Chapter 57
He's a bit sore this morning as he comes downstairs to put the coffee on. Playing with magic does that to you when you're pushing 400. He's kind of forgotten how exhausted and old he used to feel after a great expenditure of magic.
Belle's in the shower, which gives him enough time to get a hot breakfast on the table before she comes down, dressed for a day at the library. His own plan for the day, much to his annoyance, is to construct a new barrier spell to protect Storybrooke against outsiders.
A knock at the kitchen door interrupts his egg cracking. "Come on in. Since when did you feel you have to knock?"
"Since we have guests with us," Bae answers.
"Guests?" Gold feels a little silly in his "kiss the cook" apron (a birthday gift from Henry) as Prince David enters looking manly and young in his rolled-up shirt sleeves and jeans. But David doesn't notice (or ignores) the apron and shakes Gold's hand. "Good morning." In his left arm he's carrying a Granny's bag; over his shoulder, the Golden Fleece. "We brought this sheepskin back."
Gold removes it from the young man's shoulder and drapes it across Bae's chair, smoothing it. It's turned black from the poison. Gold will give it a place of honor in his collection. Charming has no notion of the fleece's value, either historical or monetary; now the fleece bears great personal value for Gold. Someday, maybe, Charming will cherish things the way Gold does, not for their rarity, which lends them monetary value, but for the link they provide to people and places that no longer exist. But perhaps not: Charming will probably always have a young man's outlook, living in the moment, even when he needs a cane to walk.
But Henry will understand. He'll have a foot in both the past and the future. This fleece Gold will leave to him. It's part of his personal history now.
Charming is a great commander: ethical, compassionate, detail-oriented. But Henry will be a great leader.
Charming's attention is fixed on the immediate future: he's unpacking the Granny's bag. "We also brought breakfast. A small thank you for yesterday."
He can't think of anything else to say, so Gold replies, "You're welcome" and calls up the stairs, "Belle, we have company."
Snow comes in with Henry, who's hauling a greeting card the length of a baseball bat. "Hey, Grandpa! Mom couldn't come 'cause they wanted to keep her overnight. The hospital, I mean, just in case. But she told me to give you this." He plants a kiss on Gold's cheek. "And this is from me."
Gold has to set his cane aside and use both hands to open the card. There's a drawing of a batter in a Yankees jersey, slugging a baseball into the sun. The caption reads, "You hit a homer yesterday, Grandpa!" The batter has shoulder-length brown hair–Henry's courteously omitted the gray. "Thanks for saving my mom."
The boy's voice is cracking. Won't be long now 'til he's legally driving, then off to college. The town will seem empty without him.
"Thanks for the card, Henry. Will you get the silverware? So, Your Majesties, what brings you out to Bell's Corners?"
"We came to say thanks," Snow replies, unpacking the Granny's bag. "A thank-you from Granny." She holds up a container of dill pickles.
"Well! Coffee or orange juice, Snow?"
"Snow!" Belle runs down the stairs in her stocking feet, her pony tail swinging. After a hug for the queen, there's a hug for the prince. "David, welcome to Bell's Corners."
"Hey, Belle! Mom says hi and she'll be home tomorrow."
"That's good news, Henry. We'll bake a cake tonight."
Snow moves to the head of the table. "Everyone, if I could have your attention?" She reaches into her purse for a rolled parchment.
All talk and action cease.
"'Rumplestiltskin Gold, in recognition for your heroism yesterday, risking your own well-being to rescue Princess Emma, and in recognition of your many acts of charity in Storybrooke, I, Queen Snow, do hereby grant you a full, free and absolute pardon for all offenses you have or may have committed against the Kingdom of the Enchanted Forest and the township of Storybrooke.'" Now Snow pauses to let the news sink in. "And, parent to parent: thank you."
Snow stands there expectantly, smiling; minutes tick by and her smile wavers. David scowls: the Golds have offended his wife by their lack of response. More minutes tick by. The Golds resume setting the table, and Belle mumbles, "That's very nice of you. Generous. Thank you, and thank Granny for the pickles, will you?"
Gold holds back a chuckle: did sweet, humble Belle really just dis the queen by lumping her pardon in with pickles? But Gold notices an icy glint in her eyes. They will talk about this when they're alone: he feels the same way she does. Wicked words dance on his tongue. This pardon is what he rather expected to hear yesterday, when he might have acceped it gracefully, but today, for some reason he can't pin down, it feels more like an insult than an acknowledgement of his reformation. He wants to throw them out, to tell them their pardon means nothing to him. The Dark One decides his own fate; he's honored the banishment only because he always honors his deals, almost.
But Henry's staring up at him, glowing with joy. In the boy's mind, his grandparents can now shake hands and say "I'm sorry" and "Forgive and forget." His families can be unified; his mother will no longer be caught in the middle.
Biting his tongue, Gold squeezes Henry's shoulder and manages a smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty. And you and the Prince are welcome in our home anytime."
"And on that note: Shall we eat? Please, be seated," Belle says brightly.
Oh, yes, Belle and Gold will talk later.
Blue arrives midway through the meal and while Henry fetches a chair for her from the dining room, Gold pours her a cup of coffee and Belle brings her a plate. "Granny's!" she gushes. "Best bacon in two counties. Good morning, Snow, David."
David rises from his chair as his wife kisses Blue's cheek. "How are you, Blue? And Bernadette and Cecilia?"
"Pretty good."
Henry arrives with the chair and scoots it in for her once she's seated. He blushes a little as David gives his arm a congratulatory pat for demonstrating such gentlemanly manners. Belle passes the platter of scrambled eggs to the nun, who scoops a serving onto her plate, saying, "We hope you'll make it to our grand opening Monday."
"I have it in my planner," Snow reports.
"What you're doing will be a big help to the poor in Storybrooke," David says. "There seem to be a lot more of them these days."
"The economy is really struggling," Snow agrees. "Unemployment is at nine percent. Two families moved out last week."
"To try their luck in Boston," David finishes.
"We're hoping to get some school clothes donated," Blue says. "And winter coats, shoes. We have several volunteer seamstresses, as well as Mr. Browning, to mend frayed cuffs, sew on buttons and such."
"Why don't you just conjure up the clothes?" Henry suggests.
"We could, now. Perhaps we will. But people need to take care of each other, not become dependent upon magic to solve their problems. That way leads to trouble." Blue accepts the platter of bacon and sausage. "God gave us hands and minds so that we could serve each other, and hearts to love each other. If we leave it to fairies and sorcerers to take care of the poor and the sick, we're not fulfilling our responsibilities to each other."
"And it's not just things that the poor need from us," Snow adds. "It's the human connection."
"Bernadette and Cecilia have already left for the store. I expect I won't be able to join them today; it will take most of the day to design and cast the spell for the new town barrier." Blue bites into a slice of toast.
"I'll go over after the animal shelter closes tonight," David offers.
"We also need to re-erect the communications dome," Gold reminds the nun. "And quick, before some goofball posts photos of the magic cloud onto his Facebook wall."
"A mage's work is never done." Blue and Gold share a smile, causing the royals to raise eyebrows.
"I gotta say, I never thought I'd see the day you two would buddy up," David says.
"Thank you," Snow says. "We're very grateful for your efforts to protect Storybrooke."
Gold bites back a smart-ass quip; he reminds himself that especially now, with Henry in a rebellious stage, all the adults in the lad's life need to set good examples. So he merely nods as Belle, forcing a cheery smile, shares the news of the pardon.
Blue praises the decision. "I think it's a wonderful start, a step toward healing. And it sends a positive message about forgiveness." The glance she shoots toward Gold is a warning: he's been forgiven; he needs to accept it gracefully and forgive, too.
Gold gives a small shrug. The way he sees it, he's got a right to his feelings, and right now, his feelings tell him he's still hacked off. Well, he and Blue will have a talk about this later. His coffee cup being empty, he rises to bring the pot to the table, but just as he's offering refills, yet another knock, this one at the front door, interrupts.
Henry pops up. "I'll get another chair."
"It's our day for visitors!" Belle starts to arise from her seat, but Gold waves her back down. "I'll get it." He offers Blue the pot. "Perhaps you'd start the coffee around?"
Walking to the front door gives Gold a moment to rearrange his face, wiping away the perplexity in his expression. When he lived in the big pink house, the only visitors he ever had were Belinda and Josiah—if visitors could be used to describe folks who were paid to come to the mansion. In those days, Gold lived a life of quiet anger, his hatred of humanity bubbling beneath the false calm surface he showed the world. And now, behind him, the noise rises as people talk and laugh and forks clatter and the toaster ejects toast and chairs scrape on the floor to make room for one more. How did this happen, and in such a short time? Was it Belle? Bae? Henry? Who caused his life to change so dramatically?
A tiny, tiny part of him would chase them all out, restore the quiet (but not peace; he never knew peace until Bae was returned to him). The noise, the mess, the chaos these people bring, the extra work they cause, the interruption of his work, the intrusion into his life—
"Rumplestiltskin, you crotchety old son of a bitch," he mumbles to himself, picking up the pace to get to the door. "Tell the truth: you wouldn't give up a single moment with a single one of those people." He grabs the knob and pulls, still muttering, "Besides, order is overrated."
"That's one way to look at it." Archie grins at him. "Morning, Mr. Gold."
"Morning, Archie."
"I can see you have a full house." The psychiatrist waves at the caravan of cars filling the driveway and street. "Sorry to interrupt, but I had an errand to run here anyway, so I thought I'd stop by, see how things were going."
"Come on in, have some breakfast," Gold pushes the door open. "We're celebrating an announcement by the queen."
"Well, ah, actually," Archie raises the medical bag in his hand to draw attention to it. "I wanted to do a quick check, in light of the changes of the past few days."
"I'm feeling fine, but all right. Let's go in my office." Gold leads Archie in through the living room to the study and invites him to sit on the leather couch.
"Lovely home you have here," Archie observes, unpacking the medical bag. "I hope I'm not interrupting a party."
"No party, just breakfast at the Golds'." Gold sits down in an armchair near the couch. "An everyday occurrence, though we don't usually have so many. The Nolans are here. The queen granted me a pardon."
"That's great, Mr. Gold." Archie slips a stethoscope around his neck. "Though, I will say, no surprise to me. I think your slate has been wiped clean." His eyes flash with an uncharacteristic display of annoyance. "You've paid. Anyone who would argue otherwise is just a stubborn old biddy who ought to clean up her own backyard before she—sorry. Kind of got carried away there."
"Had an argument with your future mother-in-law over the goals of the justice system?" Gold's mouth twitches in a suppressed smile.
"Was it the 'old biddy' reference that gave me away?" Archie blushes. "I really do love Grizelda. She gave Ruby a loving home and a fine upbringing, but because of her age, she thinks the way she sees things is how they really are, and she can't admit to her own mistakes." Archie presses the stethoscope to Gold's chest. "Breathe in. . . breathe out. Again." He shifts to Gold's back.
"She sent me a container of pickles this morning."
"Really?" Archie presses the stethoscope to Gold's back. "Breathe in. . . breathe out. Maybe there's hope for her yet. Again." He returns the stethoscope to the bag and takes out a thermometer, which he cleans with a sterilized wipe, then slides into Gold's mouth. "Hey, you said 'future mother-in-law.' How'd you know? We haven't announced it yet."
Around the thermometer, Gold mumbles.
"Oh. I should've guessed. Belle would be the last person Ruby could keep a secret from. Ruby did the proposing, but I'm selecting the wedding ring—that's my secret. That's why I came here: Diamond Lil closed down last month, so there's noplace to buy jewelry in Storybrooke. I'm hoping you might have something appropriate in your shop."
Gold nods. When Archie removes the thermometer, he's finally free to explain. "I have a vintage yellow gold set, man's and woman's bands. And for an engagement ring, I have a ring with two oval-cut rubies with a diamond in between. If they don't suit, I can always cut a deal for you with jewelers in Boston; I have quite a few contacts."
"Just as I hoped. We have plenty of time; we're marrying in December." Archie wraps a blood pressure cuff around Gold's arm. "Now, back to business. Your physical health is fine today. I want you to start taking your blood pressure within an hour every time you go into Storybrooke, and again within an hour of leaving. I'll write you a prescription for a monitor. Get the pharmacist to teach you how to use it. Call me on Thursday and give me the readings. And I want you to start a dream journal. Every morning, first thing, write down everything you can remember of any dreams you've had the night before. And if you or Belle notice any physical or emotional differences—"
"Like if I suddenly start helping little old ladies cross the street, or petting puppies?"
"Whatever isn't typical Gold, I want to hear about it."
"This isn't a run-of-the-mill, senior-citizen checkup, is it? This is about the magic."
Archie replaces his equipment in his bag. "You need to say it, Mr. Gold."
"I don't know what—"
"Yes, you do."
Gold drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. Lies, all sorts of lies, leap into his head; some of them are real beauts. He's an old pro when it comes to lies. But Archie's staring at him: Archie will recognize a lie, and more importantly, Archie's here to help. That's all: this isn't an investigation for some higher authority to pass judgment on Gold's fitness for freedom. In fact, Archie won't disclose any information to anyone, not even Bae or Belle, unless Gold grants permission. So Gold draws in a breath and nods. "This is about the magic, about my reaction to it, because I'm an addict."
Archie closes his medical bag. "You told me the other day, when the magic first entered your bloodstream, you felt 'red.' Whenever you feel like that again, call me. Your life may depend upon it."
Gold frowns. "Magic never caused me any health—"
"Under the influence of magic, you've killed, you've tortured, you've cheated. Under the influence of magic, everything you've done to others, you've done to yourself. Believe me, Mr. Gold, when I say your life may depend upon how attentive you are to your symptoms and how quickly you fight back against them. Think of me as your sword and all those people in there, they're your shield." Archie's voice fills with wonder. "My gods, Gold, I never saw anyone so well equipped for battle as you."
"Aye. I'm an extraordinarily fortunate man. I don't let a day go by without reminding myself of that. So you think I have a chance to overcome my addiction."
"No. No one ever overcomes addiction," Archie answers sharply. "You have to remind yourself of that every day too. Some therapists believe that in a few, rare cases, alcoholics in recovery can learn to drink in moderation. 'Moderation management,' it's called. I'm not convinced it's possible, but if you choose to go down that road—if you want to resume practicing magic on a limited basis—I'll help, if you'll promise to listen to me, and I think you have a better chance at success than most, because of them." He points to the kitchen.
The words tumble out before his pride can block them. "I don't know what to do, Archie. It would be easier to avoid the issue altogether. I have all the rest of the world to roam in; I don't have any need or desire to go into Storybrooke. I keep plenty busy here. I have everything I want. I even have a bit of power here, the kind I don't have to bully people for. They give it to me because they trust me and they expect me to do good with it."
"That's the kind of power you can keep."
"I don't need magic." Gold leans back in his chair, mulling over the realization. "I don't need magic."
"If that's true, you're in recovery. But remember, Mr. Gold, you'll always be an addict."
"But. . .am I supposed to have it?"
Archie folds his hands thoughtfully. "I know your friend Won-Que believes that's so, and to walk away from magic is to walk away from your destiny."
"From myself," Gold amends. "Like an artist who refuses to paint again, or a musician who won't play again. Is magic what I was meant to be? And if it is, and I walk away from it, am I living only half a life?"
"How you use the magic is as important a question in your recovery as how often you use it."
"To find Bae," Gold answers immediately. "That was the reason for my magic. But that reason has been fulfilled."
"That's not all. The cart driver, Hordor, Milah—"
"Anger. I used magic sometimes out of anger."
"Provoked by insult. You felt disrespected by those people."
"And sometimes," Gold remembers Milah, "when I struck out, it was myself I wanted to hurt."
"When was the last time someone insulted you, Mr. Gold?"
Gold stares at the floor, trying to recall. "I don't. . . it doesn't happen any more. . ."
"Doesn't it? Or maybe you just ignore it these days."
"Whale called me a leprechaun yesterday. Right after he called me a heel and Charlie Chaplin's lovechild."
"How did you get back at him?"
"Well, I," Gold shrugs, "I didn't."
"You didn't hit him with your cane or conjure him a case of heartburn?" Gold shakes his head slowly. "Raise his rent? Key his car? Surely you made a remark back."
Gold shakes his head. "I guess I didn't really notice what he said. I had my mind on other things, more important things. A little boy who needs help."
"There's the first arrow in your quiver. When you feel 'red,' instead of reaching for your magic, reach for that arrow: think about that boy, or some other problem that needs resolving. Reprogram your thoughts; if you're absorbed in problem-solving, your brain won't have room for the 'red.' And when you feel insulted, betrayed, abandoned—"
Gold nods toward the family photos hanging on his wall. "Them. I'll think of them, and how damn lucky I am."
"And how loved." Archie stands. "I'm willing to give moderation management a try with you, Mr. Gold, if you want it."
"I'm not sure. . . but there's a boy in the Storybrooke Hospital. . . ."
"Two months. I'll write out a program for you to follow. We'll see how things look at the end of two months." Archie runs his tongue over his upper lip. "Your family's going to be wondering where you got off to, and that bacon you've got on the stove is calling my name."
Gold rises, reaching for his cane. "Dr. Hopper, won't you join us for a celebratory breakfast? Now that we have something we can all enthusiastically celebrate."