Chapter 56

Caine: "Faced with two evils, must not every man choose?"

"There's no choice," Belle reminds him as they peer over the lip of the Wishing Well. A rush of cold, moist wind gushes up from the river below and wets their faces.

Gold looks to his companions to supply the certainty he can't muster. Now that the opportunity has arrived, he searches his feelings and realizes that all those times he told himself he was happy without magic, didn't want it screwing up his life any more–he was right. He wants to give the brush to Belle and tell her to use it only for its intended purpose.

"You have to," Blue is saying. He told her about the brush on the drive up here; she fell silent, offering no advice, passing no judgment. "At least, we know now how to make the magic go away. After Emma has recovered—"

"After Emma's recovered, I'll find another crisis. An excuse to keep the magic," Gold says blackly. "Anyway, I'm not sure I can cast a magic-breaking spell again. The ingredients may not be available." When Belle and Blue look puzzled, he elucidates: "I'm not sure my hair mixed with Regina's would produce True Hate again."

Belle's mouth turns up in one corner, but she makes no remark, saving him the embarrassment of admitting he no longer hates Regina.

"We have a savior to save," Blue gently reminds them. How odd those words sound, coming from a nun's mouth. She now folds her hands in prayer.

"I don't want to be a monster again," he argues.

"You're a good man," Belle insists. "Magic won't change that."

"We won't let you fall," Blue assures him.

How quickly they've forgotten the Dark One.

Dove waits silently and patiently at the base of the well. When Gold looks to him for approval, he smiles. There's no sight quite as incongruous, and as inspiring, as when the six-foot-six, I-could-crush-you-with-my-pinkie-finger Josiah Dove smiles.

Gold visualizes Emma in that hospital bed. He knows what Dreamshade will do to the human body; her death will be drawn-out and painful, but it will most certainly come. Henry, motherless; Bae, robbed of his beloved so soon after recovering her. Belle is right: there's no choice. Gold drops the brush into the well.

A mushroom cloud of purple smoke billows out and engulfs the three, then spreads like a DDT blanket across the well, the clearing, the woods, rolling over farms and highways, rolling over Storybrooke, rising from ground-level into the sky. It hovers there, thinning gradually through the next three days, until all that's left are the photos the citizens took with their phones and Ipads.

By order of the queen, none of these photos will be shared beyond the city limits. By order of the queen, Gold and Blue will institute a communication block that will prohibit any reference to magic from leaking out of town; they will also institute a tweaked border block: other than the natives of Fairytale Land, anyone passing through Storybrooke will leave it with vague memories of having spent a rather dull time in a nice, ordinary town. Their strongest memories will be of the bubblegum pink and baby blue buildings, or Granny's hopped-up lasagna.

At the well, the trio starts back down the path to the car. Belle phones in. "Still breathing," she informs her husband. "Blood pressure's low. Vomiting and joint pain."

"Ah, hell, what am I thinking?" Gold growls. "We don't have to walk. Everybody, freeze." He waves his hand and in a blink they're back in Room 314A.

"My gods, what did you do?" Snow gasps.

"The fleece," he calls, and Fran lays it in his arms. He lays it over Emma. Her skin is so cold, but the magic of the fleece warms her blood.

"Pop!" Bae nudges the hospital staff aside. "Make room. Let my dad in."

Gold stares down into the pale face. The girl's long hair is splayed across the pillow. Purple shadows underline her closed eyes. Her lips are parted, breath flowing faintly in and out. So small, so young, so deserving of a second chance, just like Morraine. Gold picks up her wrist, detaches the heart monitor from her finger. Beneath his thumb he feels the life fluttering through her veins. With his free hand, he summons the magic.

It punches him in the gut. He staggers, Bae's hand shoots out to steady him, and he begins again, his teeth rattling, his entire body shuddering as the power overtakes him. Before he loses it or loses himself to it, he enchants the fleece, granting it the power to absorb the poison that his magic is leeching from Emma's bloodstream.

His hand floats over the fleece. The skin of his hand turns gold and scaly. His fingernails become claws. The magic has full possession of him. Red thoughts, blood thoughts, fill his mind. He can do anything that tickles his fancy. He can be anything-King of Storybrooke, Emperor of the World. He can crunch their veins in his rotten teeth, make them kneel until their knees break, rip out their hearts. Regina: he'll start with Regina, put her in a dungeon for thirty years! Belle will have justice, Belle will. . . .

He glances at Belle. She's smiling, shining with pride. At him. Doesn't she see him?

After Regina, he'll toss Charming into a cold, damp mine; conveniently, there's one on the south edge of town. Throw in some hay–used hay–that's your bed now, princeling! Give him rats as companions. Feed him gruel and maggots. Rancid water. Put his wife in a tower and tell him she died at the hands of priests cleansing her soul. Rumple will have justice.

After Charming, Blue. Send her by tornado to a foreign land where she doesn't speak the language and has no money. Let her sleep in alleys, beg for pennies, steal rags from clotheslines to cover her unwashed body, eat from garbage cans.

He glances at Blue. She's praying the Rosary and ignoring the tears running into her mouth. He will make her feel Bae's fear and loneliness. Except, he's remembering the sound of her laughter at the lame jokes he sprinkles into their plant medicine classes. He's remembering her devoted attentiveness in his lab as he taught her basic chemistry. He's remembering her patience, standing beside him at the town line as they tested the boundary spell over and–no, but she's responsible for Bae's loss.

Bae will have justice, Bae will. . . .

He glances at Bae, who's staring at Emma rapturously. "Pop, you did it. Thank the gods, you did it. Thank you." He follows Bae's gaze to those sharp blue eyes snapping open. Emma's head shifts on the pillow and she groans loudly. "Aw, crap on a cracker! What the f– happened?" the angel inquires. "How the hell did I get here?"

Bae beams at her, lays a proud hand on his father's shoulder. "My pop just saved the savior. Not too shabby, huh, babe?"

Emma smiles at Rumple, not one of her everyday guarded smiles, not one of her within-the-family teasing smiles, not one of her gloating I-got-the-last-bagel smiles. Just a grateful smile. She pulls his face down and kisses his cheek.

A flash of magic bursts forth from Emma's lips. It fills the room; it fills his senses.

It's gone when Emma opens her eyes. "Thanks, Gold."

He's not Gold now; he's Rumplestiltskin. Doesn't she see him? Why isn't she recoiling in disgust?

His magic vibrates through his entire body, but at a different pitch than before: slower, softer. He listens for the voice of rage and anxiety that pushed and prodded him for three hundred years, but it's gone. Instead, in the recesses of his mind, he's hearing memories. "Papa, come play hide and seek with me!" "How about a game of dominoes, Mr. G.?" "You're not a monster." "Tuck me in, Papa?" "Grandpa, can we stop at Amy's?" "Thank you for my library, Rumple! It's the most wonderful gift anyone's ever given me." "Happy birthday, Mr. G.! Bindy baked a cake for you." "I love you, Papa." "I love you, Grandpa." "I love you, Rumple."

Colors sharpen; the sunlight through the blinds brightens. He can smell Bae's aftershave, Snow's perfume, antiseptic, the bacon Charming had for breakfast. For several minutes, Gold's senses are on overload, and then, like a light dimmer being adjusted, the world settles back into natural state.

Bae ducks his head closer to his wife's, kisses her soundly, then babbles the full explanation as the medics try to work around him, taking the patient's vitals.

Master Po: "Be like the mirror. Allow no evil to pass through you. Reflect it to its source."

Rumple steps back. He doesn't feel red any more, just queasy. He fades back, trying to pull himself together. Something had him in its grip, some beast, eating him from the inside out, squeezing his heart like Cora would a captive's, seeping into his brain like a poison Hook would have concocted, wheedling him with words both flattering and condemning, like Zoso had done. The dark parasite seems to have fled. Or perhaps it's hidden itself, submerged into his brain as the Dark One used to do, to whisper and taunt when opportunities for mayhem arose.

As a test, he calls a flicker of magic forward. If he's lucky, nothing will happen. That expenditure of power in saving Emma will have used all the magic he had, or maybe the savior's kiss will have freed him.

He's not lucky. In answer to his command, a vase full of daisies appears on Emma's nightstand, along with a card: Optimus Prime in a nurse's cap with the caption "Wishing you a speedy transformation." Cheesy, but she once said her favorite cartoon as a kid was The Transformers.

"Rumple." So many emotions, all of them pleasant, tumble in Belle's voice as she breathes his name. She wraps her arms around his neck, buries her face in his collar, and they just stand there motionless, silent, until Whale announces to the entire room, "Her vitals are perfect. Okay, folks, say your goodbyes and get out so the lady can rest. Sheriffs, if these rubberneckers aren't gone in five, chase 'em out." Whale hands Snow the fleece. "As long as you're up to your old tricks, Gold, I got someone I'd like you to drop in on."

"I'm not. . . I need to think. . . "

"You've got it, flaunt it," Whale prompts. "I'll buy you a cone afterwards."

"Wait a minute. Mr. Gold, Mrs. Gold–somebody, explain to me what just happened here," Sheriff Wolf interrupts. "For instance, what was that voodoo thing you just did to my deputy?"

"I got this," Emma calls out. "Whale, you go ahead and take them to that other patient." She sits up, with Bae's arms lifting her. "Ian, let me clue you in on some stuff."

Gold glances at the Charmings, who seem alarmed by Emma's apparent intention to reveal Storybrooke's secrets to an outsider. But they believe in her, not just as their family-devoted daughter or their truth-telling former sheriff, but as Fairytale Land's savior. So when the discomfort turns to resolve in their expressions, Gold relaxes–just in time for Whale to grab his arm.

Helplessly, Gold allows Whale to lead him and Belle toward the elevator. They've just pushed the call button when Snow and Charming rush toward them. "Thank you." Snow hugs Gold. "I don't know what else to say. Thank you."

Charming's face is red. "You saved our daughter. There aren't any words to say to repay that."

Rumple has a pretty good idea of a few words that suffice, like "Forget that exile thing" or even "we royally screwed the pooch when we banished you," but the elevator has arrived as Whale's yammering something in Latin and Belle's tugging his arm.

"She's family," he manages to mumble before the elevator doors separate him from royalty.

The walls of the elevator are mirrored. He turns away from them and toward Whale, pretending to listen to the medical jargon. But as the elevator stops, he looks at his reflection, and he startles.

He's looking at a middle-aged man with a gardener's tan and white teeth and neatly trimmed nails and large brown eyes that give a little too much of his game away.

Where the hell did Rumplestiltskin go?

"Oh, crap," Gold mutters. It's a child. Whale's brain tumor case: it's a six-year-old boy, sitting up in bed, trying to play with his Matchbox cars but all those tubes and wires are in his way. A six-year-old who's apparently been recently visited by the Tooth Fairy, for one of his lower incisors is missing; he's also been visited by a nurse with a shaving kit, for his head is bald.

"I can't," Gold insists, but Belle nudges.

"Let's find out what you can or can't."

"All I want is for you to cheer him up," Whale says. "His folks are so stressed out when they visit, they stress him out too. Fifteen minutes of your time for a kid that hasn't laughed in six months."

Belle pushes Gold toward the bed. "Hello, Angelo, my name is Belle and this is my husband Rumple. He's a magician and he's come to perform a few magic tricks for you. Would you like that?"

The boy forgets his Matchbox cars immediately.

As Whale checks the boy's chart, Gold casts several spells that mimic standard tricks he's seen on TV: the coin behind the ear, the rabbit in the hat, the floating scarves. Gold has no idea how performers make these tricks happen; he'll ask Belle for a book about it someday.

Just ten minutes later, Angelo lies back on his pillow, confessing, "I'm sleepy." Gold strokes the boy's forehead until his eyes close. In the hallway, Whale asks, "So when are you coming back?"

"Whale, you know better than to ask me that."

"What I know is I got a six-year-old with a tumor, a nine-year-old with leukemia, a ninety-three-year-old on dialysis and no living relatives. Not to mention the run-of-the-mill stuff. Laughter relieves stress, eases pain, gives people a diversion from the needles and pills and it doesn't cost a dime. So when are you coming back?"

"Whale, look at who you're talking to."

"I see a guy who looks like Ringo Starr and Charlie Chaplin's love child, after he's come back from a GQ fashion shoot."

"Look again. You see a devil. Do you think Angelo's parents would've let me anywhere near their boy?"

"So you're a heel," Whale shrugs. "So am I. Time wounds all heels, so why not build a little good karma for yourself?"

"I'm not the only magic practitioner around here. I'll talk to Blue. She visits here all the time anyway."

"That's the problem. The patients see her praying over the dying. They hide when they see her coming. No, you're our guy; you're built like a leprechaun and leprechauns are funny." Whale shouts over his shoulder, "Hey, hold the elevator!" He starts walking away. "Wednesday, nine a. m. Ask for Clara. She's the volunteer coordinator."

The Golds are quiet as they drive back home in Belle's Honda, each trying to come to terms with the events of the day. As they move about the kitchen preparing dinner, Belle finally broaches the subject. "We almost lost Emma."

"Because of my acquisitiveness," Gold says bitterly. "I just had to own everything magical. If it was magic, or useful in magic, I had to bottle it."

"That instinct wasn't wrong. You did a lot of good with those potions too."

He shakes his head. "For a price. I treated magic like any other high-priced commodity."

"You had to. The magic had to be paid for." Belle stops in the middle of unwrapping a package of chops. "Rumple. . .to save a life, that must come with a hefty price." When he doesn't answer, she presses, "What did you pay for the magic that saved Emma?"

"It was a relatively small price."

"Rumple?"

He gestures toward the back door. She rushes to it, flings it open and searches, seeking an answer. "Your Caddy?"

"No. It had to be something I truly valued." He continues to slice apples for the pork chops-and-cinnamon-apples casserole they're having tonight.

"I don't-" then she catches on. "Your garden! You gave up your garden!"

"Nothing will grow there again."

She comes back to slide her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry, darling. I know how much that garden meant to you."

"I was glad to pay it, to keep Emma with us."

Climbing into bed, the Golds blink at each other. "My head's spinning."

Gold nods. "Yeah. What a day."

"Are you going back on Wednesday?"

"It's against the law."

"That's not what I asked."

"No. Tomorrow I'll gather some iPads to donate to the children's ward. On Wednesday I'll Skype a magic show. I just need to learn a few sleight-of-hand tricks."

Belle claps her hands. "Brilliant."

"Except, uh, I have to go back tomorrow and possibly Friday, to erect the communications and boundary barriers again." He looks sheepish. "But Blue will help me with that. After that, no more magic of the real kind. I hope."

"Call me if you need anything" is all she says, but she's worried.

After a long sigh, he runs his hands through his hair. "Gods, Belle, what happened today?"

"We lived a dozen lifetimes in an afternoon."

He throws himself back onto the mattress. "We sure did."

"You saved a life."

"It was my fault she almost died. I thought I'd cleaned out all the dangerous items."

"She won't see it that way. Neither will Bae."

"What do I do now? I'm cursed again. Won't be long before I'm turning people into snails."

Belle lies down beside him, staring up at the ceiling. "You may not have been aware of this; it happened so fast. But for a minute in the hospital there, you reverted. You became the imp."

"I noticed."

"But Emma kissed you and you came back. Why do you think that happened?"

"I don't know. One minute I was thinking about using my magic to hurt people. The next, I wasn't. I didn't want to. After she kissed me, all I could think of was our family."

"Do you think it will happen again? Another Hulk moment?"

"We'll find out, sooner than later, I suppose." He frowns at the ceiling. A thought's flying around but he can't catch it. "From a merchant to a demon to a clown in one afternoon."

He grabs the thought. Sitting up, he snaps his fingers.

"Did you forget something?"

"I'm trying to transform that lamp into a cup of tea."

"If you're thirsty–"

"No. Watch." He raises both hands into the air.

"What am I watching?"

"Nothing."

"You mean like 'nothing up my sleeve'?" He's shirtless, so of course there's no sleeve for anything to be up.

"I mean like 'nothing at all.' I'm summoning my magic and nothing's happening." He points a finger at a shoe and laughs. "Nothing!" He recites an incantation. "Nothing!"

She bolts to her feet. "Nothing!" Her arms clutch his waist. "No magic!" She dance around him. "Nada!"

"The bubble! I forgot the town bubble! Magic exists only inside Storybrooke. Leave Storybrooke–"

"Leave the magic behind!" Belle bounces on the mattress. "We're free! We're free!" Then she pauses, "If you go back into Storybrooke–"

"But I won't."

"But if you did?"

"Probably. Yes, I think the magic would come back. We'll find out when I see Blue tomorrow. If she loses her magic when she crosses the town line, we'll know."

"Total control. You can shut the magic off just by literally walking away from it. If another emergency arose–"

"But only in Storybrooke. I couldn't conjure solutions anywhere else. Anyway, it's a moot point. I won't violate my deal again."

"Just as well." She drops back on the bed again. "What a day."

"What a day."

"Want to make a baby?"

He laughs. "Why not? The perfect way to end a strange day."