Chapter 54
Fascinated, yet dubious, Belle touches the handle of her hairbrush as she examines the entwined hairs dancing and casting off beams of color. "I feel. . . It's like sticking your finger in a light socket. All of a sudden my stomach's queasy." She jerks her hand away. Still watching the strands of hair dance, she wonders, "What does it feel like for you?"
He thinks for a moment. "Like if you went for a week without a drop of water and then someone gave you a bottle of Chateau Margaux 2009." He smiles ruefully. "And no corkscrew."
"Your eyes are different." She points at his image in the mirror. She's right: his eyes are larger, amber with narrow vertical slits instead of pupils.
"Crap." He steps away from the sink and watches in the mirror as his eyes immediately transform back into the familiar round, earthy brown pair.
Belle touches the bristles, then peers into the mirror. "Why doesn't it affect me? Except to make me queasy."
He shrugs. "I guess it's like why some people get drunk on a single glass and some people aren't affected at all. I'm the single-glass type; you're not. And my body is more attuned to it, since I lived inside magic every minute of my life for four hundred years."
"Let's get out of here. I'm starting to feel a migraine coming on." She takes his hand and leads him downstairs to the kitchen, where she opens windows to let in fresh air. Arms crossed, he leans against the refrigerator, staring at the polished wooden floor.
Belle sits down at the table. She begins to speak, and from the look in her eye, he expects instruction: she's decided what should be done and she's about to tell him. But then she closes her mouth and scrubs at a smudge on the table. "What do you think you'll do?"
He gives her a grateful smile. She's tamped down the impulse to guide him; he suspects that whatever he decides in this life-changing choice, she'll back him up–whether she agrees or not. Fortunately, they're likely to be in accord. "Nothing. Except to ask you to throw that brush out–the less I handle it, the better."
"Is that what you want to do?"
"No. Yes." He lifts up from the fridge. "I wish I didn't have to deal with this."
"The last time, you thought you had to have magic to get Bae back. This time, you don't have that desperation."
"Not at the moment, but the first problem that I don't have a ready answer for, I'd be reaching for the magic. I'd fall right back into that hole. And Bae, he'd run again, take Henry and Emma, and he'd be right. And you'd be living with a monster again."
"Or we'd find that you're still the generous, caring man you are now, just with magic at his disposal. In this world, money is power too; you use your money for good. Why wouldn't it be the same with magic?"
"Money doesn't get under my skin and into my blood. I don't dream money; I don't breathe it. Money doesn't make me feel like God Almighty."
Belle sucks in a breath. "You're right. I have to dispose of that brush. I'll pick up a new one tomorrow."
As she starts back upstairs, he adds, "One positive thing, though: only true love could produce a chemical reaction like that."
She grins at him.
That night as they crawl into bed, she snuggles against his shoulder. "I know how hard that decision must have been."
"Yeah."
"I'm proud of you."
Blue's got that look in her eye again. He knows it well: she's going to ask for something that she thinks he won't want to give, but that he will be better off for giving. "I suppose you heard the news last night: the poverty rate in Storybrooke is almost as high as California's."
He's tempted to throw out a claim of disinterest, but that would be a lie: a dozen of his old friends still live there, still struggle to keep the town and themselves afloat. He tells her what she already knows: "Treadle's doing as much as it can to build a new economic base of small businesses—"
"You can do more," she interrupts. "I know you funnel a significant percentage of your personal wealth into that organization, and believe me, it's appreciated. But you can do a little more, at no real cost to you."
He sticks his trowel into the earth and leans back on his knees. He'll have to stand up soon; his ankle's aching from the cold and damp ground. But he really wanted to finish weeding this row first. . . .
"Give us the pawnshop."
He cocks his head. "Whatever for? It's just an empty building."
"Exactly. You haven't been able to sell it; you're getting taxed on property you can't use. So why not give it to us? Bernadette and Cecilia and I. We'll make it a clothing thrift store. Rumple, you know how cold it gets—"
"Yes."
"—in Storybrooke. Six months out of the year, people need winter clothes, coats, boots, gloves—"
"Yes."
"And kids, how can they have a feeling of self-worth when they're wearing rags to school? And the elderly—"
"Blue! Will you listen a minute? I said yes."
She starts laughing. "I knew you would. You're a good man, Rumplestiltskin."
"Now there's a sentence that no one ever would have guessed would come out of the Ruel Ghorm's mouth. And here's another: Blue, you're right. That building's a white elephant to me. Take it. In fact, I'm sure the family would be happy to help you clean it up." He picks up his trowel. "I would too, if entering my own building wasn't against the law. An empty building is an invitation to vandals and rodents, so you'll be doing everyone a favor."
He's brushing his teeth at the "his" sink as she unpacks the toiletries she bought at the grocery. He hears a cupboard door slam and turns to find Belle covering her face with one hand; in the other is the blue box she bought today. He gets to her just in time as she drops the box and breaks into tears. He takes her into his arms, rubbing her back and speaking assurances, kissing her damp cheeks, but when he glances down at the box and recognizes the brand name, he understands her bitter tears. The fact that she had to make this purchase yet again means that they've failed. He can't fix this and he can't cheer her. They will just have to deal with it as a couple, as they have been.
"Fifteen months," she moans. "We've been trying for fifteen months."
He runs his hands up and down her back, saying for the hundredth or five hundredth time, "We just have to keep trying. There is a baby coming to us; I believe it. We just have to keep trying."
"Maybe it's time to adopt." When he goes still, she backs out his embrace so that she can see his face clearly. "There are lots of children needing a home. It doesn't matter who gave the child birth; we'd love him just the same. He would be ours from the first time we held him."
"Yes, of course we would."
"It doesn't have to be an infant. I've worked on enough adoption cases with you to know how long that wait can be. Maybe a three-year-old, a six-year-old. We'd love him just as much. We have so much to give, Rumple. It's not fair!"
"No, it's not fair." He rubs her arms soothingly. "Sweetheart, you know why we can't adopt."
"I don't care. I'd lie my butt off if it meant we'd get a baby." They've discussed this: how could they explain to an adoption agency who they really are and where they came from?
"I can't, Belle. It wouldn't be just us that would have to lie. The investigators are thorough. Bae would be questioned, Emma, Josiah, maybe even Henry. One little slip and we'd be prosecuted. Even if we managed to slip through–I'm sorry; I can't let us start our family on a lie."
"Why are we being punished, Rumple?"
He turns away from her, leans on the basin.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It's not your fault, darling. You're a changed man; this isn't punishment for the things you did. I'm just so damn angry! It's so unfair!"
"We'll talk to Doc again, ask for more tests—"
"We've had two rounds of tests. There's nothing wrong with us." She scrapes her hands through her hair. "All right. We'll talk to him about in vitro." She picks up the blue box and shoves it into a cupboard. "I'll start dinner."
When she's gone, he sits on the edge of the bathtub. Your body and your mind are not in harmony—that was Won-Que's theory. Gods, Gold had never thought he'd see the day when he'd be discussing his own infertility problems with another man, let alone a monk. The absurdity should make him laugh. So what's that moisture clinging to his eyelashes?
"Hey, Pop. Morning, Belle." The kitchen door swings open and the young family bursts in. Instead of the usual pastries, they're carrying Fran's Fresh and Fast bags; Bae unpacks biodegradable containers as Emma makes a beeline to the coffee pot. Henry is hopping about and Belle thinks she can guess why: "Is your report card in, Henry?"
"Can I tell them? Please!" Henry seems to have forgotten he's a teenager, soon old enough for his learner's permit.
"Nope," Bae says. "Since it was your mom's decision, she should be the one." He opens the first container and shows the contents to his father. "Eggs Benedict!"
"Oh, yum," Belle leans over Bae's shoulder to help unpack. "Fruit cups. Hash browns. Mmmm."
"And," with a flourish of his hand, Bae produces a bottle of champagne. "Voila!"
"What are we celebrating?" Gold fetches silverware from the drawer. "Must be big."
"Well, isn't somebody going to tell them?" Henry demands, dropping into his usual seat.
Emma sips her coffee and winks. "We're going to make them guess. Let's find out how observant your grandparents are."
Henry groans and reaches for a plate.
"Hmm. New car?" Gold guesses.
"Going on a vacation?" Belle guesses.
"You're getting warmer." Emma taps her fingers against her coffee cup and a metallic sound rings out.
"The Caribbean?" Emma's often daydreamed about a trip to Barbados.
"That's part of it," Emma admits. "Gee, Golds, I've always thought of the two of you as real smart. Keep guessing." Her fingers tap harder against the ceramic mug.
"A new deal with Apple?" Gold tries.
"Nope." Bae finishes dishing out the breakfast. "Come on, everybody, sit down and eat."
As chairs scrape across the floor, Henry bursts, "Belle! What do think of Mom's new nail polish?"
"I'm not wearing—" Emma shakes a finger at her son. "You're violating our agreement, young man. Maybe not the letter of the law, but—"
Belle squeals and grabs the shaking finger, then the whole hand. "Emma! Oh my gods, Emma, you finally said yes!" Dragging Bell's Corners' newest deputy behind her, Belle thrusts the captured hand under Gold's nose. "Look!"
Gold stares, uncertain what he's supposed to notice. Emma's definitely not wearing nail polish; in fact, she has a hangnail and a streak of dirt under—"Emma!" Gold jumps to his feet and his cane clatters to the floor. He grabs the deputy and yanks her in for a hug while Belle is throwing her arms around Bae. Shouts of "Congratulations" and "About time" fill the room.
"Hey, how about some props for the man who made this happen?" Henry stretches his arms out. "I'll take your hugs now, please. Line forms to the right. One at a time, no pushing."
"Yeah," Bae confesses. "He's been my chief salesman, singing my praises every chance he got. I owe you one, buddy."
"Well, there was plenty to sing about." Emma wraps her arms around her fiance's waist.
As his grandparents congratulate his achievement, Henry feigns modesty. "Selling Dad was the easy part. Selling marriage, that was hard."
"I mean, I know it works for my parents and you guys. . . .and the Doves and the Bells and the Nesmiths and Ruby and Archie. . . hmm." Emma ponders. "Well, I guess the odds aren't so bad after all. Anyway, I figure we've done all right so far; I guess we can go the distance."
"Welcome to the family, Emma," Gold offers. "Although you always were a part of it."
"I'm going to hyphenate, like you did," Emma tells Belle. "Swan-Gold. I like it."
"So, who's up for another wedding?" Bae claps his hands.
As they themselves are, the Swan-Golds' wedding is unconventional. It's held on the Lake of Three Fires on the first day of summer, at sunrise, with the women in beach sundresses and picture hats, the men in white three-piece suits. Queen Snow officiates and Charming walks his daughter down the aisle. Henry and Gold are groomsmen; Ruby and Belle are bridesmaids.
The music, except for Wagner's "Bridal Chorus," is reggae. First Hall and Oates, now Bob Marley. Gold wonders about these modern kids. One of these days, he's going to have to offer a class in selecting proper wedding music. But when it comes to his son's selection of spouse, there's no doubt in his mind, as he informs the bride when it's his turn to dance with her. "I couldn't imagine a better partner for Bae," he whispers in Emma's ear. "It's exactly as it was meant to be."
She whispers back, "Thanks, Rumple."