Chapter 62
Po: "To know love, be like a running brook, which deaf, yet sings its melody for others to hear. Feel the pain of too much tenderness. Awake at dawn with a winged heart, and give thanks for yet another day of loving. Empty yourself, and yet be filled. An old man tells you, this is how to know love."
Through the Looking Glass: "Poll: Most trustworthy person in Storybrooke. 61% Queen Snow, 32% Prince David. Least trustworthy: 94% Rumplestiltskin. 4% Dr. Whale."
Storybrooke High School: "Poll: Cutest guy in Storybrooke. 52% Prince David. 43% Mr. Gold. 2% the SB football team."
Belle finds Gold laughing so hard he drops his iPad in the oatmeal.
Thinking back, Gold realizes all that fanboy/fangirl admiration—which lasted all of two weeks before the kids moved on to another, younger hero—went to his head. That, and old habits: he'd had nearly four hundred years of magic-protected health, after all, and with magic coursing through his bloodstream again, naturally, he'd felt (not thought, because, truthfully, he didn't give it any thought) protected again, if not invincible.
And maybe, part of the problem is he's cosseted by love.
So, on Christmas morning, after all the gifts are unwrapped—he's blessed with riches untold, he reminds himself as he sits among the torn wrapping paper and shiny bows, and all the love and laughter—his family retreats to the porch to watch Henry and Bae build a snow castle. Periodically Gold jumps up to check on the progress of the turkey, or Belle jumps up to start the potatoes; their quiet is further interrupted by phone calls wishing the Golds happy holidays. Gold reflects on his cursed Christmases, spent accompanied only by his ledgers (and sometimes, a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue). Whatever he's done to deserve all these wonderful people in his life, he'll never figure out. Last night, when he expressed this sentiment to Belle, she answered with a paraphrased quotation: "Home is 'something you somehow haven't to deserve.'"
As he's sitting there, listening to his progeny play, his thoughts wander to the kids who are in the hospital today. Visiting hours have been extended; still, the children will have to remain in bed, quiet and alone, for the remainder of the day, when their families leave. The duty staff will do all they can to make the children comfortable in spirit as well as body; still, there's much to do and little time to spare just sitting and talking with a child.
Life isn't fair. Love needs a partner to fight some of its battles for it.
"What are you thinking?" Belle asks softly. She smells of vanilla and cinnamon and apples from all her baking; he's tempted to lick her neck. "You're a million miles away."
"Thirty-five."
"The hospital," she surmises.
With an apology at the ready, he turns to her, but she waves his apology away. "Would you like me to go with you?"
"No, stay with our guests. I'll be back before the turkey is ready to carve." He stands, starting to go inside to change into his surfing Santas shirt. "Am I disappointing you?"
Her eyes are sparkling. "Just the opposite."
The staff greet him when he walks in, as if he's expected, and they pass along little bits of information about certain children, as they always do ("Colby won't eat his green beans. See what you can do." "Felix has a case of cabin fever. He's been cooped up for two solid weeks." "Marie's having surgery tomorrow. She needs some extra hand-holding."). Gold makes his rounds, providing whatever he can by the children's requests: some want to see tricks, some want to play games, some ask for stories (he tells them Enchanted Forest histories disguised as fairy tales). Some are too ill for interaction; all he can do is hold their hands and stroke their foreheads.
The Romanos are in Angelo's room. They welcome Gold like an uncle and feed him sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees.
"Is this all?" Gold asks Jenny Martinez. "All the children?"
"There's one on the fifth floor, but she's in iso. She has measles and pneumonia." Gold pushes the call button on the elevator and Jenny protests. "You're not going up there, are you? She's contageous."
"Not to me."
"But Mr. Gold, measles to an adult, especially one as old as you, can be dangerous."
"Magic, dearie." He waves farewell as the elevator opens.
On the last day of the year, he awakens with an ear ache and sore throat. Belle brings him aspirin and a glass of water. When he starts to change out of his pajamas, he discovers red bumps on his belly and chest. Belle pushes him back into bed and takes his temperature. "I'm sorry, Belle. I guess I won't be up for the Plocktons' New Years party."
She shifts into nurse mode, a role she's played whenever his ankle has bothered him. "There'll be more parties. Let's make you comfortable until Doc arrives." She fetches him books, soup and his iPad. She enjoys serving him this way; it's the only comforting thought he has as he surrenders himself to the aches and itches. He complains throughout the morning; sickness seems so much worse to him because he hasn't experienced it in four centuries.
Doc diagnoses him with a single glance. "Measles. You're going to the hospital."
"Hospital? For measles?" Belle exclaims.
"For adults, measles can be dangerous. Especially for seniors—"
"Senior?! Now wait a minute, dearie."
"Rumple isn't a senior."
"And for men who want to become fathers."
"This shouldn't be happening. My magic should've protected me from any illness," he grumbles. "It's never let me down before." Belle gives him a frown, reminding him that, indeed, his magic has disappointed him from time to time. First his garden, then his ring, now his health. The price of magic in this world has inflated: even magic seems subject to the weak economy. Or maybe he's just begun to notice, now that he's the one paying. Maybe magic isn't such a good deal after all.
Gold acquiesces. "Hospital. But I'm not going to wear one of those peekaboo gowns. Belle, pack my blue silk pajamas."
He's half-asleep, as worn out from the parade of visitors (all of whom have had immunizations; why hadn't the curse given him the standard shots too?) as from the illness. Most of the hospital staff ignore the rules for visitors, in his case—in fact, some of the biggest rule violators are hospital staff. Henry brings him his iPad and shows him the Good Morning, Storybrooke coverage of Gold's progress. Gold groans at this: he's embarrassed enough, but to have the entire town know he, a grown man, has contracted a common childhood illness just heaps on the humiliation. The cherry on the cake is when photos of him with a thermometer in his mouth and a nurse smearing a lotion over his bare chest leak out.
Sidney Glass has the audacity—and the stupidity—to claim the hospital is covering up for him, that it's really an STD he's contracted. Josiah's face is mottled with anger when he hears this news; the big man turns on his heel without a word.
"Josiah! Where are you going?" Gold tries to call him back, but Dove walks out.
"When he gets like this, there's no stopping him," Fran remarks. "Fortunately, he seldom gets like this."
"Should we go after him?" Bae frets. "If he attacks Sidney, he might get arrested."
"I'll tell you a secret, Baelfire," Fran offers. "Jo has never actually hit anyone. All he has to do is convince them he might. I think we've seen the last of 'Through the Looking Glass.'"
"Knock, knock!" Cindy Romano leans in through the doorway. A shy grin is plastered on her careworn face. "Can we come in?" Her husband appears at her side; he's pushing Angelo in a wheelchair. In turn, Angelo is pulling his IV drip along with him. "Don't worry. We've all had the measles," Angelo declares.
"Buddy-boy!" Gold calls at the same time Angelo greets him with "Mr. G.!" Gold motions and the family approaches his bedside. "How you doin'," Angelo Senior offers a rough handshake, then remembers that he's shaking hands with a sick man and, embarrassed, loosens his grip. Cindy bends in a little as if to kiss Gold's cheek, then remembers the recipient is the Meanest Man in Two Counties, so she settles for a pat on the shoulder. "Hope you're feeling better," she says. "We heard what happened. And why. That was awful sweet, that you risked yourself like that for the little girl."
"It was foolish," he corrects. "Next time I'll do my magic act from behind a glass partition. But I'm going to be released tomorrow, so I haven't been punished too severely for my foolhardiness." At least, not yet. Tomorrow, before he's discharged, he'll undergo a small test to learn the measles' effect on his sperm count. Gold doesn't want to think about that. He changes the subject. "How are you doing, Angelo?"
The little boy is practically bouncing in his wheelchair. "I got something for you!"
"When he heard you were sick, he wanted to do something to make you feel better," Senior explains. "Go ahead, Junior, show 'em."
Angelo scoots his wheelchair forward until he can reach across the bed. He holds his hand open. "Nothing in my hand. See?"
"Not a thing," Gold agrees.
"Now watch." The boy darts his hand toward Gold's left ear. "Abracadabra!"
Gold holds his breath. The coin Angelo is supposed to produce from Gold's ear is on the floor in the corridor. It must have fallen from Angelo's sleeve when he drove his wheelchair over the threshold. After all he's been through, the kid deserves a break, so without even the smallest of moves or change of expression, Gold transports that coin into Angelo's fingers.
"Ta da!" The boy displays his coin proudly and his parents applaud.
Gold lowers his head in a bow. "Welcome to the brotherhood of magic, young wizard."
Angelo is generous in victory. "You can keep the coin, Mr. G."
"I will do that, in remembrance of the debut of Angelo the Amazing." Gold accepts the coin.
"I got to go to therapy now, Mr. G." Angelo's grin wavers. "But Dr. Whale says I can come back at lunchtime and eat with you." He winkles his nose. "We're having broccoli."
Gold wrinkles his nose too. "I hate broccoli. But I've learned that if you're busy talking while you're eating, you don't notice the taste so bad."
Angelo thinks that over. "I guess it'll be okay, then."
"Oh no, we can't have this," the new nurse protests. "This is highly irregular." She bumps the door into Josiah as she pushes it open. "You know the rules, Mr. Gold: two visitors at a—" Eb Bell steps to one side and in the process, steps on the nurse's foot. "Sorry, missus." The nurse tries to shove her way through the crowd to get to Gold's bed. "People, people, I need for you to clear out! I have to take Mr. Gold's vitals!" Eleven people are crammed into this room—some of them bearing flower baskets, balloons or candy—one of them, a teenage boy, even has brought a pink teddy bear, as if the Meanest Man in Two Counties would be caught dead cuddling such a toy.
"He's supposed to go home this afternoon," the nurse pants, just barely dodging an elbow in the eye. "We can't discharge him 'til I've taken his—people, please!" Most of these people she recognizes as patients or parents of patients; most are children.
Somewhere deep in that crowd is a small, slight man in silk pajamas, lying on the bed. The nurse can't get to him for all the rule violators crammed in here, and she can't make herself heard over their chatter. "I know you all wanted to be here to see him go home, but—ooph!" An elbow smacks into her shoulder. "Sorry, ma'am!"
One of the visitors, seeing the nurse's distress, takes command. She thrusts her pinkie fingers between her lips and whistles shrilly. "Awright, listen up! Everybody shove over. Clear a path, people! Six steps to your right. Ready, harch!"
The room suddenly quiets except for giggles. Eleven bodies move in a unified motion to the south side of the room and a direct path to the head of the bed is cleared. "Thank you, Sheriff Swan." The nurse regains her dignity by flicking a thermometer with great energy and thrusting it into Gold's mouth with great authority.
"That's Deputy Swan-Gold," the self-appointed room monitor corrects.
The nurse straps a blood pressure cuff onto Gold's arm. "Everybody, quiet," Bae advises. "You'll get Pop's blood pressure up and then he can't go home."
"Good grief," the nurse mutters. "I heard you were the most hated man in the state, but I never knew a man to have so many friends."
Gold's gaze passes from face to face. "I never knew either," he whispers. He can't grasp it; all these people showing up for his release, they're surely here in support of Belle. But as he looks at each in turn, he can chart the progress that his own relationship with that person has taken. Each of these eleven people matters to him, and given the amount of time they've invested in him, it's not so far fetched to think each considers him a friend. How he got from the misanthropist he was to the tightly connected man he is now eludes him: none of these friendships was planned, none pursued for gain: how very unRumplestiltskin of him, to have allowed people to get close, truly close, and not have wrung a price out of the relationship.
If he needed help, any of these people would provide it without hesitation or charge–and he'd do the same. This, he thinks, is true power, not the purple stuff dancing on his fingertips.
Finally the nurse, leaning over her patient, can make herself heard. With a satisfied smile she finishes her work, just in time for Dr. Whale to make an appearance. "Good afternoon, all," he says, unperturbed; after all, he's not the one who's supposed to enforce rules. The nurse unstraps the cuff, removes the thermometer, writes some numbers on a clipboard and shows the clipboard to Whale, who makes thoughtful noises until at last he addresses the patient. "Mr. Gold, you may go home today."
To shoulder pats and handshakes, Whale vacates the room. Everyone starts chattering again, but Emma barks them down once more. "Okay, people, you want the man walking out of here in his jammies? Clear out so he can dress. On your way out, check in with Henry here for your appointed time for a home visit."
"Line up now, no pushing," Henry orders, leading the crowd out into the lobby. He's got a clipboard of his own, which he uses to call out assignments: "Mr. and Mrs. Dove: seven p.m. to seven-thirty. Mr. and Mayor Bell: seven-thirty to eight. Fairies: ten a.m. tomorrow. . . ."
"You'd think I was the king of something," Gold mutters to his wife, who's brushing his hair.
"King of our hearts, dear," she amends. "You need a haircut."
He seizes her wrist and she sets the hairbrush aside. "Belle, what if I'm. . . what if the measles. . . Suppose my swimmers can't swim any more?"
She frowns in confusion, then her forehead clears as she catches on. "Oh."
"Maybe I was hasty to dismiss adoption as an option. Maybe our friends would speak for us, vouch for my fitness as a father."
She presses her forehead against his. "You have a judge who's tried dozens of custody cases who'll speak for you, I know it. You have a sheriff and a deputy and a mayor and three nuns and a queen and a prince and doctors and nurses galore. You have a psychiatrist who'll stand up for you. And you have a son and grandson who'd gladly testify for you. What social worker could turn us down, with supporters like that?" She strokes his hair away from his face. "You were meant to be a father, and I was meant to be a mother. It's going to happen, I believe it."
He sighs and swings his feet to the floor. "Let's go home."
On the second day of his return home, Belle lays down an order–and as sweet as Belle is, when she lays down an order, it gets obeyed: visitors will be welcome in the Gold home starting a week from now. During the next week, her husband is to rest. There were just too many drop-ins of late, and too many of those folks brought work with them (even if it was all brain work, still, it had taxed him, robbed him of needed rest, she feels). He pulls a mouth at her, but he doesn't dare argue when she has That Tone in her voice. "We'll work on that in a week," he apologizes to Blue, Bae, Mayor Bell, Clara, the clinic director.
Three days after Gold has returned home, Doc drops by to bring some news. Once the physician has gone, Gold calls Belle into the bedroom.
"So are you better?"
He nods, a lascivious grin spreading across his now clear-skinned face. "More importantly, the lab report came back. They're swimming."
"Huh?"
"Kiss me, Belle, and let's get back to work on making a baby."
"Rumple! You're supposed to be a sick man."
"What are you doing out of bed?" Belle asks as she carries in a sack of groceries.
"I'm developing bed sores," he grumps. "I didn't go outside. I haven't even changed out of my pajamas. I've just been watching TV and surfing the Net."
"Anything new?"
"Mr. Glass has been strangely quiet of late," Gold comments. He helps her unpack the sack. "Mmm, steak tonight?"
"You need your protein. Yeah, I noticed he hasn't updated his blog this week. Ruby says he hasn't been seen around town, either."
"I'll send Jo over to his apartment, check up on him. His rent's due, anyway. No ice cream?"
"You know sugar elevates your blood pressure. I bought sugar-free Jello instead."
"Aw, Belle. Have you no mercy for your poor, sick husband?"
"You'll thank me when you blow out ninety candles on your sugar-free birthday cake."
Gold was in the hospital three days. Doc orders him to remain at home, resting, for another seven. Bernadette takes over his magic shows; Bae handles his fundraising responsibilities and everything else is split between the Doves, the nuns and Belle. By the fifth day, Gold is crankier than ever. His pain is gone, but his boredom replaces it. He fills his hours Skyping and studying Spanish so he can read articles sent by Arcani from Peru.
"Belle?"
She strolls in from the laundry room with an armload of bath towels. "What is it?"
Gold is sitting in his study, behind his desk, with his laptop up and one of his drawers open. "Have you seen my Montblanc?"
Her eyes go wide. She knows how attached he is to that pen, as well he might be: the damn thing cost her $400 two Christmases ago. He's used it exclusively ever since for his record keeping. "Uhm, no, isn't it in its case, in your left hand drawer?" They both know she's stalling; she can see it isn't in the drawer. "I didn't take it, I promise."
"Sorry, sweetheart, didn't mean to sound like I was accusing you. Would you help me find it? It's the tenth of the month."
"Ah, that explains why Bae and Em didn't come round for breakfast. This whole town knows not to disturb you on Recordkeeping Day."
They search the study thoroughly. "You didn't leave it in the pocket of one of your jackets, did you?" She searches his clothes while he searches the kitchen. They meet up again, tired and frustrated, in the foyer. "Damn. My favorite pen."
"Well, there's a bright side," she tries to make him smile. "Now I know what to get you for your birthday."
They're interrupted by pounding on the front door. Their welcoming smiles fade when, right behind Emma, Wolf and two business-suited strangers enter. "Guess you're not here for breakfast."
Emma stares at the floor. "Sorry, Pop."
"Mr. Gold," Wolf says, sucking in a breath, "this is Special Agent Thom and Agent Lewinsky from the FBI. We've come to take you in. Sorry, man. We'll book you, and then you can make bail and come home."
Belle places her body between Wolf's and Gold's. "He hasn't done anything wrong. You know he hasn't."
"We'd appreciate your cooperation, ma'am," Thom says, but it sounds more like a threat. She nods to Lewinsky, who walks behind Gold's desk and disconnects the laptop.
"We'll help you fight this," Emma vows. "But for now, please—don't make us cuff you."
"I'm. . .going back to jail?" As Wolf recites the Miranda rights, Gold places both hands on his desk, as if to hang onto it. He tries to remember he's a businessman and an attorney, both positions of dignity, so he straightens and looks the sheriff in the eye. "What are the charges?"
"No," Belle interrupts.
"Embezzlement, fraud and tax evasion," Thom answers.
"Get an attorney," Emma urges as Wolf motions for Gold to step out from behind the desk.
"Who?" Belle throws her hands into the air. "He and Spencer are the only attorneys in the region."
"Not Spencer," Emma snorts. "He's the one who preferred the charges."
"We'll be taking all the computers in the house, Mrs. Gold. Tablets too. And your written financial records. Evidence. We appreciate your assistance in gathering them so we don't have to intrude too much," Thom says.
"There's a number in my Rolodex. Kevin Kamen, Boston." Gold speaks rapidly as Wolf leads him through the house to the front door. "Ask him to represent me. And come down to the police office in an hour." Gnawing on her lip, Emma yanks the front door open so Wolf and Gold can pass through. "Bring the checkbook." From the porch he adds, "On second thought, better bring the credit cards too." From the driveway, he adds, "And call Clara. Tell her I won't be in today." From the backseat of the patrol car, he adds, "And don't worry. We know who's doing this and why. We know he's a liar. And call Bae!"
Emma shakes her head. "Too late. There are agents at Treadle and your shop."