Chapter 13

The boards creak as, barefoot, he eases down the stairs, determined not to wake Belle. How quickly their bodies, if not their minds, have fallen back into old patterns: he an early riser, she a late sleeper. He realizes as the railing rasps against its bolts when he clutches it that he never noticed before how dried-out and achy this old house is (yet not half as old as he is). But now that she's here, the house will rejuvenate, as will he.

He decides to make pancakes.

Funny, a hundred minute details about her have sprung to mind, just as though the thirty-two years between their parting in the Enchanted Forest and yesterday's curse breaking had shriveled up and blown away like dry winter leaves in a spring wind, leaving fresh green memories. She likes pancakes drizzled with honey. She's muddle-headed when she first wakes up. She always blushes when he performs small acts of kindness for her, as though she somehow thinks she doesn't deserve them.

He doesn't like pancakes.

He makes pancakes for her.

When breakfast is ready, he arranges it on a tray and carries it upstairs. It takes three trips because, with only one hand free to carry the tray, he has to keep the load light. He doesn't mind. He grins like a schoolboy on the first day of his first crush. He's bringing her sweetness on a plate and sunshine in a glass. But really, he's bringing her his unbridled heart.

He wakes her in the way he's wanted to, for so many years: he opens the drapes to allow sunlight in, as she once did for him, and then he brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her cheek. Muddle-headed, she blinks, focuses, props herself up and frowns as she looks around–this room is not what she's expecting; it's not hers, not yet, but it will be soon. He greets her and the frown vanishes, and when she sees his offering, she smiles.

And blushes.

"You cooked for me?" She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back, and arranging pillows behind her back, she sits up fully. "Pancakes?"

He balances the tray on her lap, then drags an armchair close to the bed so he can sit down. His ankle's complaining from all the stair climbing but he doesn't notice. What he does notice is the delight in her eyes as she picks up the little plastic bear and squeezes its belly, drizzling honey on her pancakes. "Thank you."

He waits quietly as she eats. He's never been much of a cook–in his spinner days, when cooking was a necessity, he had so little to work with; even salt was a precious commodity. In this world, he's has an embarrassing abundance of ingredients and implements, but no son or wife to cook for. Perhaps that will change in the not-too-distant future.

A smear of honey ends up in a lock of her hair and she laughs.

He'd give every object in his shop for the privilege of bringing her pancakes every morning.

"Wait for me," he urges. "I need to go into the shop this morning. I'm expecting a delivery." He doesn't mention that it's from Emma, not the antique auction. "But I'll make it a half-day."

"I should go ho–" she stops herself.

He feels the prick of panic, wondering how she intended to finish that sentence. "I've had much more time than you to adjust to–" he waves a hand around vaguely. "I won't rush you. If you want to get a place of your own. . . . If you want to go back to your father's house. . . .But I don't think you should go. . . back there, to Josiah's. . . . "

"I meant, to pick up my things. Not to stay." She reddens. "Last night, I just presumed–I didn't ask if it would be okay–if you wanted me here."

"You said last night that you never wanted us to be separated again. I realize, once things settle down and all the initial confusion of the curse breaking is over–." He's giving her a graceful way out, if she wants it. He's pretty sure, though, she won't. "I'm a better man than I was when we last lived together, but I'm still a bit of a bastard. Quite a bit of a bastard, actually."

"Don't lean on that like a crutch," she warns, "like you don't have a choice. " Belle rests her hand on the tray. "The man who made me pancakes–"

"Is the same man who made a curse that affected an entire town. And he'd do it again, if he had to, to find his son." He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "That ruthlessness will always be a part of me, but when you came into my life I started to want to reclaim the other half of myself, and I promise you, I'll keep trying." He ducks his head so she can't see his face. "It's too soon after the curse breaking and. . . the baby. . . to make plans. But for today, stay with me and let's do ordinary things and pretend everything is fine. We all need that today, I think."

She sets the tray on the nightstand. "Well, I can't go out until Jo brings me some clothes. Besides, I feel like doing some vacuuming this morning." There's fondness in her smile as she stands and looks around the bedroom of his old house. "It's been a while since I last cleaned this house, hasn't it? I kind of feel like I've neglected the old girl." She bends to press her lips to his cheek. "One day at a time, Rumple."

When he brings the promised change of clothes, Josiah comes to the back door, as he always has. Gold notices he's brought only three or four days' worth of garments in a cardboard box: does he expect Belle will get disgusted by the end of the week and come home to the ranch house? But Belle notices something that tells a different story: puffiness and dark circles under Jo's eyes. She presses a cup of coffee into his hand and remarks, "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

"Don't worry about me," the handyman shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Belle says.

"I'll get used to it. It's still just kind of raw, you know? But there's a whole lot of other people in the same boat. On the courthouse lawn, there's a missing persons message board. People looking for their families. And, uh, on the streets you see cars and trucks filled with people's belongings." He shifts from foot to foot. "People moving out from the places they were living in, to move in with their rightful families." He clears his throat. "Guess we'll be pretty busy for a while, rewriting leases."

"My leases are airtight," Gold mutters. "With a substantial penalty for failure to pay rent."

"But we're not gonna hold them to it, are we, Mr. G.? I mean, besides how nasty that would be, it's gonna be hard to enforce, right? Considering the sheriff isn't likely to back you up. It could even be argued the leases aren't valid, since the tenants signed them with false names."

Belle is shooting Gold a glacial glare, so he capitulates. "I suppose in the long run it will even out, since there's nowhere in town they can move that I don't own. They'll just be moving from one of my properties to another."

"Rumple," Belle now smiles sweetly. "This is your chance to do a unique civic good."

"If you're going to suggest I waive rent–"

"I know better than to suggest that. But I'm betting you, with your tenant lists and your intact memories of the Enchanted Forest, could help reunite families."

"Hey, what a great idea!" Josiah brightens for the first time. "Give us something to do while we're waiting for the delivery."

"I was looking forward to a game of dominoes," Gold grumps, but Belle and Dove know they've won. He'll do it, not because it's right or because he wants to make families happy, but because it will make his old friend feel better. Besides, such a Boy Scout deed will surely ingratiate him to Queen Snow and Princess Emma, which just may save his sorry hide from Charming when the lot of them find out who created the curse.

The grandfather clock chimes nine times.

"Mr. Dove, you're late for work."

As Dove rattles off the alphabetical list of tenants, Gold assigns the true names to those he knows. It's less than half: Regina wrote most of the Storybrooke part of the curse, feeding into it a lengthy list of her enemies and assigning them roles in her new kingdom. Rumplestiltskin didn't give a damn whom she chose to drag along: all he cared about was the destination and the savior waiting for her big moment. Had he known, however, that Belle was alive and that Regina would dangle her under his nose, he would've gotten a lot more involved in the planning of the guest list. A hell of a lot more involved.

"Mr. G.?"

"Huh?"

"Michael Marine, owner of Marine Garage?"

"You mean, renter of Marine Garage. He's Finrod, an elf. His mate is Amarie; here, she's Ann Marie Rangel, an electrician."

Josiah writes a number beside Marine's name, then skims through the ledger to the "R's" and writes the same number beside Rangel. Flipping back to the "M's" he continues, "Marti Martin, sales clerk at the shoe store."

"Don't know him."

"It's a her."

"Oh. Still don't–wait. Cassie, the Old Lady Who Lived–"

Josiah chuckles: it's a heartening sound. "In a Shoe. So of course she works in the shoe store."

Gold clicks his tongue. "Regina's lack of imagination has always held her back. She could've been so much more than an Evil Queen if she'd had just a little creativity. Anyway, Ms. Martin is a widow. She has six kids–Josiah, this is going to take all day! Why don't we just let them find each other with no interference from us, eh? It'll give the reunions an element of anticipation and surprise."

But Josiah shakes his head. "When Bindy comes, she's going to ask if we did what we were supposed to. I never could look at those big blue eyes and lie to her, not even when I accidentally drove my riding lawn mower through her flower garden."

The men share a smile. "Yeah. She's the kind that's hard to lie to. I, uh, once accidentally tripped and spilled a potion on her gold ball gown. Fffft! The dress fizzled and vanished into thin air. I wanted to tell her the fairies stole it, but–"

"You couldn't bring yourself to lie to her?"

"Nope." Gold's eyes twinkle. "But that may have been because she was wearing the dress at the time."

Josiah snickers.

Gold hesitates. He and Josiah are guys, and guys don't talk about their feelings except in guy code, couching their emotions in sports talk. But he notices the thread of loneliness running beneath Dove's jokes, and he notices the dark circles under Dove's eyes. "You miss her."

"Yeah. Both of them." Dove rubs his forehead and his voice drops. "I was going to name him after my father–it was gonna be a boy. Bindy said a girl, but I knew it was a boy. Bindy wanted me in the delivery room with her. We were reading up on Lamaze. . . ."

Gold looks away to give the man a moment of privacy, and as his eyes roam the shop, his gaze falls upon the brown leather ball perched on a display platform. In an instant memory transports him to a cottage in a far-away, long-ago land, where a gray-eyed woman stands before a cozy fireplace. In her arms is a squirming, cooing bundle wrapped in a shawl. For the privilege of being present for that single moment, Rumplestiltskin had paid dearly, but no price was too high.

Dove had been anticipating such a moment, and to have the promise of it ripped from him must be awful.

"I mean, now that my memories are back, I know Faith was my True Love, but Bindy was. . .you just feel better when she's around, you know?" At Gold's nod, Josiah thinks for a moment, then his eyes widen. "Hell, Mr. G., you were awake from the curse for a full year. And us working for you–it must've been crazy, seeing her and me together, knowing. . .how things were supposed to be."

"Yeah. So. . . Widow Martin, huh? Okay, her eldest works at the cannery, I believe."

Belle arrives just before noon with sandwiches. She distributes them and makes a fresh pot of coffee. "It's chaos out there. People running around trying to find each other. This is the only business in town that's open. School, city hall, Granny's, all closed. Emma and Snow and David are trying to organize everyone, but they really could use that list. How's it coming?"

The men chortle.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm pleased to report that we're on the 'T's," Gold announces, then he laughs and Dove laughs too.

"Come on, fellas, what's–you haven't been nipping at that bottle of bourbon that you think I don't know you keep in the bottom drawer of your desk, have you?"

"No, we were just talking about flower gardens," Dove confesses.

Gold adds, "And ball gowns."

"You." She looks from the linebacker-built handyman to the ice-water-veined pawnbroker, and she's not buying a word of their explanation. "And you. Talking about flowers and ball gowns."

Dove shrugs. "Well, football season's months off yet."

"I'm glad you're both in a good mood and making such speedy progress." She folds her arms. "Because Snow's coming for that list right after lunch."