Chapter 9

It's Tuesday, so it surprises him to hear humming in his kitchen when he opens the front door. "Winter Dreams" is playing on the stereo.

Waving hello with a spatula, she greets him from the doorway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. She's wearing the basketball shoes he gave her yesterday, and she wiggles one foot at him to show them off. "They're working. My ankles don't ache."

"They should provide good arch support too." He has an excuse now to sneak in an admiring glance at her calves, bare beneath her denim skirt. "But, uhm, did I get my days mixed up? Isn't today Tuesday?"

"It is, but–did Jo remember to ask you about tomorrow?" She comes forward to help him take off his jacket, always a bit of a trial with the cane. A small shudder runs up his spine as her knuckles brush against his cheek. He bites his tongue: a little blast of pain is the only way he can keep from grasping her hand to press it to his lips.

"He did, and congratulations. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time." It's their wedding anniversary tomorrow, Josiah announced this morning, though he couldn't exactly remember how many years they'd been married, and he'd asked for the day off for both of them.

"Thanks," Belinda beams. "We're going out to dinner, then a movie. Anyway, I didn't want you to go hungry tomorrow, so here I am."

Once the jacket's removed, her hands rest on his shoulders, then one of them plucks at his hair at the crown of his head. She clicks her tongue. "Did you go out like this, this morning? And Jo didn't say anything to you? That man of mine–I swear, a person could stand buck naked in front of him and he'd never notice."

Gold clutches at that accusation. Is it possible Belinda and Josiah's love life is lacking? "What's wrong?" He's really wanting to ask, What's wrong in your relationship? Oh, but they're going out for a romantic night tomorrow; surely that means they're happy. And he wouldn't want them to be unhappy. . . .

But when she takes his hand and pulls him into the downstairs bathroom, he has to admit he's not that magnanimous. She sits him down on the rim of the tub and his hands start for her waist with the intention of drawing her forward . . .she moves between his knees, standing over him, bending, her fingers in his hair. She removes his tie.

"Belle," he chokes.

"Take off your shirt."

"Wh-what did you say?"

She clicks her tongue and starts opening the buttons of his silk Armani. "Take off your shirt. So it won't get wet."

"Wet?" he echoes dumbly, but he obeys her, sliding the open shirt from his shoulders.

But his hopes are dashed when she walks out of the bathroom. "I'll be right back. Stay put! I'm going to scrub that blob of paint out."

He sighs deeply, uncertain whether he's relieved or disappointed. As he waits, he looks around: the bathroom's nice enough, as bathrooms go, but hardly the location he's imagined for their first time. He props his bad ankle onto the lid of the commode and waits.

When she returns there's a towel slung over her shoulder, her sleeves are rolled up and she's carrying a bottle of olive oil–extra virgin, he notices. "Up." She tugs at his elbow until he stands, then she turns the water on in the sink, flits her fingers under it to test the temperature, then demands, "Bend over." His head under the stream of water, she begins to dig her fingers into his hair.

Suddenly Gold discovers an erogenous zone he never knew he had. A low moan escapes him as her fingers massage his scalp. Every ounce of tension washes down the drain as she works the olive oil into his hair, rinses, works in some more, rinses. . . shampoo and rinsing and conditioner and rinsing and he's adrift, steered by her knowing fingers, better than ice cream this is, better than. . . well, it's been two hundred years since he'd taken a woman to bed, and though Cora was uninhibited enough, there was always something calculating about the way she responded to his touch. Something fake. Between Milah, who was never satisfied, and Cora, for whom sex was mechanical, and a few princesses and duchesses who bargained away access to their bodies, he'd concluded coupling was overrated.

As Belinda sits him down, bends over him so close he can see her chest rise and fall with each breath, Rumplestiltskin realizes that though he's taken women to bed, he's never made love before.

Belinda dries his hair with the towel, then blots up the rivulets of water from his shoulders and chest. "I got most of it out. A couple more washings should do."

She brushes his hair as he rests his forehead against her belly. "I hear the baby." His heart aches.

"She's been rambunctious today." She steps away from him, hangs the towel on the rack, and he feels suddenly cold. "I'd better get back to my cooking. Beef Wellington and brussel sprouts tonight, and there's a lamb curry in the fridge for tomorrow." He follows her into the kitchen and she continues, "I don't know what's on TV tonight that we might like. Jo always watches NCIS, so Tuesdays are my reading nights."

His beams back at her. She's staying! Normally he'd be working in the basement or the nursery, so he doesn't know what fare television has to offer tonight, but he won't risk scaring her off with the unknown. "I have a new box set I haven't opened yet: the Royal Shakespeare Company's performances of the comedies. You know, Much Ado about Nothing, Midsummer Night's Dream–"

She claps her hands. "That sounds perfect with the beef Wellington!" She opens the oven and wonderful aromas spill out. "You've heard of 'bucket lists'? Well, one of the items on mine is to see the RSC perform in the Globe in London."

He almost blurts, I'll take you there, but he settles for, "I'm sure you will someday." He sits down at the kitchen table, forcing himself to remember to be grateful for the moment he has in front of him, rather than waste it by daydreaming about the future. She isn't Belle yet, she isn't his yet, but he has the gift of an evening in the company of someone he cares for, and that's more than most of Storybrooke has tonight.

Alone in his shop, Gold watches the happy couple stroll past his window and enter Dave's Fish & Chips. Jealousy guts Gold like a fish: If she were his, he'd take her to La Tandoor, where he has a private table and a personal wine supply. She's peering up at Dove, and Dove's grinning down at her, and the swelling of her belly announces to all of Storybrooke that this is a family.

Gold wonders how else they will celebrate tonight, when they've gone home and turned the lights out. His gut twists as he imagines Belle naked beneath the sheets, reaching for the man she calls husband, her lips swollen from his kisses. He curses himself: at three hundred sixty-something years of age, he should have conquered his petty jealousies long ago. Besides, the curse breaking is only a week or two away. He retreats to his workroom and begins to build a cradle.

In reality, this is an important anniversary for Josiah, just not the one the curse has fooled him into thinking it is. It was thirty years ago today that Rumplestiltskin granted Courage a wish, in gratitude for the dove's loyal service in delivering messages (actually, in gratitude for the dove's friendship, but the imp will never admit that. Wouldn't do for word to leak out that the Dark One cared). Quite an impressive feat of magic it was too, and no one but Dove ever knew, more's the pity. It had taken hours of concentration and quite drained Rumple: for a full day after, he couldn't summon enough magic to even light a candle. But the result was worth the price, for he'd transformed the dove into a man, a tall, strong, young man. The only part Rumple got wrong was the hair: he forgot to conjure any. Never mind, Dove had said, admiring his reflection in Rumple's fish pond. He ran his brand-new, big, powerful hand over his smooth head.

The imp led the new man into the castle. "What shall you do in this new form? All men need occupation–except for aristocrats." Rumple flourished his hands. "Tinker, carpenter, baker, smithy. There are a thousand choices."

"Can't I continue to work for you?"

Rumple opened and closed his mouth, lost for words. Josiah held the heavy wooden door open, allowing the wizard to pass through first. As their footfalls echoed through the Great Hall, Rumple noticed how empty the castle seems these days, though it's never been more possessed of things.

"As it happens, I'm soon to take a trip and I shall need someone to maintain the castle. Would you be interested in the job?"

"Of course. When will you return, sir?"

"I shant," Rumple muttered. He changed the subject before Josiah could ask for an explanation. "You need a new name, a human name." As they walked to the kitchen–for the new man was suddenly very hungry–Rumple rattled off a list of names. He had quite a collection of them from around the world: learning names and their translations had been a bit of a hobby. The man kept shaking his head, until Rumple suggested, "Josiah. In its land of origin, it means 'healed.'"

"That one. Because you made me well when I was sick."

"Very well, then, Josiah. Let's see what we can find for your first meal as a man. For I'm afraid I can't conjure anything more at the moment." They managed to turn up some dried fruit and a cheese wheel, and considered themselves fortunate, for the kitchen hadn't been used since Belle left.

Two days later, the imp answered a summons from Princess Ella.

Regina hadn't bothered to change Josiah's name or his occupation. Gold wonders why. He won't ask though: he's learned to take advantage of her laziness.

He wonders if, when he takes Belle into the world to find Bae, Josiah will prefer to stay behind again, minding the castle. Or will he agree to follow, so that he can remain close to his daughter?

If this doesn't work out, if Belle or Adelena or Josiah suffers because of the queen's little joke, Gold decides he will introduce Regina to the handle of his cane.

He finds Belle kneeling in his dining room, the glass doors of his china cabinet propped open before her. She's facing the cabinet, so her back is turned to him. But it's Thursday, one day after her wedding anniversary: she shouldn't be here for another four days.

He hesitates in the entranceway. He feels as though he's intruding upon a private moment–she's so still–and he considers walking back out, leaving her alone with her thoughts, but he's worried. "Belinda?"

She doesn't respond, so he takes a few steps toward her. Her head is bowed as if in prayer.

"Belinda? Are you okay?"

At last she looks up at him, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. Her hands are clasped around something in her lap. Now he's really worried and he hurries to her side. He wishes to sink to his knees beside her, encircle her in his arms, but his bad ankle won't allow him to kneel; he has to settle for bending. He reaches a hand toward her and when she doesn't flinch, he grips her shoulder. "Belle?"

"I had a dream last night." She lifts her hands so he can see what she's holding. "This was important, wasn't it? To us."

She suddenly presses it into his hand, clambers to her feet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here." And before he can argue, she's gone.

"Belle, wait." But she doesn't. Carefully he sets the object back onto the shelf. "Yes," he answers to the air. "It isn't just a cup." And he closes the glass doors.

Rumor has it Emma's giving up. She's packing up to leave town–to leave Henry. Anyone else would be worried, but not Gold–because he knows Regina. Emma's leaving isn't enough for her, any more than forcing Emma's mother into exile to live as a bandit was enough. True to form, Her Majesty storms back into Gold's shop (won't she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Isn't it obvious to her by now that it's foolish to tell her secrets to the man who wants her curse broken?). "I found a solution to my Emma Swan problem," she gloats. She claims she managed to bring a small amount of magic to Storybrooke; she plans to twist it into a purpose other than the one that fits its nature.

He's annoyed by that: he spent many, many hours in the Enchanted Forest teaching her the science of magic. She should know better on all accounts. Magic that's been moved between realms is unstable; magic that has been brought to a land in which it doesn't belong is unpredictable. He plans to spend weeks, months if necessary, studying the magic he summons to this world before he attempts anything major with it. And magic that has been wrung from other magic—at best, it's like dubbing from one videotape to another: strength is lost, quality reduced. At worst—well, he once saw the result when a sorcerer drained an enchanted medallion of its magic and tried to use that magic to transport his apprentice across kingdoms. An ogre would look like a beauty pageant queen by comparison with the thing the apprentice became.

But Regina's always been too powerful for her own good; she's managed to pull off in minutes stunts that it took Rumplestiltskin days of experimentation to perform. Much of her success can be credited to her teacher, of course, but a great deal of it is due to her decision early on to specialize. Certain functions and methods, she's never bothered to learn, and her motto, when it came to the laws of magic, has always been "I'm the law."

"The curse is going to be stronger than ever. Don't you understand? I won."

His mild response infuriates her. Later, when she reflects upon his lack of reaction, she'll realize it should have clued her in to the fact that he knows there's nothing she can do to salvage her curse, because there's nothing she can do to break the bonds Emma has formed here. The sheriff's abandonment of Storybrooke will be short-lived: she loves too many too well, and she'll fight for them. As an ambulance siren slices through the peaceful afternoon, a savior is born.

Rumplestiltskin sets Charming's sword onto the top of the counter and flips his sign to "open."