Chapter 41
Belle can hardly speak for laughing as she leans out the bedroom window and cranes her neck so she can shout upward at her fiancé, who's on the roof. Once she has his attention, she points at her cell phone: "Emma's calling."
He bends at the waist to peer over the edge of the roof and she recoils and gasps instinctively."My god, Rumple, don't stand so close to the edge! Have you forgotten you're human? You could break your neck!"
"Sorry, dear one." He eases down from the roof and slides into the window. Truly, he had forgotten he's mortal and magicless now: such stunts as roof climbing have been amusements for him for hundreds of years. She gives his arm an annoyed slap as he takes the phone from her. "Hello?"
"Gold, officially I'm telling you to quit yelling from your rooftop. It's pissing off your neighbors and scaring the hell out of Ms. Ginger. Unofficially, congrats. Obviously she said yes."
"She did. And before you ask if she was bewitched at the time–"
"Yeah, we're living in a magic-free zone. So are your travel plans delayed?"
"On schedule. We'll pick you up at 7 a.m."
"Yeah, about that. I'm not going. Got a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Taking care of Regina set me back. "
He softens his voice and strengthens his accent—Belle calls this his "honey and treacle voice," one he uses seldom, and only with people with whom he has a long-standing acquaintance, because while it's highly effective, it's intimate, inviting people in—and neither Rumplestiltskin nor Gold ever wanted closeness. Well, with a couple of exceptions. "Emma, you know about Bae and me. There's as much a chance he'll slam the door in my face as welcome me, but after three hundred years of searching, I'm damn well going to take that chance. I think you should too."
"I've got a report—" Emma suddenly cuts herself off. "Yeah. I kept going back and forth on it, and the only thing I could decide for sure was that I'm not ready. Maybe if things go okay for you—I mean, New York's not that far. I could go see him any time."
"Sure. I'll give you a call after I talk to him."
"Have a good trip, Gold. And congratulations."
"Good night, Emma."
Belle is smiling knowingly as he hangs up and encircles her with his arms. "We're picking her up at seven, aren't we?"
"She says no." He buries his face in her hair, breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo before nuzzling her ear. His brain grows fuzzy as his body grows heavy. They should be talking about their wedding, their trip, their plans for the future, but the deeper he breathes her in, the thicker his thoughts, clogging his mind and weighing his tongue down.
He blinks in the unnatural electric light of their bedroom. He wants candlelight and a crackling fire in a fireplace, soft shadows on the wall and a bearskin rug on the hard wood floor and Sonata No. 3 in D Minor on the stereo. He summons his magic to provide it all for his beloved, but his fingertips are lifeless. He thrusts his nose into her hair, attempting to lose himself in her, to forget he has nothing to offer her or Bae any more, no way to fix things.
"We're picking her up at seven, aren't we?"
"Mmm hmm."
Despite the comforting arms of his wife-to-be, and despite the melatonin he took last night, Gold sleeps fitfully, chased by nightmares. When he finally gives up on Morpheus and slips downstairs to his study to hover over the Michelin road planner he's already committed to memory, his emotions are all over the map. He's imagined every possible outcome for the trip he's about to make: three hundred years has afforded him plenty of time for daydreaming. But instead of allowing Belle's cloud-nine imaginings to rule his thoughts, he's haunted by his conversation with Emma: maybe the world-wise young woman is right. Maybe none of them—Emma, Bae, Henry or Gold—is ready for a face-to-face meeting. Maybe he should start more modestly, with a letter or an email. Correspond for a few weeks, then progress to phone calls, maybe a Christmas visit. Why hadn't he thought of this months ago? Now that everything's arranged, now that Belle's got an entire tourist itinerary planned, now that half the town knows where he's going tomorrow and why—well, he could come down with the flu or something. A break-in at the shop. A tax audit—yeah, perfect excuse.
Hands shaking, he tries to refold the map into its original configuration, but he can't get it right. He waves his hand over it distractedly—nothing happens, of course. He glares daggers at the map, then suddenly grabs it, balls it up, twists it and tears it and throws the pieces into the air. He's going to fail. He's going to fail. He's going to fail.
He swings his cane at the law books on his shelves—but stops in mid-swing, wrenching his shoulder. Without magic, he'd just have to clean up anything he knocked over, replace anything he broke. Without magic, he can't block the noise that would wake Belle and upset her. He can't throw tantrums any more without paying a penalty. He has to content himself with destroying the map, but it's not enough. He wants the thrill of glass or porcelain shattering, the satisfying crunch of shards beneath his boots.
He needs to make some noise, at least. He limps out to the garden and attacks the weeds with his cane—but only after assuring himself he has a backup cane in the broom closet. Gods, the inconveniences of humanness.
After he tidies up his mess—can't have the neighbors calling Emma with complaints of vandalism—and retrieves his new cane, he drops onto the couch. He should try to catch a little sleep, but he's still too wound up. He's going to fail. He's going to fail. He's going to fail.
On the coffee table is the remote control. A little TV then: maybe he'll luck into that infomercial about diamonds; it always puts him asleep. He clicks the TV on, lowering the volume. Belle wouldn't be able to hear the TV from the bedroom, but softer sounds will help him relax.
"Weakness prevails over strength. Gentleness conquers. Become the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea." Ah. Master Khan. Gold has forgotten to take the Kung Fu disc out of the Blu-Ray player. He settles into the couch, his arm his pillow, and relaxes into the story, which unfolds slowly, quietly.
"Rumple?" Belle's voice, at first worried, then bemused as she figures out what he's doing, startles him. He's sitting on the floor, in the lotus position, his back straight, his eyes closed, his forearms resting on his knees, his forefingers and thumbs shaped into circles.
Belle glances from him to the TV screen, where Kwai Chang Caine is seated in the same posture.
Gold reddens and struggles to unfold his legs, but Belle sets a steadying hand on his shoulder, then she lowers herself beside him and folds herself into the lotus position too.
He smiles at her, then closes his eyes once again.
At a quarter to seven, they step out into the morning. He looks back over his shoulder as Belle looks out into the town, which is beginning to come to life. He's walked across this lawn and up these stairs a thousand times, very seldom noticing or caring about this property the curse assigned him, on the street that the curse named after him. Nothing remarkable about the place, other than the color of the paint. Nothing much has changed here in thirty years. But when he returns—if he returns—will it seem different then?
"In the cycle of birth and death, nothing changes."
"Morning."
Belle and Gold twist to face the garage. Leaning against the Caddy is Storybrooke's sheriff and savior, clad in her red jacket. Belle and Gold exchange a smile, but make no comment about the backpack resting at Emma's feet. Gold simply opens the trunk of the car and sets the backpack inside.
"Did you have breakfast yet, Em?" Belle inquires.
The sheriff shows them a Granny's Diner sack she's been holding behind her back. "Bear claws." When her companions' faces fall in disappointment, she adds, "And jelly." Belle brightens. "And frosted. Maple frosting."
Now Gold grins. "Climb in, Emma."
At eleven they begin to look for a roadside restaurant. Gold flatly refuses to pull in to any facility that tosses food out a window to its customers; the practice reminds him too much of hog slopping, he claims. But an hour later they've sped past nine eateries and their stomachs are making gauche noises, so Emma takes command. "There!" She points to a green sign. "Take the next exit." From the access road, they roll into a large, strange facility filled with large vehicles and large drivers.
"Fourteen gas pumps!" Belle exclaims. "My word!" She reads the neon signs on the building: "'Truck care,' 'Phones,' 'Showers'—showers?! 'Convenience store.' 'Country Kettle: Breakfast served all day.'
"Where you see the most semis parked, that's where the best cooking is," Emma announces as Gold pulls up to a gas pump. Then she glances at Gold and backpedals. "Well, by common folk standards, that is. With your pampered gourmet gut, you may want to stick with salad."
"I'll have you know, Ms. Swan," Gold huffs, "I've dined on Granny's hamburgers without any digestive distress."
"Really. Well, just the same, stay away from the four-alarm chili."
As he pumps gas, Gold looks around him at the other patrons of this facility: families with luggage containers strapped to their roofs and little houses on wheels that are being hauled by pickup trucks; and the semis that Emma mentioned, whose denim-clad drivers walk with the swagger of John Wayne. These, Gold thinks, are the modern cowboy; he wonders what the world looks like from the cab of a sixteen-wheeler. They get back into the car and he swings around to the front of the restaurant.
"Country Kettle. That's a name for a place that would make great hamburgers," Belle prompts.
"As my lady wishes," Gold says grandly—but secretly, his pampered stomach is yearning for a slab of those barbequed ribs shown on the poster in the window. He picks up his cane and offers his left elbow to Belle. As they enter the eatery, the patrons' heads snap up: clearly, it's not every day that an Armani-wearing man carrying a gold-handled walking stick enters this establishment. Eyes widen as the truckers get a good look at the two young women flanking the cane carrier. Snickering, Emma links her arm through Gold's right arm and gives him a peck on the cheek. Joining in the game, Belle does the same.
Jaws drop to the floor. Eyes narrow as they size up the scrawny little old man who appears to be the center of two young lovelies' universe. Gold smirks as he withdraws a chair for Belle, then when she's seated, shows Emma the same courtesy. Deep, manly voices drop even lower as the truckers mutter and ogle the women and glare at Gold. Then one of the older truckers grunts, "It's all about the benjamins."
Gold chuckles behind his menu. When the waitress comes, he orders a sixteen-ounce sirloin, rare.
For once, the map and the GPS system are in agreement: if they continue another 4.3 miles on their present course, they will end up at Paladin Towers—a rather washed-out and nondescript building occupied primarily by self-proclaimed-but-unlikely-to-be-recognized-as-such artists, actors, musicians and dancers. Apartment 407 is occupied by electrician Neal Cassidy, who works for the City of New York and who earns free rent by moonlighting as a maintenance man for Paladin.
If they make a right turn at the next light, travel 6.2 miles, then make another right for a block, they will arrive at the Mark, one of the finest hotels in the city, which, here, is really saying something.
When they first entered the city, Emma took over the driving. Her years living in Boston have given her nerves of steel for dense city traffic, as long as she's permitted her secret weapon behind the wheel: much to her companions' chagrin, she requires heavy metal while she drives, and for New York, it's Metallica cranked up to 10. The music, along with occasional rude hand gestures and shouts out the window, she claims, makes her aggressive enough to compete for premium road space.
Belle finds the whole thing absurdly amusing: what must they look like to other drivers, she muses, a leather-clad blonde screeching indecipherable lyrics as she navigates a black Cadillac between buses, taxis and delivery vans, while her Armani-attired passenger grips a gold-handled cane with one hand and the doorframe with the other.
Emma stops for a red light. "Okay, time to fish or cut bait."
"Go straight," Belle suggests.
Emma glances to her right. "Gold? Straight or right?"
His lips are pinched in a narrow line. His voice is barely discernable above the music. "You decide, Emma." The light changes and Emma has no choice but to move.
Staring at the street sign, she gnaws at her lip. The car behind her honks. With a sigh of resignation, she makes the right turn. Her passengers offer no comment but lean back in their seats. She turns the CD player off. "Sorry."
"It's all right," Belle assures her. "We've had a long trip. It makes sense to go to the hotel first, wash up a bit, have a bite."
"No," Emma confesses, "that's not it. I just chickened out."
"So did I," Gold admits.
"It's only four o'clock," Belle points out. "He's probably still at work, anyway."
Emma pulls up in front of the hotel, and immediately two employees hop to work, one to unload the luggage, the other to park the car. Belle, falling back on her training as a noblewoman, accepts all this highly efficient service with grace and ease, but Gold is somewhat bewildered (though he'd never admit it) and disconcerted (this he does admit, when he's alone with Belle) by the practice of surrendering possession of one's vehicle and clothing to strangers. His cursed memories tell him he's probably supposed to tip some or all of these employees; he leans in and in a whisper asks Belle, who's read dozens of travel guides, what's expected. "Not her," Belle whispers back, indicating the valet. "Five bucks to him." She means the bellman.
The bellman notices Gold's uncertainty but pretends not to. Gold wonders if the man finds it odd that it's the young woman in Levi's, rather than the Armani-suited gent, who knows how these things are done. But Gold feels much more at ease when he approaches the check-in desk and whips out his Centurion card. He's walking a little taller as he tucks the card back into his wallet and joins the women and the bellman at the elevators. "We'll meet you in the bar in a half-hour," Gold suggests to Emma as they part ways, she to her own room across the hall from theirs.
The sheriff shakes her head. "Make that an hour. I want to try out that marble tub."
In the quiet and the privacy of their sumptuous room, Gold pulls off his tie and his jacket and flops on the bed while Belle runs about, inspecting and expressing delight in everything. Gold chuckles at her. "You grew up in finery. Surely something as mundane as a room at an inn can't impress you."
"Oh, but you forget, we lost it all when the ogres came. I was only ten years old then, so most of my memories of Avonlea are of empty larders, castles turned into hospital wards and ball gowns torn into bandages."
He watches her through the open bathroom door as she fills the tub. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should have come sooner."
"You came when Papa summoned you."
"But I could have come years before that."
Sitting on the edge of the tub, trailing her hand in the water, she considers this. "We didn't expect it. You were the Dark One; altruism wasn't in your nature."
"Slaying ogres was." He covers his eyes with his forearm. "I'm sorry to say the generosity of spirit that makes a hero was never a part of my make-up, even when I was a young man."
"You couldn't afford to be generous."
"I doubt if Bae saw it that way." Gold sighs deeply. "The one time in his life that I spanked him was when he gave his supper to a stray mongrel. He went to bed that night crying, but not because of the hunger. Because of me."
"All parents make mistakes," Belle says, turning off the running water. She walks back into the bedroom. "All parents, all husbands and wives, all lovers, all children. It's because we make mistakes that we need each other." She kneels beside him, tugging his arm away from his eyes. "You were a good father, Rumple."
"What makes you think that?"
"We wouldn't be here if you weren't." She pulls at him, urging him to sit up. "He'll remember how you cared for him, even after his mother left. And when he comes to know what you went through to see him again, he'll put aside the bad memories. And when he comes to know that he's a father too, he'll have a greater understanding of what you did. When he picks up his role as Henry's dad, he'll need you all over again to help him figure out how to do it."
As he sits up, she removes his waistcoat. "What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you." She unbuttons his shirt, but it's with a sort of humbleness, rather than sensuality, that she undresses him and leads him into the bath. She kneels beside the tub, lathers a washcloth and washes him, and though he feels vulnerable, he allows it, allows himself to be cared for. He has no childhood memory of his father having ever tended him in this way, not bathing him, not dressing him, not combing his hair, not tucking him in at night.
All those things, Rumplestiltskin did for his son, and in doing so, did them for himself. How sad, he thinks now, that Malcolm never knew how uplifting it is to serve someone. How absolutely sad, to not know the heart-bursting pride of peering down into the sleepy face of a child whose belly is full and whose eyes are full of admiration for his hero, his father. Because Gold remembers those feelings, he allows Belle to serve him now. As her fingers knead the tension from his shoulders, he closes his eyes, leaning against her.