Her husband is always gone in the morning by the time Isabel makes it out of bed. The pawnshop opens at 8:30 and her bookshop opens at 10, so it only makes sense for him to dress and ready for the day without waking her. But today, even though he barely makes a noise (he's quiet for any man, let alone a man with a cane), it seems to take him forever to shower, shave, dress, and slip back downstairs. Isabel remains huddled in a ball, the blanket's folds hiding her face, and breathes as evenly as possible.
She breathes in the smell of his soap drifting with the steam from under the bathroom door. She breathes in the scent of his shaving cream when he stands in front of the mirror (never looking at anything but where the razor slides, she knows from those first weeks of their marriage when she got up with him). She breathes in the quiet when he stands, hesitating on the threshold of their bedroom. And then she breathes out the moment he leaves, the click of the bedroom door closing behind him.
Throwing the covers off her face, Isabel slides out of bed and begins pacing—until she remembers how clumsy she can be and instead forces herself to sit at her vanity. It wouldn't do for her to knock something over and bring her husband back up to the room. All she has to do is wait for him to drink his cup of coffee, going over his plans for the day in his head, and then she'll have the house to herself.
She'll be able to think.
Her eyes widen when she hears the front door close at the foot of the staircase. He's…he's left already? He didn't even have his coffee!
"Focus, Isabel," she tells herself sternly. "That's the least of your worries right now."
She throws on her clothes as fast as she can and pins her hair up at the nape of her neck to get it out of the way before hurrying downstairs. Her husband might not need his coffee, but she needs at least a banana or she'll be starving before lunchtime.
The sight of a piece of paper, lying exactly centered on the counter next to the bowl of fruit, brings her up short.
Mr. Gold has never left a note before. Not once. Not the day after their wedding when she woke up to realize that he was gone (she had to wait until he came home that night to learn that he'd gone to work as if nothing in his life had changed). Not the night he came home extremely late because he'd been finalizing the details of the mayor's adoption. Never.
Until now, it seems.
Dear – I'll be completing a long overdue inventory at the shop over the next several days. Don't wait up for me. -Mr. Gold
"I'm glad he signed it," she says as snarkily as her dry throat will allow. "I never would have guessed who it was from otherwise."
And then she sits, heavily, on the kitchen chair.
Well. Well, this is just a blessing in disguise, really. Now she has some breathing room. She can think through what incriminating evidence she might have left behind. She can plan her next move supposing that he does know—or supposing that he doesn't and this is all a coincidence.
They haven't been married a full year yet, after all. Maybe he does do inventory once a year at the shop.
"He might have mentioned it before," she mutters.
Forgoing her banana, Isabel marches as boldly as if she owns the place (she doesn't; the prenup was pretty clear on that point) back to his study and swings the door open. Unfortunately, that's where she freezes. Against her will, her eyes lock on the spot where, just hours ago, he was on the floor. Crying.
Though it takes all her effort, Isabel forces her foot forward. Once. Then again. Then again, giving a wide berth to that momentous corner, and finally tears her focus to the desk and the filing cabinet behind it.
The last time she was here, she'd heard Mr. Gold's arrival and nearly had a heart attack. This time, he'll be gone for hours.
Of course, she has to be at the bookshop in a little over an hour. No matter that no one ever comes in to buy anything, if she doesn't open the doors on time, gossip will be flying through the streets of Storybrooke faster than a man can drink a cup of coffee (which, apparently, her husband doesn't do anymore).
Giving herself a shake to focus, Isabel begins combing through whatever files she can find. The cabinet is locked, and for all the tutorial videos she's watched on lockpicking, she hasn't yet been bold enough to attempt opening those drawers. The slightest scratch to the metal and she won't have to wonder if Mr. Gold knows. She's never met a more observant man than him, and details are his specialty.
Isabel finds endless reams of information on his properties—rental history, payment details, repair invoices, inspection notices—but nothing incriminating. The most she can learn from all this is that her husband is an exacting landlord who holds himself to as high a standard as he does his tenants. She also learns what she already knew: Mr. Gold is an extremely wealthy man.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Isabel puts everything back as close to where it was as humanly possible. She slides the chair back into where the grooves on the carpet show it usually sits, then slips out of the study.
All day long, though she tries to distract herself by rearranging the nonfiction section of her store, Isabel's mind is busy poring over anything that would have given her away to her husband. She knows their marriage isn't like most people's (she's never even kissed her husband, though he did kiss her cheek at the city hall just after they were declared man and wife), but that's hardly her fault. When she accepted his proposal, she was prepared to have a marriage in every sense of the word.
It's her husband who's always held her at arm's length (except at night, when he cuddles closer than anyone would believe of Mr. Gold).
A squirm of guilt in the pit of her stomach reminds Isabel that she certainly isn't complaining. She's never claimed to love her husband, and for all that she's the only one he gives that soft, crooked smile to, he's certainly never mentioned anything adjacent to love either. Well…besides proposing marriage.
Lunch comes, and the growling in her stomach prompts Isabel into breaking her own usual routine and heading to Granny's. She decides to splurge on a hamburger (Mr. Gold isn't fond of Granny's food or service so it's been ages since Isabel's been here). Ruby smiles at her and says it'll be right over, and while Isabel waits, she lets her eyes drift, people-watching.
There's someone she doesn't recognize, sitting in a booth with the schoolteacher who once, not too long ago, came in to the bookshop and asked for recommendations for a lonely boy with no friends. Isabel had given her a book full of fairytales and wished her luck. She wonders now whatever happened, if the boy liked the book, if he found friends, or at least as much happiness in stories as Isabel has always found (a little loneliness is just a part of life, anyway, in her experience).
The stranger looks to be around Mary Margaret's age, with golden curls that belong in a story, and she is smiling and excited as she tries to convince the teacher to do something—reading a book to someone?
Isabel's smile falls and she's glad for the excuse of her food arriving to distract from the unsettled feeling in her stomach. (If she weren't so isolated, would she be over there in that booth with them? Would they have asked her to find a story and read it aloud to some man?)
She eats quickly and slips back to the bookstore where she lets the hours pass her by while she reads one of her old favorites. When she closes up and heads home, with a quick stop to the store to pick up a few essentials, she makes herself dinner and eats it (and if her eyes constantly move from her book to the note Mr. Gold left, that's neither here nor there), then makes tea for herself in the library. She finishes the Beauty and the Beast retelling and starts the Red Riding Hood sequel. Every clock in the house seems to be ticking in unison, making each tick-tock so loud it reverberates through her.
She's never noticed how quiet this house gets.
Mr. Gold still hasn't returned by the time she heads up to the bedroom and readies for bed. Her eyes burn with exhaustion, and though the bed is just as empty and just as cold as the night before, she falls asleep quickly.
Dreams chase her, full of an inescapable enemy and a call for help that goes unanswered and a desperate retreat to some foreign place, but when Isabel awakens, aware of the sound of the shower running, blinking against the sunlight peeking past the heavy curtains, she can't remember any specifics.
Hazily, she realizes that Mr. Gold getting into the shower is what awoke her, but when she stretches her arm to his side of the bed, she finds it cold, the covers mussed only by her own tossing and turning. Once again, she pretends to be asleep while he readies for the day. Once again, he pauses on the threshold, as if looking back at her, and once again, Isabel doesn't go downstairs until she hears him leave (he doesn't make coffee this morning either).
She looks for a note, but finds only yesterday's, still sitting there, undisturbed (profoundly disturbing).
This day passes much like the last, though she remembers to eat breakfast, contents herself with a lunch of yogurt and that carrot she cut up a few nights before, and sees not one customer the whole day.
Mr. Gold doesn't come home that night either.
"How long does inventory take?" she wonders aloud. She's taken to doing that a worrying amount, really, but at least it beats back the oppressive silence for a moment.
She gives him another two days, but on Saturday, a day he usually only opens the shop at noon, she tells herself to be brave, and when Mr. Gold moves to leave the bedroom early in the morning—when he pauses there on the threshold—Isabel sits up in bed and meets his startled gaze.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she says. Since she's only been pretending to sleep, it's easy to sound like someone who doesn't plan to be ignored.
He stares. Eventually, she arches an eyebrow, and he flushes and jerks his eyes from hers, backing away.
"I…I'll make us coffee, shall I?" And he flees the room before she can remind him (or did he never know?) that she doesn't like coffee.
Of course, judging by these past mornings alone, neither does he.
Still, it's at least a tacit agreement to stay until she gets down there. Or…just to leave her some coffee?
Isabel decides not to risk it and settles for a long flannel robe, belted tightly around her waist, and some slippers before rushing downstairs.
If he meant to slip away before she could make it to the kitchen, he at least gracefully sets aside the plan when she sits herself firmly at the counter.
She smiles brightly at him.
He sucks in a breath, chokes, then nearly falls backward throwing himself away from the hand she means to pat against his back. It's perhaps the least graceful she's ever seen her husband, and combined with the cup he dropped upstairs and the changes to his routine, it turns her worry into actual fear.
"Sweetheart?"
"I'm okay," he says. "You…you didn't want to get dressed?"
"I wanted to see you," she says. She's afraid it's too much, and indeed, her husband stares at her as if she's speaking an entirely different language. "Is the coffee done?"
With a shake of his head, he hides his expression behind the ends of his hair. "I decided on tea instead. You like that better."
Isabel bites her lip to hide her own smile. "Thank you."
Mr. Gold's never made the tea before. It's strange, watching him complete each ritualistic step, his face outlined in steam, and she barely notices that he pours his own tea into that chipped cup she forgot to throw out.
"Careful not to cut your lip," she murmurs, then nearly chokes herself when she realizes that he's made her tea exactly the way she likes it (a cube of sugar and a squeeze of lemon). She didn't even realize he knows how she takes her tea.
Slowly, almost warily, Mr. Gold slides into the chair beside her at the counter. The way he leans his cane against his own leg is familiar, but something about it, in that moment, feels more intimate. As if he really is choosing to let himself be vulnerable next to her.
Isabel shakes her head to rid herself of the ridiculous thought and takes another sip of her tea. "I didn't realize inventory was quite so demanding a task," she finally settles for saying. "You know, if you'd warned me, I could have closed the bookstore for a few days and helped you."
"Yes, well." Her husband stares down at the cup he keeps cradled between his hands, his fingers woven together. Isabel wonders that the heat doesn't burn him; her own cup is so hot that she sets it down between each sip. "I like doing it."
"Oh?"
A hint of a sneer twists his lips. "Old dragons love nothing more than to count their ill-gotten hoards, you know, dear."
"Don't call me that."
He blinks at her.
Suddenly self-conscious, she looks away. "That's what you call everyone," she says, and only realizes it's true right then.
"And you're not everyone," he says in some strange tone she can't interpret. "You're Mrs. Gold."
"That's what they call me," she says agreeably. She doesn't like that it feels he's turned the tables on her, so she sets her tea aside and shifts in her chair until she's facing him. "How much longer do you have on this inventory?"
"Not long," he says evasively.
Isabel chews her lip. "Well, maybe—"
"Did you hear about the excitement at the hospital?" he asks quickly.
With a sigh, Isabel finishes her tea (she's not sure why she expected this morning to go differently; Mr. Gold is impossible to pin down). "No, what happened?"
"A coma patient woke up and wandered into the woods. Seems he has amnesia and can't remember who he is. The new deputy found him."
"I didn't know we had a new deputy." Isabel takes her cup to the sink and runs it beneath the water. Out the window, their backyard is filled with autumn finery. It looks too big, like she'd get lost out there if she wandered too far from the house.
"It's not official yet, but I imagine Sheriff Humbert will convince her quite soon."
Isabel feels a flicker of interest. "Is she blonde?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I think I saw her at Granny's the other day. She was talking to Mary Margaret Blanchard."
"I believe Ms. Blanchard's letting her stay with her."
"That's kind of her." Isabel smiles over her shoulder in Mr. Gold's direction and hears him inhale sharply. When she turns to look, he's staring once more down at his cup. "Did you cut yourself?" she asks. "Here, give it to me, I'll throw it out."
"No." Her husband's hands tighten around the cup. "No, I…I like it. Keep it."
She raises a skeptical eyebrow, and he smirks and steps around her to wash the cup himself, as if he thinks she'll throw it out the moment his back is turned. Since the thought did occur to her, she can't blame him.
Isabel waits until he's putting the milk in the fridge before she says, "You haven't come to bed in a while."
His shoulders stiffen, but his face reveals nothing when he swivels back around toward her. His cane is set solidly between them, both his hands planted on it. "Has a few nights devoid of my company left you bereft?" he asks, almost condescendingly, and Isabel narrows her eyes.
"I haven't forgotten our agreement," she tells him bluntly. "Just because you're avoiding me doesn't mean that you get to break our deal."
A shadow turns his eyes dark, almost cold. "Oh, believe me, dear, I never break my deals."
She tilts her chin up, defiant, refusing to flinch from his glare. "Neither do I."
"Then it seems everything's fine," he says. "Is that all you needed?"
"Will you be home for tea tonight?"
His pause, this time, is long enough she can't help but catch it. "Yes," he finally says. "I will be."
Only after he's gone, the lock clicked on the front door, does Isabel sag in her seat and let her hands shake with nerves.
Maybe he doesn't know.
As Rumplestiltskin gradually swims back to consciousness, he becomes aware of a burning in his eyes. Tears are streaming down his face and even after he's fully awake, he can't see anything past the flames scorching his vision. He scrabbles desperately at the floor and finds his cane and the counter, and with both these things, he claws his way back to his feet, stumbles into the backroom of his pawnshop, and nearly rams into the sink. It takes ten minutes or more of rinsing his eyes before he can finally begin to make out shadowed shapes in the dark room. He wishes he had milk or ice to apply, but now that the burning in his eyes has died down, he's all too aware of the pounding in his head and the slight doubled effect on his vision. If he moves too quickly, the shop seems to spin around him.
How long was he lying there on the floor?
A shiver shudders down his spine. Cinderella (Ashley) could have done anything to him. Anyone could have wandered into the shop and done whatever they wished. It's been a long time since he's been so helpless (dark flashbacks push in, eager to remind him of that tiny, rank cell under Snow White's palace; of a hut and a crippled spinner, soldiers with their boots jutted demandingly out, a wife whose words left deeper bruises than her fists). Is he even immortal here in this land?
And his dagger could have been in that safe that's hanging open. If he hadn't moved it when he woke up as Rumplestiltskin, if he hadn't hidden it under the floorboard in the backroom…anyone could have taken it.
Never again, he vows. He will never be helpless again. It takes most of his effort (and results in a spill or two) before he makes it back to his safe, still gaping open. He's pretty sure he knows what Ashley was most interested in, but he checks anyway—and pockets the gun. Let someone dare try to attack him now (a bullet isn't nearly as effective as magic, but needs must).
The bell over the door chimes, a shaft of light from the exterior streetlight stabbing through the shop, and Rumplestiltskin's heart flies to his throat.
"Sweetheart? Are you in here?" He hears Isabel gasp and then footsteps fly toward him. "Sweetheart!"
"Isabel," he says as calmly as he can despite the fact that there are currently three of this beautiful stranger moving far too rapidly toward him. His left hand tightens over the gun hidden in his coat pocket even as he leans too heavily on his cane with his right. "What are you doing here?"
"You're hurt!" she exclaims. "What happened? Who did this?"
"Why are you here?" he asks, his suspicion growing as she tries to come close enough to touch him. He stumbles away from her hand, putting the counter between them.
"Are you serious?" she snaps. "You're hurt! There's blood all over your face and…what happened to your eyes?"
"Why are you here?" he demands.
"You never came home for tea!" she nearly yells. "All right? Now, will you please let me help you?"
Rumplestiltskin is flabbergasted. Her hand settles, ever so lightly, on his elbow, as if she's waiting for him to jerk away from her. But the touch is soft, she is so warm, and the jarring newness of those things tames Rumplestiltskin so that he lets her help him to the back where she sits him on the cot that (he's learned over the past couple nights) is not nearly as comfortable as one could wish. She leaves him (he shouldn't be surprised), but a moment later, the light flicks on and she's back, a rag and a bowl of water in her hands.
"There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom," he offers quietly.
"Thank you," she says, matching his volume.
He doesn't know what she's thanking him for. She's the one who sits beside him and, with the gentlest touch he's ever known, washes the blood from his face, applies antibacterial ointment to his cut, then bandages it. And she came for him. She missed him, and she came to find him.
"The cut's really not as bad as it looked," she says. "But how's your head feel?"
"Fine."
It hurts. There is a chorus of drums playing in the next room over; every time he moves his head, he feels as if it might just fall off his sore neck; and there are still two Isabels, overlapping, sitting next to him.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" she asks.
He looks away. "Less than eleven, I'm sure."
"I think you should go to the hospital."
"I'm fine," he says. He doesn't want to (her warmth is enticing, but it's the kindness in her touch, the way she doesn't hesitate before sitting so close, that really has him tempted to stay put), so Rumplestiltskin is more adamant than ever on rising to his feet. Once he has a bit of distance from this woman who thinks she's his wife, he feels a bit steadier.
"You have a concussion," Isabel says evenly. "Please, sweetheart. Those can be dangerous."
"I need to speak to Emma Swan," he says. "By the time I get out of Dr. Whale's dubious care, it might be too late."
Her silence stretches, and he thinks that this is it. She's going to give up on him and retreat—take the out he's provided for her and live her own life apart from him. As far as Regina's concerned, they're still married, unhappily playing out this farce she's written for them, but really, he'll take the pawnshop and leave the house for this random stranger who had the ill luck of being singled out for Regina's strange amusement.
But Isabel doesn't move. After a moment, she simply says, "Who's Emma Swan?"
"Henry's birth mother."
Abruptly, so quickly it sends the shop reeling around him, Isabel's on her feet. "And why do you need to see her? Who is she to you?" She gasps. "You…you knew her already—from when you gave Henry to Regina? And now she's back in town, and you…you need to see her. And you haven't been coming home."
Rumplestiltskin rolls his eyes and immediately regrets it when his brain nearly liquifies. "Don't be ridiculous," he huffs through the pain. "If I were going to have an affair, I certainly wouldn't choose someone as intractably dense as Ms. Swan."
"Then who would you choose?" Isabel asks in the coldest voice Rumplestiltskin's ever heard from her before (which isn't saying much since he's spoken to her, in person, a grand total of three times; but even Mr. Gold's never heard her so angry).
"Trust me, dearie, I have no interest in having an affair with anyone. I'm not a big believer in stealing another man's wife, no matter how much a monster I am in other ways."
"But someone unmarried is fair game?" she demands, and she sounds absolutely astonished (if even this bit of darkness repels her so much, she's going to be in for a rude awakening when her true memories return and she knows exactly what monster's been sharing her bed). "This is why you haven't been coming home?"
Rumplestiltskin very nearly slams his cane into the nearest fragile item. What a stupid waste of time this is. No wonder Regina went to all the trouble of saddling him with some strange woman. Instead of setting all his plans into motion and finagling a deal out of the Savior, he's stuck trying to prove his faithfulness to a woman who, if in full control of her memories, would be delighted to have him straying to someone so she could have time to escape his touch, his name, his attention (him).
"I'm not cheating on you!" he growls. "Really, Isabel, you know me. Who in this town would ever even look twice at me? You're the only one who isn't afraid of me. The only one who doesn't find excuses to be elsewhere whenever I enter a room. The only one who doesn't see me as a complete monster. And oh, yes, lest we forget, the only woman I ever managed to show interest in—and didn't you have to ask me out?"
It's easier, most of the time, to think of himself and Mr. Gold as two separate entities. Sometimes he needs the pawnbroker and landlord, but most of the time, Rumplestiltskin clings to his own memories and personality (between the two of them, only Rumplestiltskin is a father). But now, hearing his own caustic words, Rumplestiltskin is forced to realize that there are more similarities between him and Mr. Gold than he wants to believe.
(But he also has to remind himself, as abrasively as possible, that Isabel is only willing to be with him because Regina made her so. This isn't who she really is. Buried deep within her is a woman just like everyone else. And one day, she'll wake and remember that.)
"Okay," Isabel says, softly, and Rumplestiltskin only realizes then that he's shaking, that her hands are what's keeping him upright as she guides him back to the cot. "Okay, you're right. I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," he says tiredly. He slumps back against the wall and lets his burning eyes fall closed. Just for a minute.
Isabel retrieves a damp washcloth and lays it over his eyes. Rumplestiltskin lifts his hand to hold it there, but lets it fall back to his lap when she keeps her own hand on it. The cool water helps ease the lingering pain in his eyes, but he fancies he can feel the warmth of her hand through it anyway.
"Who did this to you?" she asks again.
"Ashley Boyd."
"That girl whose adoption you're handling?"
"It seems she's not so willing to give up her baby as she made it seem."
"Well, she must be feeling very desperate," Isabel says thoughtfully. "And I'm sure her hormones are acting up. Pregnancy does that, you know."
"Really." Rumplestiltskin is glad he missed Milah's then. She was bad enough on a regular day (at least, after, after war and a seer and a hammer). "Well, that doesn't excuse her breaking and entering, not to mention the assault."
"Oh, no, please don't press charges!" Isabel sets her free hand on his. "Sweetheart, it must be so terrifying to feel alone and have a baby depending on you. I can understand why she thought giving it up was for the best. But now, when the baby's birth is so close, well, she must love it—it's her baby. Please, I know what she did was horrible, and it's awful that she hurt you, but how can you force her to give up her own child?"
For all that there was a (very small) part of him enjoying the feel of another hand on his, Rumplestiltskin tightens his into a fist and draws it sharply away from her. "Oh, I see, so it's all right to break deals and become a liar if she's desperate enough. Funny, I don't remember the law working that way."
"You must have been desperate before at some point in your life," Isabel says softly. "Haven't you ever felt helpless to change your fate? Haven't you ever been driven to do something terrible?"
Bae.
For a moment, as his headache pounds, Rumplestiltskin sees that burning castle around him, tapestries falling in glowing sparks at his feet, that dagger fitting just so in his hand. For the first time in his whole miserable life, Rumplestiltskin the spinner had held power in his hands and known that he could protect, he could keep, the one he loved.
And he did (only to drive him away almost immediately afterward).
"Fine," he says as ungraciously as possible. "I won't press charges."
Isabel clasps his hand as if she doesn't realize it's tightly wound into a fist (as if she has no idea that all he wants to do is lay waste to everything around him until Bae is once more a comfort to him rather than an indictment). "Thank you," she breathes.
"But," he adds, pushing both her hand and the washrag away from him, "she still has to give the baby up. She's already taken the money, Isabel, and she signed the contract. There are more parties at stake here than me."
"Isn't there anything you can do?"
"I doubt it." He stands once more and tries not to vomit at the renewed vertigo. "But that's actually the reason I need to speak to Ms. Swan. She's a bail bondsman and her specialty is finding people. If I can get her to help me, we won't have to get the authorities involved at all."
"And you'll see if there's something you can do about the baby?"
"Don't get your hopes up, dearie," he says.
"But you'll think about it?"
Rumplestiltskin sighs. "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. As soon as it's morning, you drive me to Ms. Blanchard's so I can talk to Ms. Swan, and I'll go to the hospital afterward." When she starts to speak, he holds up a hand. "And I will see if there's something to be done about the adoption."
"Deal!" she says happily.
After that, she's all too eager to get him into the car and even tries to argue against him going home to change.
"I have a reputation to maintain," Mr. Gold tells her, but Rumplestiltskin thinks back to a long life of centuries and knows that it's more than that. Clothes present an impression even before a person can, and when offering deals, Rumplestiltskin knows that it's important to seem someone who's in control. Powerful. Able to give you anything and everything you could want. And, most importantly, untouchable.
So despite the worsening headache and growing exhaustion, he changes into a fresh suit, combs his hair, ghosts a hand over the bandage Isabel put across the gash on his temple, and even forces himself to look in the mirror to make sure he looks powerful. In control. Able to give the Savior whatever she might want.
Untouchable.
(He looks the same as he always does: alone. Unwanted. Unloved. A coward. Which, come to think of it, is the same thing as untouchable.)
It doesn't take long to convince Emma Swan to help the poor unwed mother (she's too apt to see victims instead of villains, but she'll grow out of it, he's sure, eventually), and soon Isabel has him walking into the ER. Rumplestiltskin expects her to excuse herself to see to her bookstore, but she sits in the chair beside him and peers nosily over his shoulder as he fills out the never-ending paperwork they gave him.
"Here," he finally says, tired of trying to read the dancing words. "You fill it out for me."
It's not like this land knows how to ask anything that's truly dangerous. If Isabel wants to find out his social security number or his prescriptions, she has much easier ways (and if she wants to know his birthdate and family history, she'll need magic and a realm-hopper, or at least an enchanted mirror that can show the past).
Dr. Frankenstein was occasionally helpful, usually entertaining, and always amusing with his insistence on science over magic. Dr. Whale, on the other hand, is a tedious boor, and in Regina's pocket to boot.
"He could have just handed me the painkillers immediately rather than making us wait four hours and then taking another hour to shine lights in my eyes," he grumbles.
He's startled when Isabel laughs. "You," she informs him, "are an awful patient."
"In that case," he says, planting himself in a chair in the waiting room. "You can go pick up the prescriptions then."
She rolls her eyes (at least there's only one of her now) and takes the papers Dr. Whale sloppily signed. "I'll be back," she says. "Do you need a drink or anything?"
"I'll get a cup of coffee from the machine," he says.
Though she looks dubious, she nods and hurries away.
Rumplestiltskin breathes a sigh of relief at finally being alone, his eyes shutting for an instant. When they open, he's the Deal-Maker. And when he stands, he moves to put himself directly behind Emma Swan as the nurse relays the news that Ashley Boyd has just delivered a baby girl.
"Well, well," he says. "Must be my lucky day."
He'll get his favor from the Savior yet.
(And if it makes Isabel happy, well, she'll be less likely to turn against him for a while yet, and that's all to the good.)