Chapter 12
They take Belle home, not to the ranch house, where maternity clothes hang in the closet and a nursery is under construction, and where fake family photos hang on the walls, but to the pink house. It's her preference; she states it without hesitation when Gold asks where she would like to go, and neither man challenges her. Dove says nothing when Belle walks directly through the foyer to the kitchen, fills the teakettle, gathers cups and milk and sugar, as comfortable in the space as if she lives here. She sits down at the kitchen table, resting her forehead on her arms.
"Maybe I should—" Dove hovers awkwardly in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.
"Please, sit down," Gold says, opening the refrigerator. "I'm going to prepare supper."
Dove nods and seats himself across from Belle. He looks exhausted, physically and emotionally, and confused; he needs a quiet space too. It's too much at once, gaining a second complete identity and losing a baby all in one stroke.
When the kettle whistles, Belle doesn't seem to hear it; Gold prepares the tea. As he sets a cup before her, the grandfather clock in the dining room chimes six times.
The clock reminds him of his grand plan. By now he expected to have released the vial into the well. His fingers twitch, anticipating the surge of magic that will not come tonight. There are more urgent matters, he thinks, and then the darkness in him snorts: Like drinking tea with your servants?
The father in him snaps a reply: Like mourning the loss of a child.
The magic will wait until tomorrow; the search for Baelfire, another few days. Baelfire would understand.
Silently Gold moves about his kitchen, heating soup and slicing bread that Belinda baked just a few days ago, adding it to a platter with cheese and fruit. He grips Belle's shoulder, sending her some of his strength. "Please, eat something, Belle." She stares into her teacup, not budging, so he lays out some bread and cheese for her and gives Dove an encouraging nod.
Dove gets the message: he fills a plate for himself and begins to eat, though his motions are all automatic. Belle rouses, watching him, and when Gold sets a bowl of soup before her she picks up her spoon. Gold smiles encouragingly. "Just a little would help, sweetheart."
She swallows a few spoonfuls.
"Keep her eating," Gold says quietly, and Dove nods. As Gold climbs the stairs, his ankle squeals for all the pressure he's put on it today. After he's found Bae, he'll fix his ancient injury, but not until then: with each step he takes, the pain reminds him that the purpose of his journey is, and always has been, to get home to Bae.
He's come to prepare a room for Belle to sleep in. He selects the bedroom farthest from the nursery, and after he's covered the bed with fresh linen, he moves on to the nursery and locks its door, slipping the key into his jacket. If Belle should get up in the night, he doesn't want her wandering into the room that he prepared for Adelena. When he locks the door, he doesn't look inside.
Coming downstairs, he hears Dove talking, yammering nervously about a '68 Corvette that a buddy's restoring. He ladles out a bowl of soup for himself and tries to join in: if he and Dove fill the silence, perhaps their chatter will lift Belle, enough that she will eat, and perhaps enough that she can rest tonight.
Gold knows nothing about Corvettes, or about 1968, for that matter. But he feigns an interest, asks questions, and his hope rises when Belle's spoon clatters into an empty bowl and she reaches for a slice of melon.
She's trying too, and Gold blesses her for it. "Perhaps we could watch The Tempest tonight?" she suggests.
Gold stiffens in his chair, but keeps smiling. The ending of The Tempest disturbs him: the powerful mage Prospero forgives his enemies, sends his only child off to a new life and then surrenders his magic before asking forgiveness for his own crimes. "And my ending is despair/Unless I be relieved by prayer." Gold's not sure he can handle that tonight, but he would deny Belle nothing; whatever will bring her small comfort, he will bear. "Let's do that," he says, gathering up the dishes.
It's only a little awkward, retiring to the living room with his True Love and her husband: when Belle curls up on the couch, instead of sitting beside her, Dove takes the recliner and Gold takes the rocking chair, each man avoiding anything that could anger the other. This is no time for territory disputes. If they can stay civil, the three of them might just be able to come out of this okay; certainly, much better off than the Nolans and Mary-Margaret have been, with Regina's interference.
Dove falls asleep during Act I. His head lolls before finally settling on his shoulder, and his snores rival the storms that Prospero conjures. Gold and Belle share a smile. "He does that every night," Belle says. "Falls asleep after supper, the remote in his hand." They let him snooze as they watch the play. When it's finished, Gold turns off the television and Belle leans over, giving Dove a shake. "Jo, wake up." There's a fond familiarity in her expression that unsettles Gold.
Dove snuffles, rubs his nose and hauls himself upright in the chair. "Huh?"
"You fell asleep, Jo," Belle explains.
"Like always," Dove admits. "Sorry, Bin." He grins over at Gold. "Real comfortable chair, Mr. G."
"It is," Gold confirms. "I fall asleep in it too."
"Guess I'd better be going." Dove stands. "If I could borrow your car?"
"Of course." Gold hands him the key. "See you at the shop at nine, Josiah?"
Relief washes over Dove's face, and Gold realizes this is what they all need right now: normalcy, or at least an attempt at it. "Sounds good. Yeah. We have that shipment from the auction house coming in." He shakes Gold's hand. "See you in the morning, Mr. G."
"See you in the morning," Gold agrees.
Dove turns to Belle. "I'll bring by a change of clothes for you around eight-thirty, okay?" He touches her elbow awkwardly. "Good night, Belle."
She throws her arms around his neck—he has to stoop and she has to rise on tiptoe—and kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Jo. Thank you. For everything."
He smiles down at her. "Thanks, Bin. For everything." Dove pats her cheek fondly before leaving.
Through the open door she waves and watches him drive away. Gold gives her her privacy, retreating to the kitchen to fill the dishwasher. It's several minutes before she wanders into the kitchen and silently wipes the crumbs from the table. He casts worried glances at her, but her back remains turned to him.
Gold dries his hands on a towel. He begins tentatively, "He's a good man."
"Yes."
"Are you okay?"
When she turns, she's red-faced. "I'm sorry, Rumple."
"Why?" In surprise he touches her shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
"It's like I was unfaithful to you."
"You were Belinda then, not Belle, and for most of those years, I wasn't Rumple. Until a year ago, you were just my housekeeper and he was my handyman and my friend. When I thought of you with him, I felt envy, not jealousy."
"Envy?"
"Because you had a happy marriage. Your happiness stood out all the more because no one else in Storybrooke had that, not even the richest man in town. It was as Regina intended, that I would envy the people who worked for me." He pauses. "You were happy with Josiah, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad."
"You said, 'Until a year ago.'"
"The curse broke for me the day Ms. Swan came to town. It was. . . written into the curse that way, so I could make preparations. I'll tell you the whole story, but not tonight."
"No, I don't think I could, tonight."
"What would help you right now, Belle?"
It's the best question he could have asked her; she rewards him with a relieved smile. "I'm not up to talking. Later, but not now. Would you just sit with me?" She holds out a hand in invitation, and when he takes it, she leads him to the couch, where she snuggles against him and he slides a comforting arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair. They sit, listening to the grandfather clock tick, watching the sun sink and the streetlights come on. She clutches his free hand, but eventually her hold on him loosens and her breathing evens. She isn't sleeping; he can tell from the depth of her breathing; but she is finding a peaceful moment in time to rest in.
By her request, he sleeps beside her that night; she asks for his bed rather than the guest room he prepared for her. She's wearing a pinned-up pair of his pajamas, and when he sinks into the bed beside her, she draws his arm around her hip and rests her head on his shoulder. In the safety of the darkness, she asks, "What happens next?"
"I don't know," he admits. "I want to find my son. When you feel ready to travel. . . .?"
"I'd like that." She falls silent a while, and he's content just listening to her breathe. Then she thinks of another question—his Belle, always with another question. "And the others? Ruby, David, Mary Margaret, Leroy? What happens to them?"
"They will return to their loved ones. It may be complicated, as it will be for us, but the families will sort themselves out. Archie will be needed more than ever, I imagine."
"Will they go back? To the Enchanted Forest, I mean."
"That would require magic."
There's a note of disappointment in her "oh." It encourages him: perhaps she won't be completely adverse to his bringing magic to this land. But he won't raise that subject tonight.
"Maybe they won't want to go back," she speculates. "I mean, who wouldn't choose central heating and indoor plumbing and refrigerators?"
"And cars and airplanes and computers and TVs."
"And stereos and vacuum cleaners and hair dryers and washing machines and electric stoves," she giggles, snuggling closer to him.
"I take it that, given a choice, you'd choose this world."
"Hands down." She sighs. "But that's one vote out of three."
"Three?"
"You and Baelfire might want to go back."
"And you'd go—"
"Where you go."
"Ah, Belle." His throat tightens, as does his hold on her hip. He tries to think of some elegant way to express his gratitude, but emotion chokes him, so he merely kisses the top of her head.
"We're going to be okay, aren't we?" she asks. "You and me and Bae and Jo."
"We'll work it out, I promise," he assures her. "We have too much going for us, to lose it to anger or jealousy."
"Rumple?" She raises her head; her eyes shimmer in the dark.
"Sweetheart?"
"The yellow bedroom. . . you would've welcomed the baby, wouldn't you?"
"I would have loved her."
"You would've been a great stepdad."
"We would have made it work," he repeats. "You and me and Josiah. We could have. All of us, for the baby's sake. For our own sake, to get to raise her and love her."
"Would Bae have liked having a sister?"
"I'm sure he would've."
"Rumple?"
"Yes, love?"
"You seem awfully sure it would have been a girl."
"Just a hunch," he admits. "I can't see the future any more."
"Maybe that's best." She rests her head against his chest again. "Life should be layered."
"A mystery to be—" but his voice catches and he can't complete the sentence. Her hand presses against his cheek and her thumb brushes away wetness there. Her own shoulders start to shake and for both of them, the dam bursts.