Chapter 71

A/N. Here comes the "acting locally" part; "thinking globally" comes in the next chapter or two.

Khan: "You know the lesson of the silkworm?"

Caine: "The silkworm dies, the moth lives. Yet they are not two separate beings but one and the same."

Khan: "It is the same with man. His false beliefs must die so that he may know the joy of The Way. What you felt in the silence was real. Something in you is dying: it is called ignorance."

They have two weeks left in this house. He's begun to pack the personal effects they will be permitted to take.

He has awakened before Belle this morning. He feels hungry, so he prepares a breakfast and is waiting at the foot of the stairs when she comes down, teased by the aroma of coffee and bacon. He sits at the table and eats with her. They talk quietly about Emma's latest investigative report: Ms. BMW has caught Mr. Scrooge plying a younger lady with liquor at the Rabbit Hole. Ms. BMW had just happened to drop in for a friendly game of darts with Mr. Donald Juan. Emma thinks it's time she invited Ms. BMW to a girls' night out.

When Belle has gone for the day, Gold combs his hair, carefully counts out the cash set aside for groceries, and walks to the market. He can't carry much, since he has only one free arm for carrying, but then their money won't buy a second bagful, anyway. He spends a long time comparing products and calculating price-per-ounce; seeking out bargains makes him feel a little more like himself. He waits until the last to walk down That aisle, the one every married man occasionally must tread, but it's a necessity and he's glad to do this for Belle, so he holds his head high as he plucks the blue box from the shelf and drops it into the plastic basket on his arm.

As he's waiting in line at the register, he stares down at that blue box, and suddenly he feels like a complete bastard for lying on a couch feeling sorry for himself while Belle is struggling to keep hot dogs on the table and keep his spirits up. . . and keep the disappointment of her broken dream of motherhood from dragging her down to the muck wherein he now resides.

He hates that blue box every bit as much as she does.

After he's shelved it and the other groceries at home, he walks over to the library. He has something to say that can't wait. He finds her in the Juvenile Easys (he learned all the lingo for her professional world, just as she learned his), kneeling, pulling some picture books from the bottom shelf as a pre-schooler and his mom stand by. "This one has been very popular." Bless her, she reads the title aloud with a straight face: "Walter the Farting Dog: Banned from the Beach."

The child and the librarian compare thoughts about Walter's predicament, then she sends the boy and his mom off to the circulation desk with the complete Walter series. As she rises to her feet, she sways a little and reaches out to grab a shelf for balance, but Gold offers her his arm instead. "Oh! Rumple, what are you doing here?"

"Are you dizzy? Any pain?" He examines her coloring.

"Just stood up too fast."

He leads her into her office and fetches her a cup of water. "Really, I'm fine." She swats him away, but her small smile tells him she's pleased he's fussing over her; it's been a long time. "What brings you—oh. More bad news from the bank? From Kamen?"

He shakes his head. "I came to apologize. I've been a bastard lately."

"Yes."

"Insensitive, selfish."

"Yes."

"Wallowing around in my depression, neglecting my responsibilities, neglecting you."

"Yes."

"Stop me at any time, dear."

"Oh, Rumple." She gives his ear a playful tug; it's one of their things, a couple thing. "You know I forgive you. I understand what you're going through."

"And I have the right to be miserable," he says, repeating Archie's assessment. "But so do you, and I ignored that, and I'm sorry."

"You sound better. Did something happen today?"

He can't bring himself to say the word aloud that would inform her what he bought for her today; he can, after years of marriage, walk through the grocery store with the box in his basket, but he's not yet progressed to where he can say aloud what's in the box. "I just started thinking about Adelena."

She bows her head. He crouches beside her chair, brushing back her hair. "I'm so sorry, Belle, that I—that you've had so much disappointment lately. So much loss."

She clutches his hand. Her cheeks are dry, but her mouth forms a flat line. "So am I. I'm sorry for you, too. "

"I'll try harder. I promise, sweetheart. I won't let Spencer break me."

She looks closely at him. "Tonight, come back to our bedroom. I need you to. I think you need it too."

He presses his forehead against hers.

In all their visits, not Blue or Jo or Bae or Henry or the entire Development Committee has made Gold feel ashamed of his deteriorated appearance, but at last one man does: the one man in the world who knows whether it's boxers or briefs for Gold, the one man who can truly appreciate the perfect Windsor knot that Gold used to painstakingly tie each morning. That man appears on Gold's doorstep one morning to throw him a lifesaver, and in a way that's a dignity saver.

"Mr. Gold, sorry to disturb, but I was hoping we could chat."

This is Sam Browning on his doorstep, and Gold's so surprised to see him that he forgets that he's dressed in his painting jeans and a t-shirt with a rip in the armpit. "Sam! Yeah, come in."

He invites Sam to the living room.

"This is difficult," Sam confesses. "I need to ask your help."

"My. . . ."

"I seem to have gotten in over my head. Ever since I relocated my shop here, business has been good. Well, I guess I got overly ambitious, because when the VP for Apple's R & D Department called and asked if I'd make formal wear for the men on his staff for an awards banquet, I said yes. I thought it would be the staff he'd introduced me to at a party: four guys, including himself. But it turns out, he meant his entire staff: twenty."

"Twenty."

"Ten of them are women, so they'll have their dresses made in Augusta, but that leaves ten tuxes in two months."

"Not doable."

"Definitely not doable, without help. Mr. Gold, you know tuxes as well as I do, and you were a tailor in the old days–"

"Spinner. Though I did do some weaving and sewing when I had the means."

"You've watched me dozens of times put a suit together. You know the process. You can learn the tools. The most important thing, the thing that can't be taught, is taste, and yours would make Giorgio proud."

"Thank you."

"Mr. Gold, will you come to work for me?" Sam blurts. "I'll pay you a salary, plus a commission for any new business you bring in."

Gold lays a hand across his mouth to hide a flood of emotion threatening to burst forward. He feels then how patchy his stubble is, not at all Brad Pitt quality, and his t-shirt, once a Calvin Klein, now looks like a ragbag reject. Browning has the grace to ignore all that. He's waiting for an answer; Gold must have the courtesy to respond.

"Yes, Sam, I'd enjoy that very much. Thank you."

Browning relaxes. "I hate to rush you, but could you start this afternoon? We'll be going out to the camp to take measurements."

"I'll be there as soon as I dress."

"That two-button black pinstripe I made for you in 2011? It was one of my best."

Gold lights up, anxious to get to his closet. "And the black shirt with the silver periwinkle-patterned tie."

Sam rises. "Perfect. Mr. Gold, this could be the start of a beautiful partnership."

After work—yes! After work!—he walks over to the motel to pick up Belle. She's sweaty, exhausted, filthy, but when she sees him in his silk and wool with a garment bag slung over his shoulder, she welcomes him, and when he kisses her, she wakes up. "Guess where I just came from?" he prods.

"A GQ photo shoot with George Clooney?"

He crows, "Work. I just came from work. I have a job!" He removes her car keys from her hand. "And you, milady, have a dinner date with a tailor."

"But I'm—" she waves her hand over her uniform.

"Beautiful," he finishes. "You're beautiful." He turns her around and starts her walking back toward the motel lobby. "Your boss gave permission for you to use his shower, and I brought a change of clothes."

"Oh? Which dress?"

"The Stella McCartney." It's the black halter dress she wore on the night they dined at Le Bernardin. "And your high heels." Inside the lobby, he seats himself and makes a shooing motion. "Go on now and shower."

"The black Louboutins?" she asks hopefully, taking the garment bag. "And did you bring underwear?"

He just smirks. "You'll just have to wait and see. We may be going down the tubes," he says, "but we're going in style."

Josiah, in a tie Gold recognizes from their Storybrooke days, greets them at the entrance to Fran's Fresh and Fast. He gives a little bow. "Good evening, M'sieur, Madame. I believe you have reservations, do you not?" His French accent was acquired from Pepe Le Pew cartoons, but Gold finds it charming as Jo leads them to the back of the bistro, which seems awfully crowded. . . awfully, awfully crowded. . . .

"What's going on?" Belle whispers to Jo, but he just winks and withdraws a chair for her. "If madame will be seated, I'll pour the wine." He picks up a bottle from the table and displays it for Gold. "We have a delightful 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon from Garguilio Vineyards."

Gold starts to protest—he's only put in one day of work; he can't afford a $90 bottle. "I was thinking we'd start with iced tea. . . ."

"Pardon, m'sieur, but the chef insists. Any other beverage would be a disservice to the cheeseburgers she's prepared for this evening." As Jo tucks in Belle's chair, he whispers to Gold, "On the house, Mr. G. We're celebrating tonight."

He uncorks the wine and fills four glasses, and as he does so, Fran, in her spotless white apron and a huge grin, appears at tableside. "Evening, Belle, Rumple." Jo hands a glass to each of the Golds, then one to his wife, and takes the last for himself as the other diners leave their tables, which are suspiciously devoid of any signs of dining, except for glasses of wine.

Gold jumps to his feet again as the other diners approach, some thirty men and women from Storybrooke as well as Bell's Corners; he recognizes them all: people who canvassed neighborhoods for petition signatures on his behalf; medical staff and volunteers from Storybrooke General and the BC Clinic; city council members and former Treadle staff and current library staff and Creativity Camp staff, and parents he'd fought custody battles for, and the Bells and Granny Lucas and the Hoppers and the Swan-Golds and Henry, and Browning, and Goldie Locksley. . .and by gods, the Charmings.

Snow, dressed as Mary Margaret so as not to raise questions among the Bell's Corners residents, comes forward with a long white envelope in her hands. Belle rises, as stunned as her husband, and it's she that the queen comes to with a tight hug and a soft smile. "Belle, so good to see you." She offers her hand to Gold, who shakes it. "Rumple." Charming shakes Gold's hand too. Looking from one to the other, Snow says, "We want you to know, all of us—" she indicates the entire room—"we don't agree with the. . . the things that have been done. We believe—we know—the charges are false and the trial will prove that. But we can't just sit by and wait; we had to do something, before you lose your home. It's not right to punish an innocent man"—she looks Gold in the eye—"and his family." Her voice drops so only the Golds can hear her. "And I'm sorry." She raises her voice again. "When someone's being railroaded, the community needs to step in." She draws in a deep breath and presents Gold with the envelope. When he hesitates, she urges, "Please, open it."

Gold opens the envelope. There are six coupons torn from a loan payment book; they're stamped PAID. It takes him a moment to understand, then he shows them to Belle.

"Does this mean—how?" she sputters.

"But how did this happen?" Gold echoes his wife's question.

Glances are exchanged all around, and Snow answers, "The community stepped in."

"You. . .passed a hat for us?" Belle asks. Gold can't say anything; his voice won't work.

"This gets you three months ahead in your payments," Charming explains. "By then, the trial will be over and the freeze will be lifted."

His cheeks are wet, but Gold doesn't rub his face; he allows his friends to see what he's feeling. Clearing his throat, he raises his wine glass in a salute. "Thank you, everyone."

Glasses are raised in a return salute, wine (or in Henry's case, Coke) is sipped, as the restaurant falls for a moment into an emotion-laden silence. Then Whale the smart ass pipes up, "So we expect you back at the hospital on Wednesday." Ruby mutters a correction to Whale, and the doctor says, "Oh, okay, the first Wednesday after the trial's over."

Fran breaks the awkwardness by clapping her hands. "Okay, now if some of you will give me a hand in the kitchen, we've got burgers and fries to bring out. Let's eat!"

He tries—he should be hungry, after putting in a full day of work!—but when the heart is full to bursting, the body ignores the call of the belly. Chairs are dragged up to his table, but there are too many who consider it their right to sit at his table, too many who consider themselves family, and another table, and another must join the first, and soon it's impossible for anyone to step around the chairs. Never mind; there are no servers tonight; Fran and Jo sit down with the rest of the family—everyone is a Gold tonight—and the dishes are passed up and down the line, fingers are used when the number of serving implements proves insufficient, and calls of "please pass the" rise above the laughter, the chatter. At the head of the table, both embarrassed to be on show like this, Belle and Rumple are squeezed together. At the farthest end sit Snow and Charming.

A jolt passes through Gold's body as he suddenly remembers having had a dream very much like this one, though the setting was different, and the food, and there was something about going out to buy whipped cream. . . and there were nowhere near as many people seated at his dream table as there are here, in real life, flesh-and-blood friends.

As Belle rests her hand on his knee—she's cut her burger, as she always does, into quarters so she can manage it neatly with one hand—Gold lets his gaze travel over each and every friend here. He wants so much to say something eloquent, something memorable, to express his gratitude, his amazement, his pride, but when Henry leans forward—dropping his elbow into his ketchup—to ask, "Is this cool or what, Grandpa" all he think to say is "Awesome."

When the last French fry has been popped into a mouth, by common silent consent the diners pass their plates to the end of the table, and the queen and the prince collect them with their grandson's help, and take them into the kitchen. Likewise, the condiments and the silverware and the napkins are collected and carried away, and crumbs are brushed from the table, and wine glasses are refilled.

Now is the time. He can't let the evening end without saying what needs to be said. When he was a showman, he was never short on words, but then, he was also always in control of those moments; he'd scripted them, well before making his appearance. He's not in control of this moment: he lacks the power—or, rather, the power he has now is only that his friends are willingly granting him—trustingly so. Maybe it doesn't matter how eloquent and memorable his words are, anyway; maybe what matters is how open their hearts are to his words.

And how open his heart is to their help. Strange thing about power, he's just discovered: the less you pry away from others, the more they're willing to give you; and the less you have to wield, the greater its effect.

Gold stands, and gradually the noise dies down as heads turn in his direction. He rests his palms on the tabletop, letting his arms support his weak leg. "Everyone, I just wanted to say, for Belle and me, what you've done for us—we'll never stop being grateful and we'll never stop being amazed by it." He dips his head. "Thanks." He sits back down.

Henry answers for the lot: "You're welcome, Grandpa."

Henry's mom drapes an arm about his shoulders and gives him an affectionate squeeze, then her eyes connect with Gold's.

Suddenly his ears go momentarily deaf and there's a flash before his eyes and a flush rushes through his entire body. It mirrors exactly a reaction he's experienced before, recently, and he tries to hang onto the physical feelings so that he can identify them by matching them to the right memory.

Gold feels the flush again, stronger this time, and he seeks the direction this power is coming from: the moment he finds it, he identifies it. The source is Emma, who's looking at him closely but kindly; the power he's picking up from her is a magic so pure that he feels compelled to fall to his knees before it. He's touched this magic once before, very, very briefly, when she kissed his cheek after he rescued her from the Dreamshade. She has no idea how powerful that magic is, so much more powerful than all the magic ever possessed by all the Dark Ones who ever existed, because that magic was tainted with rage, greed, lust, jealousy, fear, shame—man's evils—but her magic bypasses man's weaknesses; it springs directly from a source as far above man as the exosphere is above the troposphere. And yet, Emma herself is too deeply flawed, too human, to do more than play around its edges. She could be taught, if she would allow it. . .just as Gold has been taught, has been broken down and humbled, has needed and has been given what he needed, and not just material things.

Bae says something to his wife, and Emma breaks eye contact with Gold, yet the flush of magic doesn't dissipate. He suspects then that this magic, this untainted magic, didn't issue from her after all.

Perhaps it's his.

From the corner of his eye, he spots Kevin Kamen, who's grinning at him, not like a crocodile at all, but rather like the Cheshire cat. Puzzled, Gold turns to face him, and Kamen raises his wine glass in a silent salute.