Chapter 60

Gold is proud of his recordkeeping, always has been, even when he was a dark sorcerer. In those days, he kept detailed lab reports on every experiment and complete histories of every deal he made. These days, he has neatly penned ledgers of all his sales and purchases, all his rent receipts, all his payments to maintenance workers, all his shop inventories from the very beginning. Any of his files could win a prize for accuracy, completeness and legibility, but the pride of his records, as far as he's concerned, is his tax records: income, sales and property.

The same devotion that he has given his business and personal records, he has given to the records of the nonprofit he runs with Bae, Treadle. Ask him how much Treadle paid for pencils in its first year of operation and Gold can produce the answer in a matter of minutes, thanks not only to the Quickbooks software that Bae coerced him to switch to, but to his own attention to detail. Twice a month, Gold shuts himself up in his office for an entire day and works on the records for Treadle, Gold and Dove Antiques, the properties he still owns in Storybrooke, and his and Belle's income. When he emerges at dinnertime, he struts—he's not conscious of it, but Belle points it out—with as much pride as if he's just finished writing a Pulitzer Prize-winning book.

He keeps his paper records locked in file cabinets and his computer files protected by fourteen-character passwords. He's always taken these precautions, though, of course, in the old days his records were magic-protected. Belle asked him about it once, as she was cleaning his file room: why bother, when hardly anyone ever came to the Dark Castle anyway, and for the few who did, they couldn't have entered the tower in which he kept his records without his lowering the wards. Only he and Belle and Bae could get in (and it seemed unlikely Bae ever would). As he considered her question, he cocked his head toward the ceiling. At last he confessed—because by this point in their relationship, he almost trusted her—that while the Dark One was indeed the most powerful mage ever, someday there may come one who was darker and more powerful, and Rumple didn't want his life's work to make the new wizard's life any easier. "I had to work for it; so should he."

"Or she," Belle had added, and with a shrug he allowed, "Or she." For just a second he pondered how powerful Cora could have been if she had started her magic career in her childhood—and, more importantly, if she had cared more about magic than about social status.

Twice a month, Gold devotes an entire day to his records, the only exception being his and Belle's year-long honeymoon. During that year, he left the maintenance of his records in the capable hands of accountant Wharton Scrooge. Even so, Gold phoned in weekly for updates from Scrooge, who gleefully reported ever-rising profits. "You're a control freak," Belle observed. "You're paying the man very well to handle your bookkeeping, so let him."

"Just want to keep my hand in," Gold pleaded.

"Well, there are worse habits than excessive recordkeeping, I suppose."

"Our favorite former Storybroker–pardon me: Storybrooker–is raising cain–or should that be 'cane'–again, according to his neighbors. Late-night shouting matches between this penny-pinching miser and his spendthrift wife have disturbed the peace in the tiny hamlet across the bae–pardon me: bay. That's no tickle fight, the neighbors are reporting to the local gendarmes; sounds of smashed crockery and shattered glass are sometimes accompanied by slaps, punches and cries. How to get away with not-yet-literal murder? Take a lesson, kiddies: simply marry one of the constables into your family, where your dirty little secrets will be locked away–like our former golden boy should be. Signing off, your intrepid Mirror on Storybrooke." –Though the Looking Glass

"What are you going to do about it, Mr. Gold?"

"Not a damn thing, not one f– damn thing!" Gold shouts as he paces Archie's office. From his hands emanates a purple light. "One flick of my little finger and I'd send him back into that damned lamp–no, into a jar of turpentine, for the rest of eternity. No, I'd change him into a rat and drop him into a pit of cobras." Out of breath, Gold stops pacing. Pongo whines and Gold sinks onto the puffy couch.

"Rant and rave all you want, as long as it's just words," Archie says calmly.

"Yeah, yeah," Gold sneers. "I promised you and Rumplestiltskin keeps his word."

"So what are you going to do with this latest provocation, Mr. Gold?"

Gold scrapes his hands through his hair. "Meditate, talk to Belle, weed the garden."

"It's December."

"So I'll conjure a garden, then I'll weed it."

"No magic used in anger, Mr. Gold."

"Good gods, Archie, even St. Augustine got pissed sometimes. 'Hope has two beautiful daughters: their names are Anger and Courage.'"

"He was talking about moral outrage at injustice, not temper tantrums over gossip blogs."

"What do you expect of me? I'm just a human, for gods' sakes."

"No, you're not." Archie gestures at Gold's glowing hands. "Not as long as you can do that. You need to remember: 'With great power comes great responsibility.'"

Gold huffs. "Who's that? Kierkegaard?"

Archie smirks. "Spiderman."

Gold blinks at him, then bursts into laughter.

After talking to Archie, his mood has leveled out. He fills the trunk of his car with Christmas gifts for Bae, Emma, Henry, Josiah and Fran, but he finds nothing suitable for Belle, so he sits in the park to think about it. He brushes snow off a bench, but not wanting his butt to get cold, he conjures a stadium warmer. He muses on her favorite things, and then he has a brainstorm: he conjures a snow rose for her, a rose made of pristine snow and ice. He encases it in a crystal so that it will never melt. It's a lovely thing, as lovely as she is, but then he remembers that in the Dark Castle, she complained that magic was "cheating" and she much preferred gifts from nature or from his own handiwork. In a puff of magic, he sends the snow rose to Clara's desk, with a silver bow wrapped around it. He gets up and traipses Moncton Street again, window shopping. He settles at last for silk shawl from Milady's Modes.

By now his feet are cold and sore, and he's two miles from where he parked, so he transports himself back to the Caddy. As he drives out of town, he performs one last feat of magic for the day, just because he can: he conjures a carton of turkey eggs and pelts them at Regina's mansion, which still stands empty. It's a sophomoric thing to do, but he needs to blow off some steam. He makes certain before he chucks the first egg that he's not angry.

That night, he dreams he's pitching magically produced dinosaur eggs at Charming, who's trapped inside the cage inside the fairy dust mine. . . . Until one of the eggs breaks open and a pterodactyl hatches and the bloody creature lands on Gold's head, pecks at his eyes and builds a nest in his hair.

"Isn't it a bit nippy to be fishing?" Browning, bundled in an overcoat and scarf, looks incongruous with a bait pail in one hand and a rod in the other.

"Never a wrong time for fishin'. If it starts to snow, we just do our fishin' from the lodge," Dove says, stepping into the rowboat like a waltzer stepping onto the dance floor. "Fishin's not so much an activity as a frame of mind. And it's pronounced 'fishin',' not 'fishing.'"

"Don't worry about what you don't know. We'll teach you if you want to learn, but you don't have to. You don't even have to get your line wet if you don't feel like it," Gold is urging as Browning steps awkwardly into the rowboat.

"Some days, we don't even bother to bait the hook." Josiah picks up the oars as Gold unties the boat. "We come out just to be outside, listen to the radio–"

Gold adds, "Get away from people wanting favors, talk–"

"Drink a few beers, burp if we need to and not have to pretend like we didn't–"

"Eat food that our wives won't allow in the house–"

Josiah finishes with a shrug. "Just think of the great outdoors as one big man cave that doesn't smell like one."

Browning reaches into the ice chest and yanks the tab on a Bud. "All right then. You ready for a cold one, Mr. Gold?"

As the boat pulls away from the dock, Gold continues the lesson. "Two rules of fishing, Sam: rule one, convert all measurements to fishmeters. One inch equals one and a half when you report your catches to other fishermen. You know, like you do when you take a guy's inseam."

"You lie about the size?" Browning feigns shock.

"Not lie," Jo clarifies. "Embellish. Rude not to. You got to give the other guy something to hope for."

"And make a good story," Gold adds. "Rule two: no formal forms of address. I'm Rumple, he's Jo."

"I think I could like this."

The men float in silence for a while, except for the occasional plop of a line dropping into the water or the call-and-response of a tab being pulled, or the obligatory contented "uh huh," to which the proper response, Browning learns, is "yup."

At lunchtime (Cheetos, baloney and Little Debbies) Gold asks, "You gettin' the hang of it, Sam? Think you could design clothes for this lifestyle?"

"Yup."

"There ya go," Jo approves.

But when they pull back into the dock at sunset, Browning is just a bit addled from the sun and the beer. "Listen, Rum, I'm not suppose't say anything, but Spencer's lackey's been askin' questions about you."

Gold stiffens, the pleasant buzz he's been working on disappearing. "What kind of questions?"

"Your spending habits. What you buy, how much, how you pay, check or credit. He says Spencer's conducting some kind of investigation. Won't say what."

"Why? It's Mr. G.'s money. He can spend it how he wants," Dove says darkly.

Gold snorts. "That's going to be one boring investigation. I haven't even bought a pack of cigarettes or a Playboy, ever."

"I don't think it's a vice kind of investigation," Browning explains. "He was more interested in the prices than the things you buy."

"Rumple's the richest man in the state. He can afford it."

"Course he can. Just thought you should know."

"Thanks, Sam. Mr. Dove, it might be time to back to work."

"Spencer's boy's been round to every place you spent more than a hundred bucks in the past two years." Dove throws down his pocket notebook. "List's there. It's like Browning said: he's asking how much and how you paid."

Gold scowls. "'Richest Man in State Buys Suit' isn't much of a headline. If Spencer's looking to smear my reputation by proving I waste money, he clearly doesn't know me at all. I always get quality for my dollar."

"It's not all personal spending. The kid's talking to businesses G & D deals with, and Treadle."

Gold's eyebrows shoot up and he reaches for his phone. "We better get Bae in on this discussion. And Emma. She can make a few inquiries of her own."

He's late. The kids will be upset; Clara will be pissed. He applies his foot to the gas pedal, but then the light at Keane and Rush turns red and he has to brake. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he feels the tingle creeping into his fingertips, he hears the dark whisper: you're Rumplestiltskin. You don't have to wait for anyone. They wait for you. With a flick of a finger, he reverses the traffic lights.

And a van coming south on Keane is barreling into a school bus coming west on Rush.

"Crap!" He flicks his fingers and the school bus elevates into the air to land safely beyond the van.

Immediately a red flashing light appears in Gold's rear view mirror. "Sh–." Gold pulls off to the curb, turns off his engine and drums his fingers as Richard Grayson steps out of the squad car and lopes over. Gold rolls down his window and is hit with a freezing wind.

Automatically, Grayson reaches for his pen and ticket pad, but then he hesitates. "I have no idea how to write up what you just did." Flabbergasted, the sheriff clicks his pen open and shut, open and shut. "Traffic light tampering by magic? Making a bus fly?"

Gold smiles sheepishly. "Yeah, I made a mistake but I fixed it."

"That was no mistake, Gold. That was intentional." Grayson writes in the pad. "Tampering with a signal light. Interfering with traffic. And if you say one more word, I'll add public nuisance."

Gold stares at the pile of flimsy papers he's being handed. He could make them disappear. He could turn Grayson into a bird, a robin maybe, then drive on to the hospital as if none of this happened. Do it, the whisper urges. You're Rumplestiltskin.

With a sigh he looks at the tickets, then turns the hand that's holding them slightly as his wedding ring catches the sunlight. Yeah. Wedding. Wife. Son. Grandson. Daughter-in-law. Friends. People who expect him to keep his word. Kids waiting at the hospital. Set a good example.

"I apologize, sheriff. I was wrong and I'll pay my fines promptly." Grayson seems to be waiting for more, so Gold adds, "And I'll drive safely from now on."

Wolf nods. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Grayson."

Behind an armful of wrapped gifts, Emma backs in through the kitchen door. She's carrying a bag of bagels in her teeth; Gold removes it from her and sets it on the table. "Thanks for letting me store his presents here. Henry keeps his promise not to snoop, but he thinks it's fair game if he 'accidentally' finds a present while he's cleaning and it 'accidentally' gets shaken when he has to move it to dust behind it."

Gold snickers. "Good to hear there's still a bit of the little boy in him."

"Well, his dad's just as bad. That's why Bae's presents are here too. Is Belle still in bed?"

"In the shower." Gold puts on the coffee.

"Bae took some Apple execs out for breakfast. Snooze!" After faking a yawn, Emma plates her bagels and pokes her head in the fridge. "Got any cream cheese?"

"Behind the mayo."

"Heard about that stunt you pulled yesterday with the traffic lights and the bus." Emma carries an armload of goodies from the fridge to the table. She whistles. "Talk about little boy pranks! Does Belle know?"

"Of course she does," Gold huffs, filling a pot with water. "I told her last night. Oatmeal okay?"

"Got some brown sugar for it?"

"Cupboard to the left of the stove. I, uh, had to explain how I got two tickets."

"You deserved 'em. Admit it, Pop."

"I did. I got mad and-" he twitters his fingers.

She looks at him curiously. "You don't get like that here. I mean, you cuss and fuss and stomp around, but I've never seen you violent here. The way you used to swing that cane around, back in Storybrooke, it was like a dom with a three-line whip. But not here."

"The magic makes a temper tantrum easy to clean up after."

"More than that, maybe. I saw that with Regina too. Without the magic, she'd still blow her top, but with the magic, she'd fall right over the edge. I wonder if magic's like steroids, overloading you with testosterone so when you're mad, you're the Hulk."

He's thinking of the violence in the dreams he's had since he brought magic back; he's also thinking of the chart Archie drew this week to demonstrate what happens to his blood pressure when he's "under the influence." He doesn't want to discuss it any further. It's almost Christmas; they should be talking about trimming trees and baking pies, yes? "You want orange juice or tomato juice?"

"Dodging the subject, Pop? Well, I can respect that. I do it myself. But give it some thought, huh? Magic, steroids, testosterone, tantrums. We can talk about what you're giving Belle for Christmas."

"She gave you some hints to pass along to me?"

Emma giggles. "You figured that trick out, I see. Her and I had a deal: I'd hint for her, she'd hint for me."

Gold pouts. "But I give good presents."

"Not bad, not bad, but they could stand improvement. You know what Bae gave me for my birthday? Snow tires for the Bug."

"That could be perceived as very romantic," Gold argued. "He's concerned for your safety."

"Oh my god," Emma calls him out. "You men will stick together even when the ship's sprung a leak and the water's up to your chins."

"OK, cards on the table. Bae wants a Patriots jacket. You can order it at the NFL Shop online."

"Belle wants a pair of Stella McCartney faux-leather ankle boots. You can order them on the Saks Fifth Avenue website." Emma releases a pent-up breath. "There! I like this 'cards on the table' thing. Saves us time for what matters." She raises her plate high, as if honoring it. "Bagels!"

"How did you feel when you made that bus fly?" Archie asks.

"Like might is right and nobody's mightier than me."

"How do you feel now?"

"Nothing." Gold shrugs. "Empty. I can make buses fly. I can change the world with my magic, but why?"

"What do you mean? Doesn't that knowledge please you, make you feel safe? Make you feel superior to others?"

"Used to. Now it's like the high doesn't get as high as it used to. It doesn't last. Besides, what do I want? Other than to get rid of a couple of pests, nothing. Nothing's missing from my life."

"A baby?" Archie prompts.

"Magic can't create a baby. Apparently, neither can I."

"So how do you feel about your powers?"

He shrugs. "I guess the thrill is gone."

"Do you find thrills anywhere else?"

"Those kids–their faces when I walk in, and after I've done a trick for them. Henry, when I watch him mow my lawn. Emma and her bagels. Bae when he's sitting in his chair in my kitchen. Belle after we've–you know." He blushes. "At my age, and with this bum ankle, that I can still. . . you know. Give her a thrill."

Archie reddens too and twists his wedding band. "Yeah. I get it. Ruby's ten years younger than I am."

Gold smirks. "I'm three hundred years older than Belle."

"I'd be thrilled too, if I were you. So, Mr. Gold, how do you feel about magic now?"

He considers the question. "It makes for an entertaining show. But for providing what a man needs, what he wants? Meh."

Archie chuckles. "And the next time you're frustrated by traffic lights?"

"I made a promise to Grayson. I keep my promises, Archie."

"Yes, Mr. Gold, you do."