gossip."
"A wise choice. I've heard some of the ensuing gossip about that incident. . . speculation about what I intended to do with the baby. The most prevalent of the rumors seem to be that I intended to sell it on the black market or use it in a satanic ritual."
She snorts. "Jackasses."
"Thank you for that." He seats himself at the kitchen table and loosens his tie. He feels very tired: three centuries of horrid rumors add a heavy burden as well as a lot of weight to a deal maker. Even if he did start some of those rumors himself, in the early days. "Contrary to public perception, I do respect families and have no wish to break them up."
Belinda raises her chin. "I know that. I've seen what kind of man you are, M—Rumple."
"I'd like to tell you how the situation with Ms. Boyd came about and what the outcome would have been, if the contract had been fulfilled." His mouth twitches into a wry smile. "If you promise not to let the story get around town. You see, in business, I've found Machiavelli was right: it's 'much safer to be feared than loved.' People 'will offer you their blood, their property, their life and their offspring when your need for them is remote. But when your needs are pressing, they turn away.'"
She dishes up the risotto and sets the platter onto the kitchen table. "Lao Tzu said, 'Fail to honor people and they fail to honor you.'"
Gold chuckles. "Rumplestiltskin Gold says, 'Fail to honor your contract and I'll see you in court.'"
Belinda sets out a platter of green beans almondine and a bowl of fresh pears, then seats herself. She fills her plate, but leans forward on her elbows. "I would like to hear how it really happened, the contract with Ashley."
"To understand what led to her situation, you first must know about her upbringing. You see, her own mother died when Ashley was small, and her father married a widow with two daughters." He interrupts himself to point a fork at her plate. "Dig in. It's very good."
She spreads her napkin across her lap and forks up a mouthful of green beans.
He continues with the tale, though he has to tell it a bit slant. If he told her about the fairy godmother and the glass slippers, she'd think he was nuts.
"And the family the baby would have gone to?"
He leans forward. "Now, you may not believe me, but there was no family."
She cocks her head. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I did have a list, provided by a colleague in Augusta, and Ashley had selected three couples that she wanted to interview, but it never went that far. Ashley would always find an excuse."
"She didn't really want to go through with it," Belinda surmises. Again she's distracted from her meal, and again he has to nudge her to remind her to eat.
"Nor did Sean. At least, that's what I suspected. The times I went to talk to him, his father was always there, and it was Mitchell who did all the talking. Sean just stared at the floor."
With a large grin, she sits back in her chair. She thinks she has the story-and him-all figured out now. "The adoption was a fake all along."
He shrugs, popping a green bean into his mouth. "You could say that." But not for the reason she's thinking: the adoption was a creation of the curse.
"You knew Sean and Ashley really wanted to be together, but the only way to get him to work up the nerve to stand up to his father was to make him see what he stood to lose."
"You're giving me credit for foresight that I'm sorry to say, this world hasn't bestowed upon me. Actually, I thought, once they were faced with the finality of it, Mitchell would back down. I think it's harder for someone who's been a father to let a child go." What he's told her is the truth, but not all of it: his motivation for dealing with Cinderella has always been, from the very start, to buy, not a baby, but a favor from the savior.
"Still, you never intended to go through with the adoption."
"Oh, I was ready to. One way or another, that baby needed a good home."
"I heard you demanded Emma to promise you a favor before you tore up the contract."
"Contracts are far more than a few sheets of paper. They are symbols of integrity. And what was that you quoted to me just now? 'Fail to honor people'? Living up to one's contractual promises is an act of honor."
"Well, I'm sure you won't have any problems there. Emma's a woman of her word."
"Yes. I believe you're right."
"But the favor. You wouldn't make her. . . like, evict the nuns or something like that?"
"If the nuns break their lease, I would expect the sheriff to assist me in her official capacity, if I needed her to." He smiles. "But you and your friends made certain that would never happen." She blushes and he longs to clasp her face in his hands to kiss her reddened cheeks. "Belinda, if it will set your mind at ease a little, I'll tell you what I intend to ask for my favor. But I'll also ask you not to tell anyone, other than your husband, of course."
"On my honor." She lays her hand against her heart.
"Ms. Swan is a skilled locator of people, and when the time is right, I will ask her to find someone for me."
"Why all the subterfuge? Why not just hire her?"
"'Friendships purchased with money and not by greatness and nobility of spirit are paid for, but not collected.' And it's very important to me that I collect on this particular contract." He pokes at his risotto. "It means the world to me."
"Your son?" she asks gently.
He stands, laying his napkin on the table. "I have some things to do in the basement. Thank you for dinner." His throat tight, he starts to walk away. He needs to spin a while, to get away from the voices: "Papa! You coward!" "I command thee, Dark One!" "You could have fought, Rumple. You could have died." "A child can't have a child." He wonders whether, when he finds Bae, if Bae forgives him, the voices will stop.
"Rumple?" When he pauses, she continues, "Thank you for the nursery."