Chapter 59
When he arrives home, Gold phones Archie to talk about this instance of backsliding. Gold confesses, "I have to admit, when I felt the red coming on, I didn't do anything to stop it."
"Maybe," Archie speculates, "that wasn't so much a 'red' moment as an 'orange' one—a 'duck a l'orange' one." After a chuckle, the men force on their serious tones. "You won't do it again, will you, Mr. Gold?"
"I never repeat a prank."
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
"I was wrong to use my magic to lash out in anger."
"Very good. And you won't do it again."
"I. . . ."
"Mr. Gold," Archie says in a warning tone.
"I won't do it again."
"And I know that's true, because Rumplestiltskin's word is as good as gold."
"Don't be cute, Archie."
Another nightmare breaks his sleep.
He's standing naked in his walk-in closet. All around him are hung his suits: Armani black label jackets and slacks, silk shirts, silk ties, a dragonskin coat, leather trousers. He flicks through his collection, deciding what he will wear for the day; at last he chooses the black leather trousers, red brocade vest and gold silk shirt that he had been wearing the day he realized he was falling in love with Belle. He raises his right leg to step into the trousers, but he can't fit his leg inside.
The pants are too small. They're child-size. He tosses them to the floor.
He grabs another pair of leather trousers: again, too small. Armani polyester blend: too small. He has a growing pile of discarded clothes at his feet. None of his shirts fit either. At last, only the dragonskin coat is left. Belle hates this coat, always has. It smells of blood. He slides his arms into the sleeves anyway, and even as he's raising it to his shoulders, the coat is shrinking, and he's caught in it like a patient in a straightjacket. His arms trapped behind his back, he yells for Belle to come help him, but she doesn't answer.
He rushes out of his closet, runs through the entire upstairs, calling for her. Every room is empty. He runs back to the master bedroom and peers out the window into the driveway. The Honda is gone.
He leans out the window, yelling for her.
"Belle! Belle!"
She shakes him awake. "Darling, what's wrong?"
Still sunk in the quicksand of his dream, he stares with blind eyes into the darkness. She presses a cup of water into his hand, stroking his hair as she urges him to drink. When he gains control of his breathing, she urges him to describe his nightmare. He resists, unwilling to relive it, but he does ask, "Is it still forever, dearie?"
Belle rests her head against his chest. She runs her fingers over the ring he wears on his left hand. "This is a token of my pledge to you, remember? My hand, my heart and my help are yours forever. Nothing anyone can do will change that."
His fingers trail up her arm as he stares at the ceiling. He says nothing more and eventually she falls asleep again, and so does he. He doesn't dream this time, but in his memory echoes the roar of the gunned engine of a Honda.
It's Wednesday morning. He picks over his eggs, takes too much time cleaning the kitchen. Chattering about a new database she wants for the library, Belle is slow to catch on, but catch on she finally does. "You don't want to go to the hospital."
"Maybe I'd rather the hospital come to me." He avoids facing her by filling the dishwasher. "Last week, I almost turned a man into someone's dinner. Never mind that it was Spencer. What am I going to do this week if someone pisses me off?"
"You'll do what you did last week: stop yourself. I have faith in you, Rumple." She removes a juice glass from his fingers so that she can squeeze his hand. "You'll remember that sick children are waiting for you to come to the hospital. You'll remember that Henry needs your help with his Latin, and that tomorrow you're reaching a class on herbal pain relief during pregnancy, and that Bae's surprise birthday party is Friday. You'll remember that I'm waiting for you to come home. And you'll remind yourself that nothing Spencer or anyone else can say to you will diminish your importance to all of us. Only you can take you away from us, and you're too wise, too loving a man to do that."
He wishes he could believe in himself the way she does, but there was too much bullying, too little affection in his formative years. When she leaves for work, so does he, dutifully recording his blood pressure after crossing the Storybrooke line.
His thoughts change course as Clara confiscates him just as soon as he steps off the elevator. "Two new faces this week," she bubbles (but beneath the effervescence is a grim determination to mend these children's spirits). "Winnie has gone home. She's started kindergarten. Her mom said she took her teddy bear for show-and-tell. Ellie's still with us. Angelo's appetite's slumped; see if you can coax him to eat. The newbies are a brother and sister, eleven and eight. He likes Minecraft. She likes Legos. Don't ask them about their parents. Nice shirt, by the way."
This Browning creation features comic book panels that relate a story of Archie Andrews and friends repairing, driving, then pushing a broken-down jalopy. Gold has no idea who these characters are, but the cartoon Archie kind of looks like Hopper and Betty kind of looks like Emma, so Gold almost likes the shirt. Well, he doesn't hate it the way he did the surfing Santas, anyway.
This show is more difficult last week's. The new boy won't interact (Gold promises him he'll have a Minecraft trick next week–if he can find out who or what Minecraft is. Not even that invitation to conversation provokes a response); he stares at the wall. His sister giggles over the Lego superheroes he conjures, but when he steps too close to her bed, she panics and only Clara can calm her. After the show, Gold drags Clara down to the cafeteria for a donut and a frank discussion. "I want to help these kids. How do I reach them?"
"You can't," Clara answers. "They'll need psychotherapy. Your role, in the short time they're here, is to give them a little respite if you can. They won't be here long."
He grips his cane in frustration. "CPS is taking them?"
"Temporarily. Their mother was killed in a car crash. Their father abandoned the family years ago."
"So they need a home?"
"You see? This is why you're right for this work," Clara replies. "You'd take them, wouldn't you? But an aunt is coming for them. Just give them a few minutes of laughter, if you can. Your shirts are a step in the right direction."
"There must be something–"
"You're a powerful man, Mr. Gold, and we're grateful for what you do, but even your power is limited. Magic can't fix these children; it takes all of us, together."
How gently he's just been cut down to size. He rather likes having the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
Before returning to Bell's Corners, he stops in at Granny's in search of Ruby. He hasn't set foot in this diner since the day Granny declared her support for his banishment. Pickle gift aside, Granny stands by her signature of the exile petition: Ruby informs Belle that in Granny's opinion, the good stuff Gold has done in recent years proves Snow made the right decision: if he hadn't been driven out of town, he never would have changed.
He'd rather not be here. The snide comments Granny used to cut when, in the curse days, he'd come in for his morning java, he suspects are lovetaps compared to the vitriol she probably spills these days, since his exile further fractured the Lucas family. But Belle asked him to run an errand for her, so face the matron he will–unless, of course, he gets lucky and it's Granny's day off.
He stands in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to indoor lighting. For a few moments, he can only see shadows, one of which is moving toward him. He freezes. "Mr. Gold." Oh crap, it's Granny.
He blinks hard to regain his vision. "I just came to bring these shoes for Ruby," he says quickly, showing Granny a box. "From the shop. They're vintage Salvador Sapena. Belle thought they'd go well with Ruby's wedd–". He gulps as a powerful pair of arms thrust around his chest and squeeze. The shock brings his eyesight back. It's Granny grabbing him, smelling of coffee and bacon. The embrace is, thankfully, short.
"Clara's a poker buddy of mine" is Granny's entire explanation. "You hungry? Lunch is on the house." She wheels about, barking at the window to the kitchen: "Classic burger for Mr. Gold. Medium rare. Extra pickles. And a chocolate shake."
He shrugs to himself. He would've preferred the pork chops, but he learned in childhood never to refuse a free meal. He sits down at a table and picks up a discarded newspaper. It's yesterday's: the Mirrorhas gone from a daily to a weekly. "Storybrooke pop drop," reads the headline: Storybrooke's population has fallen to under 2,000 as families seeking job opportunities have moved on. Gold should feel sorry for the queen as her kingdom's slowly pulling apart. He remembers what Emma said about the Nolans and the Golds needing to stick together. He decides to withhold judgment on that until it's actually tested on the Nolans' side.
Ruby dashes in and without hesitation sits down at his table. As she admires the shoes, he studies her: she's changed so, since the curse broke. She's level-headed and forthright, a strong counterpoint to the dreamer Archie: her spontaneity and sense of adventure have revitalized the otherwise shy and staid psychiatrist. A year ago, no one would have imagined them together, except Belle, but now they're seen as undeniably beneficial for each other. Gold wonders if people will ever perceive him and Belle in that way.
"Thanks for bringing the shoes," Ruby says. "Listen, I hope you'll drop in here more often. I know it's kind of awkward, but when they talk about you, people are starting to sprinkle in words like 'generous' and 'kind to kids' alongside the usual 'greedy bastard' and 'tyrannical son of a bitch.'"
He chuckles. "Ruby, of all people, I think you understand that reputation and the truth seldom walk hand in hand."
She nods. "You're either a hero or a monster, no in between."
"We are fortunate, you and I, to have found partners who can see through public perception."
"And help us see through it too."
Three weeks have passed since Gold brought magic back. On the surface, nothing seems to have changed, except for the disappearance of his garden. Now his backyard is one giant sandbox, attracting small children with plastic pails and cats with full bladders. Belle immediately phones the landscape service and, even as, in the background, Gold derides phony grass, orders artificial turf.
He limits his visits to Storybrooke to half a day once a week, just enough for the hospital and drop-ins with Treadle clients. His life is so full with the many projects he and Belle are involved in that entire days fly by without thoughts of magic. But when he is in Storybrooke–"under the influence," as Archie calls it–he feels so different physically, so much like the Rumplestiltskin of the Dark Castle days, that he's tempted to cross that baseline Archie described. He cheats sometimes, stealing an extra hour or two of feeling the difference power makes on his body—feeling younger, stronger, fooling himself into thinking he's immortal again. His chipped cup alarm clock is too easy to ignore, especially on those days when he crosses paths with those who still hate him: a sliver of fear, exactly the same as he felt the night Hordor forced him to kiss his boot, pricks him if he isn't vigilant against it, and then he needs his magic to give him confidence to stand up against his enemies.
"No, you don't," Archie argues. "You have a sword and a shield and a quiver full of arrows to protect yourself with, remember? You don't need magic for protection."
"Meditate," Won-Que reminds him. "Be still and no enemy can be victorious over you."
"Work in the garden," Blue suggests. "Making things grow calms the body and strengthens the soul."
"Talk to me," Belle urges. "Tell me what you're feeling. We can work through it."
"Screw 'em," Josiah says of the haters. "Don't need to have nothing to do with them anyway. You already got 'em beat. So screw 'em and go fishin' with me and Lionel." He throws his arm around his stepson's broad shoulders. At seventeen, the boy is just a half-head shorter than Jo; anyone seeing them together would assume they shared DNA.
Bae says, "Living well is the best revenge, and you, Pop, are living very well."
Everyone has a solution. All the solutions work in the short run. What he has trouble verbalizing is that it's not his enemies he dreads; it's Rumplestiltskin. It's the scaly, bug-eyed, snail, rat and duck conjurer who emerges when magic makes him the most powerful being in town. Another run-in with Spencer: Gold nearly sends a traffic light crashing down on the jerk's Hummer, but reverses the spell at the last minute–shamefully, not because he's learning to control his temper but simply because he promised Archie.
And provocation from Glass, whose Through the Looking Glass gossip blog throws up a not-so-blind article: "Which former Storybrooker's fairy tale marriage is proving a horror story as Wifey flees from him in terror, back into the arms of her cursed lover? Turns out this monster's predilections would make Mr. Fifty Shades of Grey blush. We used to assume his lifestyle was pure gold, but turns out he's just another tin-plated bully."
The night after an unsigned email sends Glass' blog to him and Belle, Gold awakens in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. He remembers vividly the dream he was having just before Belle's rolling over woke him up; he relates it in detail when he phones Archie the next day. He had dreamt he stood in a corner of an empty room. The floor is covered in broken glass and he's barefoot. In the distance, Belle calls urgently for him to come to her, but he's afraid of the glass.
"What does it mean?" he asks Archie.
"What do you think it means?"
"I suppose it's about me being cowardly and powerless. And I suppose the way to fix it is for me to introduce Glass to the business end of my cane."
"Mr. Gold. . . ."
"My dream is telling me I need to do what I would have done in the old days: walk on Glass. After I smash him."
"You're a lawyer, Mr. Gold: do the lawyer thing. Sue the bastard for libel."
"Until he names names, I don't have a case. Besides, a long, drawn-out lawsuit's not half as satisfying as a few minutes with my cane."
"You're not really going to pursue violence, are you?"
"Only in my daydreams, Archie," Gold sighs.
"What are you going to do to deal with this insult?"
"Meditate in the garden, then talk to Belle, then go fishing."
"Very good, Mr. Gold."
"Yeah. But Archie, this good guy business takes all the fun out of having enemies."
The Charmings throw a modest Thanksgiving party in their apartment and include the Golds, now that they can do so legally. Snow even invites Moe, as Henry's step-great-grandfather.
Gold feels sorry for Snow, remembering the grand parties her father threw, the exotic foods, the orchestras, the jewels and gowns. But this is good too, sitting around card tables, passing bowls of mashed potatoes (from Emma), string beans with almonds (from Moe); platters of rosemary rolls (made from scratch by Belle) and ambrosia (by Snow); and a massive turkey (roasted by David). They talk about safe topics, wash the dishes together and watch The Wizard of Oz. The Golds offer to host a Christmas Eve party. The grin on Henry's overly kissed cheeks makes the effort to be congenial worthwhile.
"We're getting there," Belle comments, climbing into the car and settling a foil-wrapped platter of leftovers on her knees. "Someday I'll be able to look Snow in the eyes and think 'Henry's other grandma' instead of 'our exiler.' "
"We'll get there," Gold agrees. "Are you happy, sweetheart?"
She watches the trees roll by as they cross the town line. Gold feels his body suddenly go still as the magic drains from it. He settles back into the driver's seat.
"When I was a little girl, I daydreamed about my future. I imagined myself traveling the world, meeting all sorts of people, seeing strange and mysterious things. I knew my father would arrange a marriage for me, but I dreamed he would betroth me to a kind man who loved learning and adventure and children–and me." As she turns to him, moonlight gives her face a heavenly glow. "Rumple, you gave me everything I dreamt of, and a love so strong it takes my breath away."
He gives her palm a kiss.
"Are you happy, Rumple?"
"I have everything I need," he answers carefully. "You and Bae and Emma and Henry have made me happier than I ever could have hoped."
After all their years together, she can hear what he's not saying. "But?" When he doesn't reply, she prompts, "Is it the magic? Do you want more?"
He shakes his head and shrugs at the same time. "My life is full. It's enough, more than enough, and what I don't have, I don't miss. But when I'm in it, when I'm inside the magic—I'm sorry, Belle. It feels. . . like me."
"But it's not healthy for you."
"No." He stares at the road. "It's not. Is this what recovery is? Does an addict have to lose his identity to get his life back?"
She looks at him with sympathy, but without an answer. "Give it time, Rumple. It hasn't been that long since you brought magic back."
He sighs. "I need to get away, clear my head. Want to go to New York this weekend?"
Belle smiles and squeezes his knee.
He's dreaming that it's his birthday and his family is throwing him a surprise party in his old shop. Fran's baked a cake, Jo's brought a tub of ice cream, Bae and Emma and Henry have brought balloons and gifts, and Belle throws her arms around his neck to kiss him. Everyone applauds. "Now, conjure us up something to drink," Belle requests.
"Of course, dearie." He bows low, and when he straightens he snaps his fingers. Everyone's watching, waiting, and Henry's declaring his thirst, but nothing happens. Gold's face crumbles and he snaps his fingers repeatedly, yet nothing happens.
Then Henry snatches a fairy wand from a counter display. Cracking it over his grandfather's head, he transforms Gold into a snail. As the snail frantically attempts to slither away, Henry raises his foot.