Chapter 42
"Man," Emma groans as she stretches her arms and wiggles her booted feet luxuriously. "forget your Taj Mahal and your Sphinx. That bathtub is the seventh wonder of the world. I can't wait to try out the bed tonight."
"I'm glad you came with us," Belle says, toying with the tiny plastic sword upon which a green olive has been empaled. She's ordered a martini–her first ever, and from the scrunch of her nose as she sipped it, Gold suspects, her last. But she's eager to sample all sorts of things this weekend, and her innocent enthusiasm provides a lighthearted and much-needed distraction for her companions.
"Best vacation I've ever had," Emma says. "Thanks." She raises her kumquat mojito in a salute to Gold and Belle. She's pretending, of course, to keep her own spirits up; this trip is no vacation.
"I'd like to come back here, when school is out, to sightsee; the three of us," Gold watches Emma closely, "and Henry."
Emma drops the false enthusiasm. "Let's see how tonight goes first."
"Even if it doesn't work out with Bae." Gold sips his brandy. "I'd like to take my grandson to a baseball game."
Emma nods. "I'm sure your grandson would love that."
Gold is moved to speechlessness by her deliberate choice of words. With a single simple sentence, she's just acknowledged his right to spend time with Henry, and she's made it clear that she trusts him to take good care of her son. There is no greater gift she could have given him. He won't let her–or himself–down: he'll be the grandfather a child can be proud of.
He swallows the lump in his throat. Belle's devotion, Emma's trust, Henry's admiration: these are his sources of true strength now. Like magic when it first took him over, this love amazes and overwhelms him, will change him fundamentally, but unlike the changes magic wrought, the way he's being changed now gives him peace: the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea. He's ready now to face Bae. "Ladies, shall we go?" He signs the bill for their drinks.
Given the lack of public parking in the Paladin neighborhood, they decide to take a taxi over. The street's bustling with rush-hour traffic, and when they arrive in front of the twenty-story, gray building, they're jostled and stepped on. Gold sneers and grips his cane threateningly, but no one notices, and he's taken aback. The Dark One is not used to being ignored.
Although the building is controlled access, so many people are going in and coming out that there will be no difficulty getting in. They stare up at the fourth floor and try to guess which window belongs to 407. Every time the front door is yanked open, they examine the exiter/enterer, but find no matches with the face in the photo hanging in the kitchen back home. "It's after six." Belle checks her cell phone. "Maybe he's already home."
"Or working a night shift," Emma says.
"Or stopped for supper," Gold says.
"Or out on a date," Emma finishes glumly.
"There's only one way to find out." Belle waves her hand at the open door.
Emma, Belle and Gold join a cluster of Paladin residents tromping back to their apartments after a long day of jobs they'd rather not have. No one looks at the out-of-towners; no one looks at anyone. Once upon a time, these people did look at each other, tried to learn about the world through connecting with their neighbors, shared their plans and their art with each other, but the need to earn a living has taken the life out of them, Gold thinks. He's seen it before, in every realm, the crush that the needs of the body impose upon the soul. Had he remained a spinner–cuckolded, reviled for his cowardice–it would have happened to him too. Instead, he's still deeply curious about people, but also wary and jaded. Belle, however, is taking some of that weariness away, bit by bit.
The trio follows the crowd into the building and past the security gate. They avoid the crowded elevator and take the dimly lit stairs, and they find their destination–407 looks no different than 408 or 400. Gold sucks in a breath. His hands have gone clammy.
"Well," says Emma.
"Well," he replies.
"Isn't somebody going to knock?" Belle clicks her tongue.
"Ready, Emma?" Gold tries to smile encouragingly as he raises his hand to the door.
"Go for it."
Gold raps with his knuckles.
Nothing happens.
He raps again, then turns his fist around and knocks loudly.
Nothing happens.
"Well, that was a bit of a let-down."
"What do we do now? Leave a note?" Belle wonders.
Gold bites the inside of his cheek. "No. We wait."
Gradually the going-home crowd thins, doors open and close for apartments 408 and 406, but no one approaches 407. When the corridor is empty, Emma, Belle and Gold seat themselves on the top stair. Gold's ankle aches and Belle's stomach growls.
"We need to get you something to eat, sweetheart," Gold says.
"There'll be vendors in that park across the street," Emma suggests. "I'll go with you, Belle. Getting across that street will be hellacious."
Belle clambers to her feet, brushing off her skirt. "Shall I bring you back a cone, darling?"
Gold shakes his head. His stomach's in knots. He watches the women–his security blanket in this imposing village–clatter down the stairs, with Emma delineating all the treats they're likely to find on the food carts. When he can no longer see them, he leans back against the wall and he waits. Each adult male that passes him on the stairs receives a going-over but a quick dismissal, for none of them is Bae-Neal.
Gold breathes in, breathes out, grasping tightly to the frayed rope of self-control, and he waits. He's waited nearly four hundred years; another hour or an evening shouldn't be hard, and it probably wouldn't be if he had some inkling of how he will be received: with a hug or a slamming door. . . and then his blood runs cold as he realizes the worst, the absolute worst and, after centuries, the likeliest reception he'd receive from Neal-Bae: a blank stare. Have we met before? What did you say your name was, again?
"Hot dogs!"
"Naw, Belle, these are no ordinary dogs—these are Prince Street dogs." The women's voices increase in volume and excitement as they grow closer. In a moment more, they've reached the landing between the third and fourth floors, and now Gold can see them. He almost chuckles, for dangling off three of the fingers of her right hand, Emma balances catcher's mitt-sized pretzels, while in her left hand is a Styrofoam cup. Belle's carrying a cup and a hot dog.
"Mmph." That's the best Belle can manage around a mouthful of frankfurter. They grin as they catch up to Gold.
"We come bearing gifts," Emma explains, since Belle's still chewing and can't speak. Emma holds out her right hand, the fingers spread. "Take one."
Gold smiles and accepts the offering. "Thank you."
"Oh, there's more." Balancing carefully, Emma drops to one knee on the stairs and turns sideways. "In my pocket." Gold reaches in and extracts a wrapped hot dog. "That's for you too," Emma says, stepping away. She settles herself onto the landing and takes a swig from her cup.
Belle swallows and kneels in Emma's vacated spot. "And in my pocket." Gold reaches into her sweater pocket and finds an Eskimo Pie. Belle accepts a quick kiss as her payment. "We'll have to share the Coke," she says. "Emma and I ran out of pockets."
The pretzels and napkins are distributed and Belle attacks her hot dog in earnest. "Mmph. I got just a swipe of brown mustard and a sprinkle of onions on the dogs. I know you love ketchup, but Emma said we've got to eat like the natives do."
"A New Yorker would never drown his dog, least of all in ketchup." Emma turns up her nose.
"I appreciate your gastronomical guidance, Ms. Swan." The hot dog snaps and squirts juice into his mouth as Gold bites it. Hastily he grabs a napkin and pats up the spatters from his silk tie, then he tucks several napkins into his collar. Thus protected, he is safe to enjoy his meal. "Just think of the offense we might have caused in a ketchup-laden frankfurter faux pas."
"Indeed," Emma agrees solemnly around a mouthful of baked dough.
Gold reaches over with one of his napkins and removes a smear of mustard from Belle's chin. She leans against him, passing her cup to him, as Emma rolls her eyes. "You two are just too precious for words."
"I suppose there is something rather ludicrous about a centuries-old sorcerer—ex-sorcerer—from another world eating weenies with his wife-to-be."
"Not as weird as you might think," Emma shrugs. "You're in New York."
"Wish we could have got some of that pizza." Belle licks her lips. "You should've seen it, Rumple: must have been a dozen food carts in that park, everything from popcorn to shish kabob."
"Having second thoughts about our reservation for Le Bernardin tomorrow night?" Gold winks at her.
"Chef Ripert will have to go some, to compete with this." Belle is starting on her pretzel now. "But of course, nobody can compete with the meal I was served last night." She glances over at Emma. "Champagne, trout almondine, rosemary rolls, baked Alaska, and the most handsome chef on the planet."
"Thank you, sweetheart." Gold kisses the top of her head.
They finish their meal in idle conversation, the three of them watching the third-floor landing and waiting. No one imposes a time limit upon their wait: they're here for the duration. Fewer and fewer residents make their way up the stairs. Behind the fourth-floor doors, televisions and conversations kick on. The Paladin closes in on itself as darkness falls.
Emma says softly, "What if he doesn't recognize me?"
Gold looks at her sharply: it's his fear exactly, though he's got three centuries and two worlds' more distance between himself and Bae; Emma, not even thirty yet, can't begin to imagine.
"It's only been ten years," Belle reminds her. "You probably haven't changed that much."
"Oh yeah, I have. I'm harder now. It's got to show."
"You're strong, not hard. There's a difference, Emma. There's great beauty in strength; he knows that," Gold assures her.
"What about you?" Emma wads up her napkin and stuffs it in her pocket. "Henry showed me an illustration of you in his book. Sparkly skin, snakey eyes, rotten teeth—and look at you now, all GQ and Dentistry Weekly. You think he'll recognize you?"
"My Rumple is handsome now, but he was beautiful then," Belle says, ignoring Gold's snort. "Fascinating to look at. What did you look like before then, when you were a young father?"
"Older," Gold admits. "Malnourishment, exposure to harsh weather and infrequent baths will do that to you. I was thirty when Bae was born, but I could've passed for fifty, and I didn't get any prettier until Regina cast the curse. I suppose I should thank her for that: I look younger now than I did three hundred years ago."
"Do you think he'll recognize you?" Emma wonders.
"Of course he will," Belle answers when Gold doesn't. "What child can forget his papa?"
"One who wants to," Gold mumbles.
"He won't want to, when he comes to know the man you've become." Belle rubs Gold's arm soothingly. "We'll make him listen. We'll make him see. And when he does, he'll want to let you into his life again, and we'll make him part of ours."
"Hey," Emma suggests, "you know what I'd like to see? Neal in one of your suits. I never saw him in anything but jeans and sweats. I bet he'd clean up real nice."
"A tuxedo. Mr. Browning has a tux designed for him." Gold pats Belle's hand. "Just in case he agrees to be my best man."
"That would be a thing to behold: Neal in a tux," Emma says dreamily. "So have you thought about your gown, Belle?"
"Not yet. I suppose I'd like something similar to a gold ball gown I once wore." She smiles coyly at Gold. "For sentimental reasons."
"You were royalty, weren't you? Princess Belle?" Emma asks. "I bet you saw some spectacular ceremonies."
"Not a princess. My father was only a knight. Technically, I had no title, but most people called me milady after I came of age. Yes, I did go to a lot of ceremonies—long, boring affairs with people dressed in hot, itchy clothing. Weddings would last five to seven days with neighboring nobility rotating in and out: there would be a feast and gift-giving every day, and on the first day, the groom's family would throw a ball, and on the last day, the bride's would. They'd try to top each other, you see. Not only did that mean the household had to provide food and beds for all those people, but also the women had to have a new gown and jewels every day—and find something to talk about, day after day, to all these overfed, overdressed people. But there would be fresh flowers on every table, and the china and the silver would used at every meal, and minstrels would stroll the grounds. If you were an outsider looking in, I'm sure it was glamorous."
"Would you like a wedding like that, sweetheart? Like you would have had if you'd married Gaston?"
Belle shudders. "Lords! I was almost feeling nostalgic until you brought his name into it. No, I don't want any of that. I'd like something that will feel like Storybrooke. With our friends and family there. My father. You and your parents, Emma. Henry. And Bae."
Gold surprises himself as he imagines the scene, in their backyard. He likes the picture, very much, even with Charming seated in the second row, on the bride's side. He'll have to cast a revival spell over the dead garden–
All right. He'll have to hire landscapers.
Another hour passes. Behind the doors, televisions are clicking off. On the streets, the rumble of traffic is lightening. Emma is humming "Enter Sandman" under her breath. Belle's eating a fried dill pickle. Gold's whistling a tune that Belle tries to guess. "'William Tell Overture'?"
"'The Theme from the Lone Ranger.' Will you want any supper tonight?" he asks, but she shakes her head. "Just antacid."
"I have some Pepto Bismol in my bathroom."
Gold jerks his head up at the unfamiliar voice. Three hundred years he's waited. Three hundred years he's imagined this moment, the words that he would say to heal the breach between them, the words Bae would say to invite him into his life. A thousand scenarios, but in none of them did he imagine Bae's first words would be the offer of antacid. Gold starts to laugh as he stands, and beside him Belle, clambering to her feet, laughs, and behind him, Emma laughs, and when Bae joins in, for a moment they are a family reunited.
"Emma?" The not-so-young man (Gold recalls how Emma freaked when she learned Bae was more than two hundred years old) swallows hard and blinks, then is knocked backwards as Emma flies into his arms. When he regains his footing and his wits, he holds her at arm's length for a moment to take her in. "My gods. Emma." His voice cracks and he draws her in for another hug that goes on and on.
"Neal." Emma rubs her nose. "You look good. You look good."
"So do you, babe. Damn, but you look good." Neal strokes her back vigorously, as if he's trying to reassure himself she's flesh and bone, not a wisp in a dream. But his attention wanders past her, his face drains of blood, his lips quiver, and Emma sacrifices some of this amazing reunion time for Gold's sake. She steps back, thrusting her hands into her pockets; the jerky movement keeps her from crying. "Neal, someone else came a helluva long way to see you."
Bae—Neal—hesitates; his expression leaps between shock, amazement, disbelief—and is that joy Gold sees? "Dad?"