"Humph."
Rumple grunted and slid deeper into his blankets, hoping that would slide him deeper into sleep. It didn't.
"'Humph,' I said. So wake up and listen."
Rumple cracked an eye open but remained still, feigning sleep. He could feel it now: a weight on the bed beside him. He knew for sure now he wasn't dreaming and at the same time that it pissed him off to know someone would dare invade his home—and his bedroom, nonetheless—it also made him nervous. In all the years he'd possessed magic, no one had dared so much. He subtly summoned magic to his fingers, ready to strike.
"Oh, don't do that crap. I'm so tired of—it's what you always do. An escape, when you should be facing your problems. Now shut that damn magic off and talk to me, man to man, or I'm out of here."
The voice sounded familiar. But it couldn't be: it was a trick. The Evil Queen, probably, using her mother's shape shifting stunt to catch him off-guard, weaken him. But despite his better judgment, he—
"No, because of your better judgment, you'll turn the magic off and talk to me."
Rumple's magic retreated of its own accord. He wanted so much to believe that he couldn't stop himself from whispering, "Bae?"
"Sit up and see for yourself."
There was no sense in pretending to be asleep any more. He sat up and stared hard into the darkness, but all he could make out was a shape.
"I don't like it. The haircut, I mean. Not just the look of it: it's the reason behind it that bugs me. Belle thinks you did this to get her attention. Hyde thinks you did it to somehow deny the beast inside. Nobody gets you, do they, Pop? Nobody ever did."
Both eyes flew open at the slangy nickname. Only Bae ever called him that. The Evil Queen wouldn't know. He could make out a scent now, the aftershave Neal favored. He could feel body heat radiating from the shadow.
"You cut your hair for the same reason you trashed your shop so many times, when you were still walking with the cane. It was an act of self-loathing."
Rumple stopped breathing.
"See? It really is me. Nobody else understands you like I do. Not even you." The shadow snorted. "Especially not you. That's why I 'm here. Why I was allowed to come back. To you, because there's still a tiny sliver of hope left in the universe for you, because it isn't all your fault that you keep screwing up. I'm here for you. Think about that a minute, Pop. You, not Emma, not Henry, because they're going to be all right without me, but you won't."
"Are you—" he gasped —"alive?"
"Everybody's alive, Pop. There's no such thing as death. Isn't that a kick? Just a transformation. And here's what they sent me back to teach you: everyone matters. Even the nastiest SOBs walking the earth. Even the Lost Boys whose parents abandoned them, like you and me. Everyone matters. That's why Emma and Henry don't need me: they know that already, because they found each other. But you: you didn't get the message. You got plenty of opportunities to hear it, but you tuned it out. Wouldn't trust it, not from me, not from Henry, not from Belle. But you've got another chance to accept it." Neal spread his arms wide. "From me. And guess what? If you don't get it this time, the Boss will try something else. You won't be abandoned. You matter."
It was too much to take in. He couldn't allow himself to feel the impact of Neal's claim; it was surely a trap. No one could love Rumplestiltskin. His ears filled with the chatter, sniggers and pitying whispers of every Dark One that had ever lived. They all knew the truth of the world; they'd all experienced it themselves. Ridicule. Rejection. Disgust. Love wasn't for the likes of them. Only through power could the Lost Ones survive.
"I know it's not enough to hear it, not even when it comes from your flesh and blood." Neal wiggled his fingers. "Well, what used to be flesh and blood. So I'm going to be sticking around a while. We have a little experiment. What do the shrinks call it? Aversion therapy? Anyway, it works like this." Neal suddenly leaned over and slapped the back of his father's head. When Rumple yelped and rubbed the sore spot, Neal leaned back and smiled smugly. "Just like that."
"What?"
"Every time you're about to screw yourself over, I'm gonna whack you."
"But I—these wrong decisions I make, they're not intentional. I mean to do good: it just doesn't turn out the way I intended."
"Come on, Pop, you're the one who's always saying intent is meaningless. So I'm here to guide you until you can make good choices without me. So every time you do something stupid—" Neal whacked him again. Rumple was beginning to think cutting his hair had been a bad choice: longer hair would have softened the blow. "And every time you get it right—" Neal leaned over and hugged him.
It had been so long since his boy had touched him. As soon as Neal pulled away, Rumple craved another hug. Instinctively he leaned in, silently begging for more.
"Are you ready to begin?" Neal waved a hand toward the window and some unseen power caused the drapes to slide open. Outside, a soft blue day was dawning. "Let's get going, huh? We have a lot of work to do and only nine months to get it done."
Gazing out into the sky, Rumple pushed away his blankets. "What should I do first?"
"Huh uh. Not how this works. You make the decisions; I'll let you know if they're stupid."
Rumple walked to the window and looked out over the street. As he contemplated, he snapped his fingers and changed from his pajamas to a suit. He smiled tentatively at Neal. "I know where to start." With another snap of his fingers, a blinking, disheveled Belle appeared before him, teetering in her disorientation.
"What the—" she shook her head to clear it of the fog of sleep.
"Yeow!" Rumple leaped back as a ghostly hand smacked the back of his head.
"Bad decision, Pop!"
"Stop that!"
"What?" Belle's pillow-creased face wrinkled in confusion.
"She can't hear me, Pop. Or see me."
"Rumplestiltskin!" She thrust her fists on her pajama'ed hips. "Of course it would be you. If you think you're going to—" she waved her hand at the bed—"romance me back to your arms, you've got another think coming. Now send me home before I open that window and yell for Emma."
"Pop. . . ." Neal warned. "Better fix this, pronto."
"Belle." Rumple rung his hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I meant to talk to you and I guess I got. . . carried away." Rumple felt an arm squeezing his shoulders and he sighed.
"You could've just called, like a normal—" Belle interrupted herself. "I guess that would be asking too much. Now send me back to the Jolly Roger."
"I will, right away. But we really do need to talk—" Rumple felt a breeze flutter the little bit of floof he had left, and he quickly amended, "Whenever you're ready. Please." An arm hugged him. For just a moment he felt sure of himself, and safe.
Belle dropped her arms to her sides. "I think you and I are a losing battle, Rumple. But you are his father." She rubbed her belly. "And if there's any hope for us, it's because of him. I'll call you when I'm ready."
"I'll be waiting." He summoned his magic. "I'll send you back now."
She gave him a sharp nod as the magic carried her away.
He sank onto the bed, his head in his hands.
"I didn't say it would be easy, but I did say I'd be there for you, Pop." The mattress sank as Neal sat down beside him. "When you find something that's worth fighting for, you never give up."
Rumple raised bewildered eyes. "After all I did, you think I'm worth fighting for?"
"Every step of the way. And so does my little bro. Every step of the way." Neal pressed a kiss to his cheek. "But Pop? You may want to buy some aspirin. I think you're in for a lot of headaches."