Chapter 24
Day Fifty-Eight.
Belle lives in the kitchen now. Except for the five or six hours a night she sleeps (in his arms, but too tired for conversation, let alone romance), she's limited her physical world to 300 square feet. She's shoved two of the chairs aside to make room at the table for a rocking chair, which she's padded with pillows; with her laptop, her iPad, a notebook and her cell phone replacing the bowl of fresh flowers she used to keep on the table, this is her command central. On the counter where canisters of flour and sugar used to be, she's set up a scanner/printer/fax machine. Her screen saver is Milah's sketch of Bae.
During the day, if she remembers to eat, it's a peanut butter sandwich or cold cuts; discovering this, Gold sets up a daily delivery from Granny's. He takes over the supper cooking and the laundry; she doesn't complain about the way he folds her panties. The cleaning, they let go. Dove picks up a week's worth of groceries for them before he takes off for a Ted's Tackle shopping spree.
Gold's tempted, of course, to cajole, criticize, nag and wheedle her into taking better care of herself, but he knows better than to interfere: she's promised him full devotion to this work. As he watches her nod off in her rocking chair, one hand clutching her iPad, he reflects on the role reversal this world has wrought: she, laboring long hours to conjure the magic that will find Bae; he, tending to their domestic needs.
He's never felt such gratitude toward anyone as he feels toward Belle, nor has he ever felt so indebted. The words come hard–he's always equated debt with vulnerability and weakness–so he tries to show her by taking care of her, by caring for her. He brings her cups of soup and tumblers of tea (extra ice) and massages her temples when eye strain gives her a headache. He moves his books and legal pads to the opposite end of the kitchen table so that he can be close to her even as her mind wanders over trails through a world comprised of brain cells and electronics.
They hardly talk to each other in these days, but he's never felt closer to her.
Through a shady website, she purchases Henry's birth certificate: the space for the father's name is blank. She finds a single newspaper article about Emma: it seems the arrest of a teenager, even for possession of stolen goods, isn't news to anyone. The newspaper doesn't mention an accomplice.
She tracks down two young women who, she confirms, were in prison with Emma: Emma refused to talk about the father of her baby or the douche bag who betrayed her to the cops. She never had a visitor, a letter or a phone call, something they found unusual.
The phone rings with leads that never quite lead anywhere. People come to their door, bringing emotional problems that they expect the law to solve, but no one brings breakfast.
Day Fifty-Nine.
He finds Belle crying in the bathroom. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gulps between sobs. He runs a bath for her with lavender bubbles and washes her hair for her, as she once did for him, and he reassures her he's proud of her, impressed with her tenacity and her skills, and more grateful than he can say. But even as he tucks her into bed, a hardness is rising in his eyes.
Day Sixty.
He's alone in the bed when he awakens at seven o'clock. He runs a hand over her pillow, missing her. So she's taken off. She's afraid of the monster he'll become when he has power again. He doesn't blame her. If he weren't so selfish, he'd be relieved for her: he has no idea what to expect the magic will do to him physically or psychologically when it floods into his bloodstream. All he can be sure of is that this magic will be 100 percent pure, unlike the tainted or watered-down stuff he's encountered in other lands. The magic will be pure, but he's not.
He dresses in his house-painting clothes, for he has a hike through the woods ahead of him, and he makes his way downstairs. His ankle hurts more than usual. He's too nervous to eat, so a cup of coffee will suffice for breakfast.
Apparently, Belle's had the same idea. She's cleared away her and his work materials and has set three objects at his place at the table: a cup of coffee, a windbreaker and the ornamental egg.
"Good morning," she says. "I don't suppose you want any breakfast first." She sounds tired and disheartened, but resigned.
"No thanks." He sips the coffee. "Thank you for. . . still being here."
"I'll go with you," she says, and then he notices she's dressed in jeans and boots. When doubt fills his expression, she continues, "I won't interfere or try to talk you out of it."
He smiles. "As you honor me."
"I still don't agree with what you're doing, but I stand with you, Rumple."
Intellectually, he's known ever since their first, modest kiss in the Dark Castle that she's his True Love and (stunningly) he, hers. Emotionally, it's always been another story. He's heard "I love you's" before, and always, the professor had abandoned him, leaving him shattered. Not even the fearsome Dark One was strong enough to withstand that pain as Cora screwed him over. He has no idea what security in love looks like; only in magic and money has he trusted successfully.
So he watches her warily a long moment, half-expecting to see in her eyes the ghosts of Malcolm, Milah and Cora; but he sees instead emotions he can't identify. No one has ever looked at him with these emotions before; he has to reflect upon his observations of other couples before he can identify what Belle is showing him: love, both of the spirit and the body; loyalty and devotion; sincerity and generosity; concern for his well-being and happiness. . . and faith. His hand starts to shake when he puts the name to that emotion: my gods, she doesn't just trust him; she has faith in him. That means she thinks him good.
Who's the fool, then? Her for believing in you or you for needing her to believe in you? a black voice giggles in his head, a voice he used to attribute to the curse, but as he stands here now under the blessing of Belle's faith in him, he identifies the voice correctly for the first time, recognizing the giggle: it's the voice of his father. Not an ancient, magical being so much wiser and more powerful than Rumplestiltskin, but rather, just a man, a very flawed man with very selfish judgment. A voice then that can be ignored, that doesn't deserve listening to.
A voice that can and will be banished from his head.
When he answers her, it's with his own, true voice. He sets down his mug and holds his arms open; she comes to him for an embrace. "I love you, Belle." The words are so small but the enormity of them stretches across his entire existence and beyond. Everything he's ever done or will do, including the monumental change he's about to bring to this world, adds up to but a grain of sand against the enormity of love.
"I love you." She returns his kiss. "Let me get my jacket."
Instead of his cane, he holds her hand in his right hand as they navigate the twisted, sloping path that leads to the well over Lake Nostros. She supports him, keeps him straight when his ankle wobbles. In his left hand he carries the egg.
The well is one of his creations, like the library and the storybook. Regina designed the town (and that pink ankle-busting monstrosity he and Belle call home) and magic did the actual work of creation for it, but those three pieces are all his, written into the curse when Regina was still preoccupied with her war against Snow: the storybook, an element for breaking the curse; the well, an element for summoning magic–both of these to serve the search for Bae. The library, however, was for Belle: a tribute to the light of his life, whom he believed snuffed out. Not so long ago, he managed to give it to her. Someday, he'll explain its significance.
They've reached the well. His ankle hurts. His skin prickles with anticipation. Belle holds the egg so he can extract the vial. He holds it up to the light, admiring it as his greatest magical accomplishment, but somewhat dreading the unknown changes he's about to unleash. He wishes he knew where Regina is, so he'd know whether she'd gain the power too. He wishes there could be a halfway measure so he could experiment with the newborn magic in a controlled environment. He's thinking these thoughts as he admires the glow the morning light elicits from the potion, with Belle in his peripheral vision; but when he turns to face the well, his vision narrows. "For Bae," he whispers as a sort of a prayer. "For a chance to say I love you."
He unstoppers the vial, upends it and the viscous fuchsia liquid, hardly a tablespoonful, oozes out. He shakes the vial to get to the last drop. The well answers with a thick violet cloud; too heavy to float, it carpets the ground at their feet. It rolls over and over itself like an ocean wave, gathering and growing in size and energy. As it flows around his feet and creeps up his ankles, leaking through the thin cloth of his socks, he breathes in deeply. His body temperature rises and his muscles relax into the magic. It smells like vinegar and burns like iodine on an open wound; it tastes like whisky on his tongue and when it hits his belly, he feels like Superman.
No, he feels like the Dark One again.
In a few minutes, the smell and the taste fade, but his senses are heightened. He can hear the worms beneath the ground breathing. He can discern colors that the human eye can't detect. He doesn't remember much about the first heady moments after Zoso passed the curse onto him, but he does remember a feeling of freedom and fearlessness: those feelings return now, briefly, before his mind gains control of them.
"Rumple?"
After several long minutes, he thinks he's acclimated to the magic. He looks to her. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Can you feel it?"
She wrinkles her nose. "It feels oily. It stinks."
"Some people are born with a propensity toward magic; most aren't and will never be able to access it. And then a very few have it thrust upon them. It's a crap shoot."
"One I'm glad I lost." She tilts her head and grasps his hand to show him. "Rumple! Your skin is changing. Your fingernails, your eyes, your hair."
He examines the glittery skin of his hand. "I'm reverting. I suppose it's my price for the magic. Belle, am I–horrible to look at?"
"I found you attractive then and I do now. Your extraordinary appearance fascinates me." She reassures him with a hand pressed beneath his shirt.
"I can't leave Storybrooke like this. I'll freak people out." He glowers at his blackened fingernails. "Bae will know I'm still a monster. I'll need to create a glamour." He concentrates, passes his hand over his face and feels the magic rising, tumbling from his fingers, but Belle shakes her head. His skin remains green-gray. "I need to practice. It's not working as it used to. Belle, I'm going to stay in the cabin a few days until I understand how this magic works."
"I'll cancel your appointments, tell them you have the flu."
"Will you stay with me, Belle? I might be unpleasant during this time; magic requires strong emotions to fuel it. I'm not sure what it will do to me."
"Of course I'll stay."
It's no vacation. He works on his magic from sunrise to sundown, standing beside the river, away from Belle, so he won't accidentally hurt her. . . so she won't see his tantrums of frustration, his nervousness, his fear that all his plans and all his machinations will come to naught because he can't manage the magic. He takes copious notes of his tests and experiments, and by the second day he sees patterns: he's relieved that although the procedures are different here, magic follows the same laws. By the end of the second day he can light a fire in the fireplace and conjure a cup of tea. On the fifth day, he summons a rainstorm and conjures umbrellas for himself and Belle and they walk the woods together. On the sixth day, he summons the globe from his office. Squeezing a drop of blood onto the globe, he can barely breathe as the magic takes control and his blood coagulates over an island just off the continent. "New York," Belle identifies.
He heals his ankle. "Let's go back."
As they climb into the Caddy, she turns her cell phone back on; she listens to the messages as he drives. Various clients have called to reschedule, Jo's called to remind them to make room in their freezer for all the trout he'll bring back. Then there's a strange message from Emma: after sputtering an apology, she blurts, "Neal Cassidy. That's the alias he used when I knew him. He might not use it now. He lived in New York City. Don't know if he'll still be there–it was ten years ago." She spells the name out. "Don't bring him here. Don't tell him about Henry. You promised." She clicks off.
There are more routine messages, then Emma again, breathless: "Call me ASAP. Josiah Dove's missing. His car was found in a ditch at the 'Welcome' sign. No evidence of an accident or foul play, just sitting there with the driver's door open. We're hoping you've seen him."
Gold brings the Caddy to a screeching halt.