Chapter 33
When Belle is sound asleep, Gold slides out of bed. He's got some thinking to do and here's not the place to do it. Actually, it's not really thinking he wants: it's feeling, and to conjure the emotions he wants to feel in order to take the action he wants to take, he needs another locale. As quietly as he can, he closes the bedroom door behind him and sneaks down the hall past the adjacent guest rooms in which Henry and Emma are sleeping; he pauses just a minute there, pretending to himself that he's adjusting his grip on his cane, but truthfully, he's just enjoying the thought that behind those doors his loved ones, except for Bae, sleep in peace. Then he reminds himself it's his job to keep it that way, so he continues down the hall and opens the door to the yellow room. Safe inside, safe from Belle's questions and judgment, he sits in the rocking chair and stares at the empty crib. It doesn't take long for the feelings to come. Soon enough, he's clenching his cane with the same fury he'd exhibit if he were clenching the neck of the one who took Adelena from him and Belle.
The same one who gave Adelena to them. A lie, but also a hope.
His fury backslides into a simmering anger. He rouses himself: he needs to stay enraged to do what must be done. And do it, he must: no one in this town–least of all his grandson, his would-have-been daughter-in-law, his someday-wife and his friend–is safe as long as she's alive.
To protect his family, then. He's been around far too long to trust the justice system with one as dangerous as Regina, especially when at the head of that system is Snow White. He's seen what Snow considers justice: a comfortable, clean room with a view, a soft bed, clean clothes and nutritious meals every day–that's how Snow metes out justice to Regina. Gold's blood boils. Snow should leave the punishment phase to her cold-blooded husband, with his hole-in-the-ground prisons and his maggot-infested meals.
So this isn't just about revenge, then; it's also about envy. Why the Charmings pampered one prisoner (because she was female? Because she was royal? Or because she was kin, even if it wasn't by blood?) and tortured the other. So what? It doesn't matter what the Dark One's motives are, as long as he does what must be done. That thou doest, do quickly. He changes out of his pajamas into his leather: the close-fitting material centers him in his body, somehow, unlike the cloth suits, which center him in his mind.
Even before he's materialized, he's thrown out a sleeping spell–not that the dwarf babysitting the prisoner needed one; Happy was dozing off anyway. Gold materializes in her cage: warm blankets, a pillow, a trip to the bathroom whenever she asks, three square meals, her own clothes to wear and a shower every day–once again, treated like royalty. Pointedly Gold ignores the queen's mottled skin, the clumps of hair and the weight she's lost, and that ever-present bucket at the foot of her bed. Do quickly.
He stares down at her a moment: she's sleeping, breathing through her mouth. She's in a high-necked, white cotton nightgown (not her own, he's sure; it's the kind he suspects Snow would own). Then, screwing his courage to the sticking place, he bends over her, clasps a hand over her mouth and whispers in her ear, "Not a sound, Your Majesty."
Her eyes fly open. She struggles but he holds her firmly, under his own strength, rather than magic; he wants to enjoy all the physical sensations. He yanks her upright, onto her feet. She screams beneath his hand, but it doesn't matter: Happy dozes. Gold twists her arm behind her back, all the better to control her as he spins her to face him. He wants to see the fear take possession of her.
She bites his hand and when he jerks it away, she doesn't scream again–she sees the fruitlessness of that–nor threaten–she has nothing to threaten with. Nor does she plead or bargain, though she realizes she's about to die at his hand; if she had tried to soften him with tears or deals, he would have struck immediately. Instead, she says, "I heard them talking. I know Henry's your grandson."
He twists her arm tighter and she grunts, but she persists. "All the puzzle pieces fell together when I heard that. Why you created the curse. Why you created the Evil Queen. It's for this son that Emma helped you find: her lover, Henry's father. Everything"–is that admiration in her tone?–"centuries of work, so you could find him again, and now, the curse won't let you. The curse you created to find him won't let you go to him or him to come to you. Do you find that ironic, Rumple, or just tragic? Do you think the gods are out to screw you, or just screw with you?"
"Shut up," he demands.
"Why? Isn't the condemned entitled to a last statement?" Her eyes darken with bloodlust. She can't help it; the call of the kill entices her, even when it's her own execution. He recognized that in her mother; he recognized it in himself. In a way, it binds him to her and Cora, almost makes a family of them, a sick family joined by bloodlust but not blood.
It's been a long time since his soul cried out for a killing.
"So you've come to do me a favor," she smiles cockily. "You're granting me some mercy."
"What?"
"You're killing me, aren't you? Sparing me the insanity that this fairy dust is driving me to. I should thank you for a quick death." He has to respect her, he supposes, for staring him down even now, when she's helpless. "One thought, though: what will your loved ones think of you when they find out what you've done? I can tell you how Henry will react: first disbelief, because he's always kind of liked you, even when he was afraid of you, then shock, when he has no choice but to believe. Then horror: who else will you kill? Emma, if she pisses you off? Charming, the 'good grandpa'? Or maybe Henry will say the wrong thing one day and you'll kill him? You'll never have his respect and you'll never have a relationship with him, because he'll be terrified of you–not that Emma and her idiot parents would allow it anyway.
"I can predict how Henry will react, but I admit, I don't know Belle well, so you'll have to tell me. What will be the expression on her face when she sees what you've done? Will she thank you for getting even on her behalf or will she fear you, like Henry will? When you go to kiss her, will she push you away in disgust, or will she run from you in terror that you'll try to kill her too?
"This son of yours. Does he mind having a murderer for a father? Tell me about him, Rumple. Does he crave the taste of blood like you and I do? Will–"
"Shut up!" His hand closes, at long last, around her throat and he squeezes. But it doesn't feel good–he doesn't know if the fairy dust is getting to him or something more insidious. . .a sense of decency, perhaps. He can kill Regina and have justice, or he can have his burgeoning family, Belle and Henry and Josiah and (sort of) Emma and, one day, Bae. Not both. He could cover up the killing, make it look like Regina succumbed to the fairy dust, but even though he might manage to keep his family around him, he wouldn't have them. He'd lose them to his own lies.
Lately he's seen something new when Henry, Emma and Blue look at him: not trust yet, but a thawing of fear, a rolling back of disgust. It's nice. He wants more. He wants dominoes with Jo, bagels with Emma, Sunday afternoon westerns with Henry, and whatever Baelfire might like to do, that's what Gold wants to do too. And Belle, every day and everywhere, Belle: the kitchen, the living room, the study. Belle in all her permutations, all her moods. Belle the brave, Belle the virtuous, Belle the judgmental, Belle the sinner. He wants every moment of her.
Standing minutes away from a killing, he can't work up the necessary rage. The memory of the heady scent of blood is too dim. He can't remember bloodlust.
It's not really power he's wanted, all these years: it's security, a safe place to be himself. A little bit of comfort, a little bit of friendship, a little bit of love.
He's let go of Regina's throat. He hasn't intended to; his hand opened of its own volition.
"What's the matter, master? Can't get it up any more?" Regina sneers.
He blinks at her. "Why the hell am I wasting my time on you? I have loved ones waiting for me." He transports himself from her cage. But old habits die hard, so over his shoulder he sneers right back at her. "Of course, you wouldn't know what that's like, would you, dearie?" Just to leave her with a little something—because the Dark One needs some satisfaction—he throws a quick blast of magic at her head and relishes her whimper as her hair falls out, every last strand of it, all over her nightgown.
The front door bangs open and footsteps run across the foyer and into the kitchen. Gold has kept the basement door open just for this purpose, to hear when Henry gets home from school. "Excuse me," he says to Blue, "my grandson's home."
The fairy, kneeling beside a bed of seeds she's nurturing, smiles up at him. "Of course."
At the top of the stairs Gold pauses to survey the scene: a jacket dropped over a chair, a backpack on the floor near the cookie cupboard, the refrigerator door hanging open and a denim-covered butt poking out from it. "Hey, Grandpa!" Henry calls to him from the glasses cupboard. "You want a glass of milk?"
Gold blinks. If Henry's over there, then whose butt is that poking out from the fridge? Then he notices that the dropped jacket is red leather. He proceeds into the kitchen. "Hi, Henry. No ball practice? Hello, Emma; you're both home early." He likes the taste of those words: you're home.
"Coach had an emergency," Henry says, setting three tumblers on the counter. "Hand me the milk, mom?" The boy takes the plastic jug from Emma—Gold smiles: he and Belle bought a gallon jug at the store yesterday; he's never in his entire life bought a gallon of anything. Henry splashes milk into each tumbler, somehow managing not to spill any, and he brings one to his grandfather. Gold's stomach and milk don't get along, but Gold accepts the tumbler anyway and when Henry's back is turned, he changes the milk into tea.
Now the refrigerator closes and Emma, her hands filled with jars and a package of bologna secured between her teeth, swings around. Gold dives in to assist her in carrying her treasures to the table. Meanwhile, Henry's bringing plates and butter knives and a package of cookies as his offerings. "Yeah," Emma adds, peering at Gold. "A hair emergency." Coach Lance (formerly Lancelot of Camelot) is the owner of Milady's Locks. "All of Regina's hair fell out last night. Whale said it's a nutrition thing, but Regina claims an imp appeared in her cell last night and made her hair fall out. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"I? Hair styling is one subject I know little about."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Just a reminder, you two: don't fill up," Gold warns dutifully. "Belle has a Beef Wellington planned for tonight." Then, deciding he's done his husbandly duty, he calls down to the basement, "Blue! We're having a snack. Care to join us?" It's only an hour later as he's completing another husbandly duty—cleaning up the kitchen—that he realizes his brain has twice today set him firmly and quite contentedly in the "husband" category.
But for now, as Emma slaps bologna slices on bread and Henry fetches a fourth tumbler of milk for Blue, Gold takes a moment, just a moment, to appreciate the scene. A nasty thought enters his head: that two-bedroom apartment on Lennox Lane that would be perfect for Emma and Henry—well, the landlord's just going to have to find it needs a slew of repairs before the little family can move in.
"Sandwich, Blue?" Emma offers, a dollop of mayo dangling precariously from her knife.
"Thank you, but a few of these cookies will tide me over nicely." The fairy grabs a plate and seats herself in the fifth chair. She's become comfortable in this house, even more so since Emma and Henry arrived, and she's taken meals with them several times. She always sits in the fifth chair—Bae's chair. Gold doesn't object: he imagines she's warming it up for Bae.
"Gold? Sandwich?" Emma waves her knife. "I know: mustard and ketchup, not mayo. Hey, did I ever tell you, that's how Neal takes his sandwiches? He hates mayo too." Emma cocks her head thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, his favorite mustard is French's."
"Like Belle French!" Henry pipes up. He squeezes a swirl of mustard onto a slice of bread. "I'm going try mine that way. What else does he like to eat, Mom?"
This launches a rather detailed conversation that can't possibly interest Blue, but Gold listens closely; he will be certain to add these items to his shopping list. . . when the time comes. He watches Emma as she loses herself in memories. She's become much more comfortable, of late, talking about Neal, as long as no one asks about the break-up. She's warming up to the idea, Gold feels certain, of allowing Neal a place in Henry's life, if not her own.
As Emma answers Henry's barrage of questions, Blue leans over to Gold. "We will break this curse. 'But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience."'
He gives Belle a black eye.
It's an accident, of course, but until it fades naturally, he's reminded every time he looks at her what a jerk he is. He could heal it with magic, but she refuses; when she goes into town, she covers it with makeup. She doesn't blame him at all: it's the result of his thrashing about in bed, in the throes of a nightmare.
He'd been dreaming that he was running from an ogre, he tells her as he gingerly holds an ice pack to the injury. What he doesn't mention is that the ogre looked exactly like Neal Cassidy.