Chapter 43
Bae reaches out a hand, but instead of shaking it, Gold drags him in for a hug. He forgets to ask if it's okay; he forgets to check Bae's face for permission. He doesn't see a bearded man who, in reality, is two hundred sixty years old: he sees a fourteen-year-old moptop.
The man allows the hug. He even returns it. "Welcome to New York, Papa. What a helluva long ways you must've come."
"Baelfire." Speaking the name is like speaking a blessing that breaks a centuries-old curse. Then Gold remembers his manners and for a brief moment, glances around Bae and mouths "thank you" to Emma, whose Cheshire grin tells him she's forgiven Neal. No accusations, no explanations, no apologies required.
Gold keeps hugging him until Bae draws back–back, but not away. "We should—let's go inside. I'll put the coffeemaker on. Might have a bottle of wine somewhere, if you'd like something stronger." He grins (it's the quintessential Baefire grin). "And that Pepto Bismol."
"Bae–Neal, this is Belle. Lady Belle of Avonlea." He brings her forward. "My fiancee. Belle, this is my son."
She gives Bae a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, Neal. I've waited a long time to meet you."
"You're from–there?" Bae's still reeling, barely able to yank words free of the emotions flooding him.
"Avonlea."
Bae runs his hand through his hair. "Cripes. Let's get inside before I keel over in shock." He fumbles for his keys, drops them, and as Belle bends to retrieve them, he sucks a deep breath between his teeth, his gaze bouncing between Emma and Gold. "My gods. My gods. How the hell. . .come on, let's get inside before the guys in white coats come for me, 'cause this is totally frickin' insane."
Belle tries to give him the keys, but he grabs Emma with one arm and Gold with the other and crushes them into his chest. "My gods! Emma! Dad!"
Bae-Neal's entire one-bedroom apartment would fit into Gold and Belle's master bedroom, but it's not the size that strikes Gold; it's the mishmash of stuff filling the apartment, everything from cracked Depression glass to a rusty Victrola to a shelf of microphones. To a decorator's eye, there's no rhyme or reason, but to a pawnshop owner, it all makes sense: Gold sees himself reflected in his long-lost son's home.
If this is as far as it goes, if Neal denies his name and decries his lineage and evicts him from this place right now, Gold will still walk away with a measure of peace. His son has not forgotten him.
But Neal-Bae doesn't do that. He takes their jackets and hangs them on a hook behind the front door, then he invites them to be seated on the lumpy couch and the matching armchair. On the scarred coffee table between the two pieces of furniture, he sets a tray of cups and spoons and a little box of sugar and creamer packets marked "Aaron's Deli." In his "kitchen"–a sink, a counter and a refrigerator that line the wall opposite the "living room"–he plugs in the coffeemaker. "Sorry," he gestures to the mismatched cups. "I don't have company all that often."
While they wait for the coffee, he wipes his hands nervously on his jeans, takes off his City of New York work jacket and hangs it on the hook. Then he drags a chair from his dining table and places it beside the armchair, where Emma's seated herself. Having nothing else to busy himself for the moment, he sits. "Wow."
"Yeah. Surprise!" Emma announces.
Neal starts with polite chitchat. "Are you living in New Y–" he suddenly interrupts himself, shaking his head in wonder. "How the hell–?"
"It's a long story," Belle says. "I suppose we should ask first if we're interrupting anything."
"Me? No, I was just–the usual, you know. Shower, a little TV, go to bed. Long day at work. We had a compressor go–I'm an electrician, City employee. Been working for the City seven–Now how in the hell did you meet my father, Em? How did you get to Boston from Back There, Dad? And how did you find me?"
"Bail bondsperson." Emma points to herself, as if that should explain everything.
"There was a curse," Belle adds. "Until Emma broke it."
"With True Love's Kiss." Emma gnaws at her lip. "And, uh, something I need to tell you about who I kissed. . . ."
"Perhaps we should leave them alone," Belle suggests to Gold.
"No!" Bae jumps up. "Nobody leave. Look, I can call in sick tomorrow, so unless you have somewhere you need to be tonight, I want to hear this whole story, starting from the portal. Okay, Dad?"
Gold can't help but smile. His son wants him to stick around. "Okay, son." He's being given the opportunity he's longed for more than anything else in life, and now, more than ever, he misses his magic. If he had magic, he could offer Bae happiness, in whatever form Bae might define it: he could erase all the bad memories, he could make Bae a child again, he could–
A memory pops into Gold's mind: Rumplestiltskin offering his son a castle and a crown, and Bae rejecting the offer. Gold ducks his head, his hair curtaining his reddened face. Has he learned nothing all these years? His son is a man of honor, and was even at fourteen, not to be bribed or tricked with trinkets. Nor is the love between them to be sold so cheap.
With a glance at Belle, he assesses the fair price for the forgiveness he needs so badly: he must ask for it.
"Let me get the coffee." Bae roots around in his cupboard. "I think I've got some cookies. We're going to need them. It's gonna be a long night."
"We could order a pizza," Belle suggests. When the others raise eyebrows at her, she shrugs. "What? I'm hungry again, and we're in New York." She pulls out her cell phone. "So, deep dish pepperoni with anchovies and extra cheese? Give me a number, Neal."
Neal smiles at her. "I think you and me will get along fine, Milady. You got your priorities straight." After he relays a phone number and Belle begins to place the order, Bae pours the coffee. "So, let's get this show on the road. I figure whatever you did to get here, it must've taken a boatload of planning, 'cause I know I got the last magic bean. What happened when the portal closed, Papa?" He settles into his chair, ready for a long listen.
Gold eases back into the couch. Bae's granted him two precious gifts: unlimited time and nonjudgmental attention. Gold will reciprocate with a complete and honest story. " At first, I went crazy. . . ."
Hours later, when he's lying in the Mark's king-sized bed with Belle's leg entwined with his, he reflects on the story he told Bae. He reported the facts plainly, the emotional facts as well as the physical ones. Unlike the story he told Belle and Emma months ago, this story he related in the first person: "I killed,'" not "'he'"; "'I took,'" "'I manipulated,'" "'I destroyed.'"
Feeding on the frankness of his storytelling, Emma told her own story, threading it around his in the appropriate spaces. Then Belle joined in, picking up the strings and pulling at their edges, forming a complex cat's cradle. And at last Bae joined in, and Gold let tears of shame, grief and sympathy come but kept silent to avoid interrupting his son.
But Bae had interrupted himself several times, sometimes apropos of nothing. "I'm sorry, Papa, for all the times I cursed you," "I never stopped waiting for you,'" "'I love you, Dad.'"
When the stories had all been told, when all four of the tellers had uncovered themselves and discovered each other and their connectivity, they fell into a hoarse and exhausted silence. Bae got up to call his boss and Belle made coffee as Emma made a bagel run. They stood on the fire escape to eat their breakfast. "We should go back to the hotel, get some sleep," Emma said. "Don't worry," Bae assured them. "I'll be here when you come back."
They walked out into the corridor. Televisions and conversations behind the apartment doors and traffic in the streets reminded them they were just four out of eight million. Gold swung around on the top step. "Bae, I need to know–"
"Yeah, Papa, I do. I forgive you." Bae took Emma's hand. "Em? Do you–?"
Emma squeezed back. "Yeah, Neal. I forgive you."
"It's a hell of a lot to take in," Bae admitted. "I went to work thinking I was alone. Now I have a son, a father, a stepmother–"
"And an Emma," the sheriff laughed.
Now, behind the heavy drapes of the silent hotel room, with his beloved wrapped up in sleep and in his arms, Gold lets go. Sends the Dark One to oblivion. This evening, tomorrow, this summer, this year, this life, that's what he'll hang onto. He has people to give to, including himself, and screw the magic; he has a lot to give even without it.
They meet up again at one o'clock to "do the tourist thing," Emma says. "And just take it easy." They limit themselves to the Met, since Gold's ankle can't bear too much exercise; there is no hurry, anyway. When this weekend ends, there will be more visits. Bae has already laid out the welcome mat. Knowing that, the pressure is off. During this afternoon, heavy topics are off the table; this afternoon is just for fun, much needed fun to coat the wounds opened and cleansed by last night's confessions.
Bae borrows a suit from his father; it's a bit too short in the cuffs, but he doesn't have one of his own and he doesn't want to miss the opportunity to dine with his family at Le Bernardin. In the hotel room, as the men dress, they broach the subject of the future, treading carefully. "I understand you have a business to run back in Maine, but maybe you could stick around a week or two? I still have to work, but we can get together in the evenings and on the weekends."
"I promised Emma I'd take her back to Storybrooke tomorrow, but Belle and I intend to come back. She's so eager to see the city, and I'm eager to see you as much as possible."
"I might. . . Maybe you can work on Em for me, huh? I'd like to come out to Storybrooke for my vacation, get to know Henry."
"I think it's a fine idea. I doubt if Emma will need much 'working on,' though." Bae is struggling with the borrowed tie, so Gold takes over the task. The physical closeness encourages an emotional one: Bae asks in a quiet voice, "Tell me about my son."
Gold's hands remain steady on the knot he's fashioning, but he breaks eye contact. "He. . .I just wish I'd known who he was when I arranged the adoption. I wouldn't have–Regina. . . she loved him but she loved herself more."
"You didn't know?" Bae blinks. "That's impossible! How did the child of the curse breaker just happen to be adopted by the woman who cast the curse?"
Gold steps back to check his handiwork. "Some days, I'm convinced there are forces at play that are bigger than any of us. No, son, I didn't know. I was under the curse too. If I had known, I think I would have arranged for Snow White to adopt him. But he's a fine boy, imaginative, honest, and like you, determined to do the right thing. He very much still needs a father. The male role models in his life were weak. The curse had made certain of that."
"I don't know if I'd be any better."
"It's you he needs. I dare say, you need him too. Come to Storybrooke and find out." It's time. Gold opens his suitcase and extracts a small package wrapped in white tissue paper. He lays the package in Bae's arms. "For you. Something I managed to hang onto, from Loameth."
"Loameth? It's gotta be more than a hundred years old." Bae peels back the wrapping paper.
"Three hundred, give or take."
Laying back the folds of tissue paper, Bae uncovers a rectangle of brown woven cloth. He hesitates, then lightly rubs a corner between his forefinger and thumb, as his father taught him long ago. "This is quality craftsmanship." He lifts the cloth to the light and examines the weave. "A Guild Master made this." He looks more closely at a corner, where he finds a tiny gold R sewn into the hem. "This is your mark! You made this!"
"I did. Just before I went to war. I spun the thread and wove the fabric, as a kind of good-luck piece. Superstitious, I guess; I thought if I put enough skill and hope into this, I'd come home safe and then your mother and I could get started on a family."
"A baby blanket." Bae runs his fingers over the tight weave. "This is a baby blanket."
Gold picks up the cloth and lays it in Bae's arms. "And now it comes back to its original owner."
"Mine. You kept this for three hundred years."
"Aye."
"Good gods, Dad. Three hundred years. You never forgot about me."
"You're my child." Gold says it so simply, as if it's what any parent would have done.
"Dad?"
"Yes, Bae?"
"I realized last night, you went through a hell of a lot to get here. Three hundred years searching for me–" Bae clears his throat. "Three hundred years. I can't get over that. And then to let yourself be put under the curse like everyone else. . . But most of all," Bae's voice hitches and he has to pause. "Most of all, giving up your magic to come here."
"I was wrong, Bae, and I'm so sorry that I clung to the dagger when it was you all along, from the moment I learned you would be born, it was you that gave me my power. You were my strength, Bae, and I'm so sorry I forgot that and chose magic over you." Gold stares at his fingers, which still are still sensitive enough to spin silk, yet have done so much damage when magic flowed through them. These hands are an old man's now, wrinkled, loose-skinned, human, but they can bring about some good yet. They can pat a friend's back in encouragement, tousle a child's hair in affection, caress a woman's cheek in passion. They can do what they're doing right now: reaching out for a son in an embrace that promises to fix things in the one way that Bae will allow–in the one way that will actually work. As Gold's hands clasp around his son's shoulders, his touch promises love that never has and never will never wane.
As he holds his son close, Gold experiences a tingling in the back of his brain, as in the old days when he had the Sight, and an image, crystal clear but too brief and devoid of context, pops into his mind. It's probably not a vision produced by Sight–how could it be? It comes from knowing Bae. In this image he sees Bae reaching for Henry in this exact same embrace and for the exact same purpose: as a promise of unshakable love. The boy and his father are dressed in tuxes.
A knock on the door interrupts the vision. Emma and Belle sweep in, the sheriff in her black Ann Taylor skirt and blazer, Belle in a black floor-length Stella McCartney halter dress. "You guys ready?" Emma asks.
Both men whistle in admiration.
"We're a couple of lucky dogs, eh, Dad?" Bae offers his arm to Emma.
"Who says there's no magic in this world?" Gold offers his arm to Belle. "You ladies are utterly enchanting."
"Thank you, kind sir." Belle curtseys.
"So I was looking over the menu online," Emma reports. "As promised, this place does serve cinnamon ice cream. But get this: they also serve Maine beer and S'mores."
"Hmm," Bae speculates. "Now if we can just convince them to roll in a TV and tune in to the Yankees game–"