Chapter 58
As soon as the Caddy rolls over the orange line that divides Storybrooke from the world, Gold feels the change. He pulls over to the side of the road to take his blood pressure as magic seeps into his pores, making his scalp itch, his body tingle and his heart pound. He watches his hands, but the skin remains the same wrinkly brown; he draws his rear view mirror down and examines his eyes, but they've remained the same earth brown. Physically, at least, the Dark One seems to be permanently gone. Whether his soul has darkened under the power, that's the question that worries him. He'll have to monitor his thoughts and emotions–and his behavior.
"Did you feel it?" he gasps.
"Yeah." Blue has closed her eyes. When she opens them, the brown of her irises has changed to purple. Her face is pale. "I suppose we'll get used to this eventually. I hope so, anyway; with the store, I'll be driving into Storybrooke two or three times a week."
"Magic on, magic off," Gold quips. His body has begun to stabilize. Her eyes have turned brown again and the color's come back to her cheeks. He turns the engine off and opens the trunk to retrieve his and her cases of potions and powders. With a glance at the sun, Blue suggests, "Let's get started. It's going to be a hot day."
Gold and Blue stand sweating and panting at the "Welcome to Storybrooke" sign. They've been here all day, redesigning and rebuilding the boundary spell to fit the specifications agreed upon by the royals, the City Council and Blue in an emergency meeting last night. Surprisingly, the criteria were easy to agree upon, for once; it's been the implementation that's been problematic. They've had to tear down and restart four times as they've discovered flaws in the magic. "I can remember a time, not so long ago, when we could have gotten this work done in half the time," Gold mops his brow, then gulps from a water bottle.
Blue smiles. "Yeah, but in those days, our arguing would have slowed it all down anyway." She accepts the water bottle from him and chugs the rest.
"Let's come back in the morning and double-check our work. I, for one, couldn't manage another spell today. Not even so much as a cube of ice for this water."
"We need to eat. Come on, I'll treat you to Persie's blue plate special."
They climb back into the Caddy and with the air conditioning cranked up, head for home. As soon as they've crossed out of Storybrooke, he feels the magic drain from his body, leaving him feeling small and old.
They've worked hard today, and they'll work just as hard tomorrow as they reassemble the communications block. They've earned their rest, except there's one more matter Gold needs to take care of. "Blue, you know the price for saving a human life with magic is extremely high."
"Yes." She peers at him sideways. "I'm assuming you had to give up something precious yesterday."
"I'm sorry. It had to be something that meant a great deal to me. I surrendered the garden, all and forever. My backyard will be nothing but artificial turf."
Strangely, her reaction is a smile. "We can plant at the convent, next spring," she assures him. "The important thing is, Emma's all right. I watched you closely, in those few seconds as you were deciding whether to bring magic back. You were struggling: you didn't want the power, did you?"
"No. I can honestly say I didn't. I don't want to be—what I was."
"You chose the magic for Emma's sake. Keep that in mind. Your decision was unselfish and your use of magic these past two days has been only for the benefit of others."
"Don't count your chickens," he warns. "I've yet to see if I brought back the darkness too."
"Your friends will have your back, Rumplestiltskin. If you need us–if you need me–just call."
"That reminds me: did you attempt to use your magic in Bell's Corners yesterday?"
"No. It just didn't occur to me." Blue eases back in her seat. "I've gotten used to not having magic."
"I'd like you to conjure something."
"Conjure what? I'm not sure I can manage anything impressive after that workout today."
"Anything. Doesn't matter how small or how simple."
Blue holds out her hand. "All right, I'm conjuring a banana." She wrinkles her nose. "I'm a bit peckish. Huh." Blue frowns, her open palm remaining empty. She concentrates harder but produces nothing. "No magic. I don't even feel a tingle."
Gold is beaming now. "That's what I thought. What I hoped."
"Oh, yes. . . .So much happened yesterday that I'd forgotten that under the original curse, our magic was contained within the Storybrooke limits."
"And so it is now. Does it worry you?" Gold asks.
"Getting enough donated school clothes in time for the store's grand opening worries me. The fighting in Gaza worries me. The hurricane in the Texas Gulf Coast worries me. Bernadette's bookkeeping worries me; we came up twenty dollars short last week. We may have to ask the landlord for an extension on our rent payment."
"Does that worry you?" he chuckles.
"Nah, I've got friends in high places. But my magic being limited to Storybrooke? That doesn't worry me at all. Does it worry you?"
"No." He scratches his temple, a nervous habit. "Surprisingly, it doesn't. Henry's teenage rebellion worries me. Belle's and my difficulty in starting a family worries me. China's attempts to censor freedom of speech over the Internet worry me: my friend Won-Que has written some pretty incendiary things on his blog."
"And don't forget the original purpose for limiting the magic to Storybrooke: if outsiders could tap into magic, too many would treat it like their own personal nuclear arsenal."
"It's out of Regina's reach."
"That it is. Though she does seem to have reformed. If she had access to magic again, who knows? She might handle it responsibly."
"One never knows with Regina."
"Or with magic. Its temptations can be irresistible, especially to those who aren't aware of its price."
"I noticed last night that I was exhausted, like today."
Blue nods. "I used to get that way after some big magical activity, like a transformation."
"After I transported the ogres out of Avonlea, I spent most of the next day in bed," Gold confesses. "I'd locked Belle into the dungeon so she wouldn't see; I was afraid she'd escape if she saw my power was drained. I need to apologize to her for that."
"I'm sure she'll understand: moving an army of four-hundred-pound creatures single-handedly takes tremendous energy. If I know Belle, she'd say a night in the dungeon is a small sacrifice to free her people of ogres."
"I needed her, even then." He shakes his head slowly at the realization. "I needed her from the moment I saw her. She's what matters. She and Bae, Henry, Emma, the Doves, the Hoppers, you and Bernadette and Cecilia, the Bells, the clinic staff—"
Blue chuckles. "If you keep listing all your friends, Persie's will be closed by the time we get home."
All the tension rushes from his body, like air from a punctured balloon. "Yeah. That's the real magic, isn't it? What people do for each other, what they feel for each other."
"That's the magic that builds you up instead of wearing you down. I wouldn't trade the life we have here for the power we had in the Enchanted Forest."
As the Golds settle into bed, Gold jots down some notes in his journal.
"How was your blood pressure today?" He's told Belle everything about his Storybrooke excursion today; he will need to lean on her sometimes if he's to succeed with this moderation management program.
"It jumped as soon as I crossed the town line, but after I finished working on the barrier spell, and I was drained, it fell back to normal and stayed that way when I came home. One more trip into Storybrooke, to test the spells we cast, and then I'm done with that town."
Belle plays with the drawstring on his pajama bottoms. "Would your blood pressure elevate if we. . . ?"
"Belle, just being near you causes me all kinds of elevation." He pushes her hair aside and attacks her neck with soft lovebites.
His eyes fly open in the dark. He's sitting upright, his legs caught in the sheets, his hair clinging damp to his forehead. Belle is lying peacefully on her side, so whatever woke him up didn't disturb her. He eases out of bed, pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand and stands at the open window, looking out into the empty street as a breeze dries the sweat on his chest.
He remembers now what woke him. He'd been dreaming he and his family were back in the Dark Castle, seated at the dining table in the Great Hall, he at the head of the table, Belle at the foot, and Bae, Henry, Emma, the nuns and the Doves in between. With a flourish of his gold-skinned hand, he conjured a feast, then proudly invited the family to enjoy all that his magic had provided. Dishes were passed back and forth, plates and goblets filled—but when the family sank their forks into the food, it vanished. The adults all looked to him in confusion, and Henry said plaintively, "I'm hungry, Grandpa." Embarrassed, he conjured the feast again, but again it vanished as soon as it was touched. And then, because he could no longer provide for them, and because he was a phony, one by one his family pushed back their chairs, stood and walked out on him.
She could easily pass for Belle's grandmother. Like Belle, she's petite and blue-eyed, and strands of auburn are mixed with the gray, and like Belle, she can poke a hole in his inflated melodramas with a few common-sense comments and a twinkling smile. Really, he will have to introduce Belle to the hospital volunteer coordinator Clara Donegal sometime.
Then again, no. The mighty sorcerer would be helpless if these two sweethearts ever ganged upon on him, for even as he's explaining his iPad plan to her, Clara is linking her arm in his, nodding, praising his cleverness, admiring his command of modern technology (and completely suckering him in with that particular bit of flattery, since he's struggled so hard in secret to master the tablet). Before he can finish describing his Skype plan, she's got him on the elevator, she's pressing the call button for the third floor, she's still nodding and praising and encouraging him to go on with his description, and then, to his embarrassment, they're walking past the nurses' station in the children's wing, and the nurses are all greeting him by name, their smiles genuine (and two or three of them, just a mite flirty). "Welcome back, Mr. Gold" (not "Rumplestiltskin"; he likes that; in these years since leaving Storybrooke, he's felt more and more Gold, the ordinary man, and less and less Rumplestiltskin, the imp). "Good to see you again, Mr. Gold." "The children have been asking for you. They'll be delighted to see you, sir."
He tries to protest: this isn't what he came for; he intended to drop off the iPads and beat it back home. Storybrooke is not where he belongs any more, and quite possibly, its magic may not be healthy for him. Like waving the cork of a cabernet under an alcoholic's nose. . . .
Clara's not listening. She pretends to, but she's steering him into a semi-private room, within arm's reach of two beds, and now on either side of him are a pair of little girls. One, a five-year-old named Winnie, has a leg in a cast, but other than that, she seems to be doing well in her recovery: she's sitting up, pillows well fluffed behind her, and she squeals as the visitors come in. "Magic!" She was in his audience two days ago. She opens her arms and wiggles her fingers, and he's trapped by his own thawed heart: he bends down to accept her hug and before he can escape her, she plants her lips on his cheek.
The other girl is new. She's nine, Clara says, and her name is Ellie. Clara doesn't name Ellie's illness; Gold understands that. All day long, the adults who come in and out of these rooms are talking about illness. The children revive in the presence of adults who perceive them as children, instead of patients. That's what the Candy Stripers accomplish. That's why Clara's latched onto Gold.
Ellie is too shy (or too ill) to greet the visitors, but when Clara asks if she would like to see some magic tricks, she sets her book aside–and Gold throws a brief glare at Clara, wondering if this is a set-up, because the book is Beauty and the Beast. Clara ignores him, focusing on Ellie.
He's lost now. His grand plan for fulfilling his promise to the hospital without setting foot again in Storybrooke is shot to pieces. "'Ellie,' which in Greek means 'light.'" With a flick of the wrist he produces a small dancing ball of light in his palm. Then he flicks his wrist again and the ball is floating in a glass jar. "This is for you, Ellie." He sets the jar on her nightstand. "It will turn on or turn off at your command. So whenever you need a light, just call for it." He snaps his fingers and the ball of light flickers out. "Try it."
Ellie frowns; after all, she's nine and not easily tricked. But she gives it a go: "Light, come." The ball flickers back into existence. Ellie's face clears, but she still has doubts. "Light, off." The ball vanishes. Ellie giggles now.
"More magic!" Winnie claps.
Gold thinks for a moment before he chooses her gift. "'Winifred' in Welch means 'peace,' and what's more peaceful than a teddy bear?" He conjures the girl a Winnie the Pooh that dances on her command, and she's instantly in love, with it and with him.
He does a few more tricks for them–or perhaps tricks isthe wrong word, since he's using real magic. He bows and they applaud, and he moves on to the next room. Before he proceeds to the third room, however, Clara advises him to take off his tie and jacket so he won't appear so stiff. Excusing himself, he transports himself to the nuns' used-clothing shop to borrow more casual attire, then he's back, ready for his third show, this time leading the way. Six rooms later, he realizes he's committed now; forget Skype. These shows bring a few minutes' relief to the kids, but they're healing something in him. "Give the iPads to the children to take home," he instructs Clara. "I'll be back next Wednesday."
Clara just smiles.
"Hey, Gold."
Emma's looking a little frayed around the edges, and the sassy's missing from her tone, but she smiles as she elbows through a group of Candy Stripers and makes her way to his cafeteria table. He stands as she approaches, withdraws a chair for her. She plants a chocolate chip cookie in front of him. "For you. To say thanks."
"Emma, good afternoon. What brings you back to Storybrooke General?"
"A last check-up. Clean bill of health. They told me you dropped in to donate a bunch of iPads, and then Clara talked you into doing another impromptu magic show."
"It wasn't much of a show, I'm sorry to say. Blue and I spent all morning working on the communications dome, and that drained us. She went over to Granny's to fortify, and I came here."
"Who knew you were such a softie?"
"Oh, don't underestimate me, child. I'm still the Dark One. I think."
She shakes her head. "You entertaining a bunch of sick kids. I asked Whale whether it was a bet or a dare that put him up to asking you to play clown, but he said you were a natural. That's real nice, what you're doing. And nice shirt."
He cringes. He's wearing a shirt he borrowed from the nuns' donation pile, a Hawaiian print with surfboarding Santas plastered all over it. If the Brotherhood of Armani Devotees finds out, they'll kick him out of the club. But at least the kids seemed to like the shirt. They were comfortable enough around him to ask about his limp, and he gave them a little talk about coping with disabilities. He'd never talked with anyone about that before; this gig Whale roped him into may have hidden benefits.
"I want to apologize for my carelessness, Emma. I thought I'd disposed of that snuff box. I should have checked the shop before I. . .moved to Bell's Corners." He bites back the urge to use the term was banished.
"I'm an officer of the law. I should know better than to poke my finger into an unknown substance. And hey, I'm no worse for wear. Bae told me what you did, the magic, how you didn't want to, but you did it for me."
"The magic's range is limited to Storybrooke, so it's like there's only one wet county in the world, and as long as I stay out it most of the time, I'm okay."
"I wanted to say thanks, but that didn't seem like enough. Seemed like something's missing. Then I realized what it was: I wanted to call you by your name. But I've never called you anything but 'Gold,' and that doesn't seem right any more. But 'Rumple,' that's for those who have a past in the Enchanted Forest with you. Do you have a first name here?"
He toys with his coffee cup. "I'll tell you something I've told only Belle: Regina chose my name here. And no, she didn't give me a first name. I suppose she thought I'd like that; people couldn't get overly familiar with me."
"Oh." Emma thinks for a moment. "I'll tell you something only Bae knows: the name Child Protective Services gave me was Emma Doe. 'Emma' was stitched into the blanket I was wrapped in when I was found, but Doe, that's just a name they use when they don't know the right name. When I ran away from my last foster home, I started calling myself Swan. My favorite story, when I was little, was 'The Ugly Duckling.'"
Gold sets a comforting hand on hers. "A good name."
"So how about if I call you 'Pop,' like Bae does? It won't take anything away from David; I call him 'Dad.'"
"I'd like that, Emma, very much." He beams at her and she automatically beams back. It's the biggest, most open-hearted smile they've ever shared. "By the way, what did you tell Ian Wolf about us?"
Emma twinkles. "Everything. Snow White and Prince Charming, Fairytale Land, the curse, the magic wardrobe, True Love's Kiss, the dragon in the library, yadda yadda yadda." When he looks alarmed, she chuckles. "He said I was clearly still under the effects of that poison, which clearly is a hallucinogenic, and that's how he'd put in down in his report: deputy exposed to unknown hazardous chemical that caused hallucinations. So our secret's safe. And Mom told me about the pardon. I hope you'll take it the way it was intended. Maybe it wasn't done in the best way, but she really did mean it as a burying of the hatchet. Let bygones be bygones, because the Nolans and the Golds, we're family; we may spit and hiss at each other, but we've got each other's back against everyone else."
"Good to see you again, Mr. Gold!" Samuel Browning, owner of Storybrooke's only tailor shop, comes out from behind his cash register to press both hands over Gold's free one. "It's been a long time."
"I've missed your work," Gold says, fingering a bolt of cloth stretched out on the counter. "We don't have a tailor in Bell's Corners. And I've missed our conversations."
"I have too. I have too." Browning sighs. "And, frankly, your business. I'm probably going to close at the end of the year."
"That would be a tragedy, my friend." Gold thinks for a moment. "Did you ever consider going into sportswear? I suppose you've heard about Creativity Camp. You might find a new clientele there."
"I'll consider it. Thank you, Mr. Gold. It may be the answer. Cup of tea?"
"Thanks, I could use one." He follows Browning to the back of the shop, where all the sewing is done. This shop has the exact same floor plan as the pawnshop's; Gold has always felt comfortable here.
Browning pours him a cup and studies him as he sips from it. "You look very well, Mr. G. If you don't mind my saying so, you're hardly using your cane. If I didn't know, I'd think you were carrying it just for fashion."
"Thank you. I'm feeling very well." Having rested from the morning's dome-building, he feels stronger, more vibrant; he could lift a bus over his head with one finger—as long as he spoke a spell first. "What I came in for—I hope this doesn't disappoint you too much, but I need some new shirts and slacks, a whole new style. I'm doing some volunteer work at the hospital, some occasional entertainment for the kids, and Armani is too formal for that. It kind of scares the kids when a guy in a business suit walks in. So I need something. . . cheerful."
"Cheerful."
"Yeah. Friendly looking."
"What did you have in mind, Mr. Gold?"
"I have absolutely no idea. I've never tried to appear cheerful and friendly."
"Well, let me wash our cups and we'll see what the design books have to show us." Browning takes back the cup Gold used. As he rinses it, he's perplexed. "This is odd. What–?" He shows Gold the cup. "I could've sworn I gave you a green cup. In fact, I don't even own a cup like this."
The cup is white with a blue design. And a chip on the lip. . . .
Gold chuckles. "That's my alarm clock."
"Huh?"
"My magic is reminding me I need to get home. Tell you what: I trust your judgment. Make me four friendly shirts and slacks sets."
"I can have your new clothes ready next Tuesday."
"That's perfect. My next magic show is Wednesday." Gold takes a last sip of tea and stands. "Think about Creativity Camp, Sam. You could make a good living with it. Treadle could help you get started."
He's on the street, unlocking his car, thinking about getting home to Belle, when Spencer crosses his path.
The DA is dressed impeccably, as always (he actually beat out Gold three times in the Mirror's "Best Dressed Man of the Year" award). He's carrying a briefcase but he's in no hurry, so Gold surmises he's just come from court—apparently, successfully, for he's smirking. "So the jailbird flies home. Planning to rule the Storybooke roost again, Gold?"
Gold ignores him. He's busy loading some purchases from the nuns' shop into his back seat. Spencer takes this as fear, so he presses on: "I see that pardon you bought for yourself cost you a pretty penny. Never thought I'd see you buying other people's discards."
"Go screw yourself, Spencer," Gold mutters.
Spencer dares to reach out and finger the fabric of the surfing Santas shirt. "Going for the 'bourgie backyard barbequer' look? If you're selling off your Armanis, I'll buy them from you. They'd fit my four-year-old grandson."
Red. Gold's seeing red. The vein in his temple's throbbing.
"Since you're in the used clothes market, my granddaughter has some Barbie clothes you can have; if you take them in, they'd fit your wife. Those little white plastic heels are just her style."
Gold concentrates hard on healthier thoughts: Angelo, for just a few minutes laughing as Gold conjured a turtle from a baseball cap (after building a communications barrier, Gold couldn't summon the magic for a rabbit and a top hat). Belle, brushing her hair this morning, her long, elegant curtain of hair. Bae and Emma cleaning up the kitchen after yesterday's celebratory breakfast. Henry, mowing the-
Spencer stares pointedly at Gold's beltline. "From what I hear, what you ought to be shopping for is a sperm donor. Or is that what you keep that ex-husband of hers around for?"
Won-Que, teaching Gold and Belle how to meditate. Blue, weeding the garden. Dove, painstakingly cleaning a frame.
"Maybe you just need to drop in at the library for a book to teach you how to satisfy your wife. Maybe then you could knock her—" Spencer finishes his sentence with a quack, for he's been transformed into a duck. Another snap of Gold's fingers and the DA-duck is in a cage, being carried into the animal shelter. Gold's going to offer him for adoption, and if the shelter won't take him, Gold will carry him across the street to the butcher's shop. Somebody in town will certainly enjoy duck for dinner tonight.
"Hey." Charming glances up from the counter as Gold enters.
Crap. Grandpas are supposed to set good examples, even Dark grandpas. Lately Gold's had his eye on a "Grandpa of the Year" coffee mug in the BC Pharmacy window. There's only one mug, but Henry's got two grandpas. Gold's got to step up his game if he's going to be the recipient of that mug. Be like the mirror. Allow no evil to pass through you.
"Whatcha got there? Wounded duck?"
"No." Gold turns on his heel and marches out again. On the street he looks around and finds another idea. He's going to do the right thing, of course, but maybe he could be permitted just a little payback. . . . In the park there's a large, ornate fountain that Regina had erected as a memorial to her father; it will do. Gold sets the cage into the water of that fountain, then flicks his wrist. As an indication that he's truly trying to be good, Gold turns and walks away without looking back (though he can hear the rehumanized Spencer sputtering, splashing and swearing).