"The Queen has created a powerful curse. And it's coming. Soon you'll all be in a prison, just like me, only worse! Your prison-all of our prisons-will be time. And time will stop. And we will be trapped, someplace horrible, where everything we hold dear, everything we love will be ripped from us while we suffer for all eternity, while the Queen celebrates, victorious at last! No more happy endings." He rambled his prophecy, waggling his crooked, grimy fingers, eyes bulging out of his skull. His performance must be enough to sell the urgency of the Dark Curse. Urgent enough to convince desperate, first-time parents and new rulers of his plan. Green in every sense.
"What can we do?" Snow White begged desperately. An answer, any answer that might save her unborn daughter from the cruel fate in store for her. Any answer that may spare her kingdom the suffering of this dark and terrible curse. Fortunately for her, he just so happened to have a solution.
"We can't do anything." He reached out towards the radiant, pure light emanating from Snow White's rounded belly. He felt the warmth and strength of True Love magic against his scaled flesh, only to feel the biting, cold steel edge of a blade against his hand. Oh, if only Prince Charming knew the irony. "The infant is our only hope. Get the child to safety."
So many futures he could envision playing out before him, following each individual strand of fate to its conclusion. A cornucopia of branching twists and turns, following one decision or another. In those few moments, speaking to Snow White and her Prince Charming, he followed the light of the girl. Her aura, a combination of pure white edged with a rainbow of True Love and the golden hue of pure belief. The strongest, purest magic in all the realms, powerful enough to transcend realms, key to breaking any curse. He saw one path in which those auras are present as he finds his Bae. This was the strand of fate he would set in motion. He required the Charmings' actions to maintain this line, believing the prophecy to be set in stone. Otherwise, all this work and planning would be for naught.
"Get the child to safety and on its…" He returned to the strand of fate, following it backwards to the girl's arrival in Storybrooke. He noted a cupcake with a solitary candle and arrived at a number to inform the anxious parents. "Twenty-eighth birthday, the child will return. The child will find you- and the Final Battle will begin!" He giggled, cackled, like a mad man knowing that he was one step closer.
Breaking the Curse remains Emma Swan's destiny. Nothing could circumvent or change that. One can change the path to the destination, but the destination shall remain the same. Emma Swan will break the Curse. The question remains, however, what will come after. How the chips will fall and the dust will settle in the fallout once young Miss Swan has completed her work.
With a smirk across his face and a hand resting on the gold tip of his cane, Mr. Gold witnesses the bold display of magic landing in the rolling waves of the harbor. He stands sheltering from the freezing rain in the doorway of the ramshackle, wooden boathouse. A flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness. He knew when he sought out the young Savior on the captain's ship that he sensed something. Magic folded itself into every aspect of the barnacle-encrusted heap. After all, there must be some explanation for why the site of his humiliation three centuries before still floats. Rather than lying rotted and decimated, at the bottom of the sea, as it should be. Rumplestiltskin swallows down the repressed anger and humiliation at the memories and focuses instead on the opportunity before him.
If Hook only knew the boon he would drop into his enemy's lap by delivering the girl here. Rumplestiltskin chuckles at the thought. Young Miss Swan possesses magic. Powerful magic woven through her entire being, whether she's aware of it or not. More likely not, given the conditions in which she was raised. More powerful than they've yet seen in the Enchanted Forest, as evidenced by her ability to harness it in this Land without Magic. Rooted in the most powerful magic of all, True Love. So powerful, he discerned it while the girl rested safe inside her mother's womb. Yes, quite the boon indeed.
Mr. Gold stands under an overhang of a roof, protected from the falling rain. The biting air of the late autumn storm smells of the salt of the sea and the slight electric smell he has not sensed in nearly a decade and a half. The feel of magic washes over him, intoxicating him. Oh, for just a taste of magic once more, a feel of such power at his fingertips.
Just inside the harbor wall, the ship dips and drops unsteadily, wavering before landing with a splash. The striking golden beacon of light flickers and dims just as quickly, before being snuffed out completely. Mr. Gold watches with a smirk as the accursed pirate docks his ship and greets the former crew members approaching him, gawking at the vessel. His brow furrows slightly in consideration. These men seem to have regained their memories from the display of True Love magic tethered to the magic of their pasts. It would appear the Dark Curse is far more fragile than intended.
He smirks at just how weak the curse is. Truly, it was not this brittle when it was constructed. Possibly, Regina stretched it too thin. For a moment, he watches the Swan girl descend the gangplank onto the slick docks, wary and exhausted. Practically dead on her feet, she staggers into the pirate a time or two. Even from this distance, he spots a jaw-cracking yawn behind Hook's back. But after such an impressive feat of magic, no one could blame her. He questions just how long she'd been flying. There is just enough magic woven into the border around the town to keep insiders in and outsiders out. Beyond that, however, he considers the possibility she could have been flying for quite a bit over the Atlantic. Yes, quite powerful, indeed. Examining the girl as she slips back onboard as quickly as she can, he ponders the causes of such fragility. Naturally it comes back to her, but why? Why is the curse crumbling around them, almost eager to break in the face of the Savior?
Once eyes turn to his place under the overhang, he grins though knowing they won't see it, and walks away into the night. His cane clicks against the pavement. With every other step, pain shoots up his leg, though far more dulled than it had been that night so long ago. On his way back to his car and on the drive home, he ponders the situation he finds himself in.
Fourteen years ago, the path he foresaw for the Savior and the kingdom didn't mark any significant change for another four years. It didn't see the Savior's arrival for another ten after that. On that path, the woman was skeptical, cynical and reluctant to take up the mantle of her destiny. The curse was inviolable because the Savior didn't believe. She didn't want to believe.
On this path that they find themselves, the Savior's knowledge of the Curse derives, not from the belief of a child, but from the authority of an adult. Much as he loathes the pirate, he can at least designate Hook that much, an authority to the prodigal princess and an adult. How much of a liability those statuses will prove in the future, only time will tell. The Savior's knowledge of the Dark Curse originates from a cynical, old bastard, not the wide-eyed youth full of belief in fantasy. Furthermore, the knowledge of the Dark Curse came with proof that was accepted as such, not written off as a child grasping at straws to reinforce a fantasy. Ergo, her belief in magic and the Curse has allowed her use of the former and resulted in the crumbling of the latter.
Gold arrives at his home, unlocking the door and climbing the stairs with pain. Passing his bedroom, he scoffs. He hasn't slept in centuries, though he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss the ritual. The Dark One doesn't sleep. Doesn't need sleep. Regardless, his fraying sanity at times could argue otherwise.
He reaches the adjacent room, a solitary oak-wood door with an old-fashioned handle and enters. Inside lies a simple spinning wheel and baskets worth of wool. It isn't straw, nor is the yarn gold, but working with his hands on the wheel unburdens his mind and allows him to think. Plan. Consider. The feel of wool takes him even farther back to the days before the darkness.
Rumplestiltskin sits on the small, wooden stool before the wheel with a basket of wool by his feet and sets to work. As the wheel squeaks and clicks, fibers of wool combining to yarn, his mind clears enough to settle on two thoughts.
First, the timeline he set into motion with his prophecy to the Charmings represented the sole, predetermined path on which he knew he'd find Bae. He set into motion the one timeline he saw the Dark Curse and the Savior both meeting their purpose for him. With the Savior being in Storybrooke fourteen years too early, that expectation has gone out the window. Every other strand of fate entangled and enmeshed in his plan is similarly uncertain.
That old, addictive feeling lending him a slightly manic energy, the Dark One closes his eyes. His hands reach out before him. He breathes slowly, deliberately to cleanse his mind. For a moment, the only sound he hears is the blood pumping through his body. Within himself, somewhere in his gut, he attempts to call forth the power from within. Seeing with more than sight. Or at least, attempting to. The palms of his hands experience nothing but the cold, still air of the room. No threads of fate or destiny. No lights of auras to follow. No warmth or energy of their lifeforce. That wellspring of magic that should reside within him is blocked, just as it has been for nearly a decade and a half. Rumplestiltskin huffs.
It's not as if he expected it to work.
He clears his throat, shaking away his thoughts. It was a long shot, he knows. Returning his hands to the wheel, the clicks and whirs begin to placate him. Without magic himself, he can't predict the future to readjust. He cannot adapt. It's possible to adapt on the spot. But after such meticulous planning and consideration, applying precisely the correct amount of pressure and influence scattered throughout the timelines, plucking one string or severing another as needed. He's unwilling to simply throw it all away on a gamble.
Rumplestiltskin will not risk reuniting with his son on a gamble.
Rage blinds him. Red coats his vision. Fibers shred apart. Good yarn splinters into pieces at his feet. If that gods-damned pirate cost me my chance at finding Bae, at reuniting and making amends, I'll fucking obliterate him! I'll end him! I'll make him desperately wish he never even came to port to meet Milah!
For a moment, he considers precisely how he'll achieve that. Severing each limb the pirate has left at each joint and watching the blood pool around him. Torturing the man, breaking his body until his mind finally collapses under the pain. Leaving him in complete and utter agony. Crimson blood floods his mind, both soothing and exciting the darkness within his soul. Swiftly, he rises to his feet. Pain shooting from his leg up his spine is what stalls him.
The pirate's suffering can wait. Bae can't. Thoughts of his son rein the Dark One back to the man. His stalwart, amazing son. The boy who believed the best in him. Who never hesitated to demand justice. Who would have gone off to war, a suicide where he would have been cannon fodder, because it was fair. Who wanted his father back when that was something he was too attached to the power to deliver. The man breathes again, returning to his planning to reunite with his boy.
The second thought crosses through his scattered mind. Emma Swan is far too valuable an asset to leave with Hook. His plan may still work. But for that to happen, he needs the Savior to be far away from the pirate. His corrupting influence may steer her off this path. In the care of her parents, yes, maybe that would work. After all, rescuing the girl from the evil pirate may leave the Charmings grateful to him, a weakness to be exploited later. With the curse remaining intact, despite the two being awake, they were hardly in a position to undertake this themselves, not without risking Regina's retaliation. Perhaps, given her evident aptitude for magic, he could instruct her himself as he taught others. Despite the paths those women took, each became formidable sorceresses.
Gold relegates the thought to the back burner, allowing every thought to flit from his mind as he concentrates on the spinning of the wheel. Clicking and whirring fills his ears. His mind drifts into nothingness and quiet. The greatest thing about this world, the quiet.
Another curiosity enters his mind. The stranger in town. Despite the weaknesses of the crumbling curse, it still retains one strength. The border around the town remains just as ironclad as ever. Only those from the Enchanted Forest themselves can find their way in without help. Those from this realm will pass down the state road through the woods, passing through the town like it isn't even there. The denizens of this Land without Magic will reach the shore without ever realizing they drove down Main Street. So far as the rest of Maine is concerned, Storybrooke does not exist. The social worker received help, guidance, from the esteemed mayor and thus was able to breach the fortifications surrounding the town. All of his contacts and connections to the rest of this world came with his power in the Curse. This stranger, the young man with the motorcycle, obtained no such help from the inside. So, to be able to enter the town must mean he's been expatriated as well. So, who could he be?
The Curse was designed to cast a wide net, but it was by no means absolute. Not everyone was caught up in the Curse. Regina seemed to suffer under the delusion that it would allow her to pick and choose. Who needed to suffer in this unknown land, and who could suffer at home? In reality, transporting entire kingdoms to a new land was untenable, beyond the reach of magic attainable by a single person in a lifetime. Even in multiple lifetimes. It's possible the stranger could have sought shelter wherever Hook did and arrived in this land with the pirate, though it strikes Gold as unlikely. For the stranger to arrive nearly a month after Hook strikes him as odd if the two left the realm together. Perhaps there was more than one means of transport between realms, but that strikes him as even less likely. Beans were rare, precious commodities. If they weren't, he would have spared no expense, but would have spared himself the decades of manipulating events as a chess-master. It's possible the stranger arrived in this land prior to the Curse and simply followed a draw where the road took him. Part of the Curse, hidden where Regina wouldn't detect it, part of the safety valve was intended to show the Savior the path to her destiny. Even though it would theoretically draw anyone from their realm to this tract of land.
The question and possibilities circle his mind until dawn rises. Mr. Gold readies himself for the day, weighing his options. Either he can allow the pirate to remain an authority to the young Savior, with all the possible dangers that may bring for him and his plan. Or he can investigate this stranger and the possible threat he poses to the plan. So many liabilities to cope with. For the time being, Hook and the Savior represent primarily known variables. The unknown from the stranger is far more dangerous to him.
As Mr. Gold limps slowly, cane tapping down the street, the ground quakes beneath him. He stumbles, bracing himself against the brick facade of a shop. Startled eyes dart around the shrill sounding horns and car alarms. Other pedestrians do the same, searching for a cause in confusion and shock. He is perplexed as he regains his footing, not recalling earthquakes being much of a feature of the New England coastline. On the air, coupled with the salt of the sea, buzzes the electricity of an incoming thunderstorm. Or, to those who recognize it, magic. He chuckles quietly, knowing that the chaos Miss Swan is almost definitely causing will keep the two occupied for quite a bit. Faintly, even from several blocks away, he can overhear the pirate bellowing the Savior's name.
"Godspeed, Miss Swan. And Captain, I almost pity you." Rumplestiltskin raises his cane in salute before continuing along the road to the inn. With the pirate certainly far more concerned with the impulsive magical time-bomb that is Miss Swan, he won't be peering over Gold's shoulder.
Mr. Gold moves steadily down Main Street. People part to allow him to pass, traversing the street to avoid the feared Mr. Gold. Their fear stokes the darkness coiled like a spring within him. If only any one of them truly remembered… He smirks at the thought. As he bears a man's eyes stepping out from the cricket's office, the sheer terror as opposed to shifty wariness suggests some may know.
Something within the man's expression, a certain light in his eyes, suggests the reason. It seems Miss Swan was more active in town than he previously believed. Regina's stores seem to have been plundered of their ill-gotten gains. The Dark One finds himself halfway impressed.
As he continues down the street, the ground rumbles beneath his feet once again. This time, the force knocks him to the ground. Aftershocks continue to quake for nearly a minute afterwards. Car alarms, barely silenced from the first quakes, echo shrilly through the chaos once again. Horns blast and people shout, adding to the cacophony. Glass of windows and doors rumbles within its frames, threatening to crack. Rumplestiltskin remains on the sodden, dirty ground, waiting out the magical quakes.
Nearly five minutes pass before he's certain that the ground is once again steady. Stable. Quite powerful, indeed. Gradually, Mr. Gold climbs to his feet, gritting his teeth. Despite the assistance of his cane, pain spikes up his leg. Narrowed eyes dart from one side to another, searching for any onlookers as his insides burn with that familiar humiliation and shame. The corresponding feelings that fueled his magic, that spark the darkness. The lack of witnesses fails to appease his rage.
He approaches the inn, slipping silently through the back door to the sounds of shouting.
"You're out all night, and now you're going out again!"
"I should have moved to Boston!"
"I'm sorry my heart attack interfered with your plans to sleep your way down the eastern seaboard!" He can pinpoint the moment the women notice his presence. All color drains from the widow's lined face. The young wolf crosses her arms across her chest defensively.
Lips pressed in a thin line, Widow Lucas bustles to the host stand, crossing the opposite side of the room to sidestep him. Unlocking a box with a key from her pocket, she hastily withdraws a roll of bills. Her hand shakes as she offers the money.
"It's all here," she states, voice full of dread, prompting him out the door in all but words.
Mr. Gold accepts it with a cryptic smile. "Yes, yes, of course it is. Thank you." He pockets the roll of bills without counting them. None in this town would be so foolish as to attempt to defraud him out of full payment.
The women meet each other's eyes in nervous question when he remains in the inn, rather than accepting his payment and leaving. For just a silent moment, he enjoys the unease permeating the room around him like perfume. He relishes in the feelings he's stirred. Pain spikes past his knee, so he shifts the weight on his cane. Each wolf scrutinizes him carefully, like a coiled snake about to strike.
"Mrs. Lucas," Mr. Gold begins, voice calm and level. In an instant, those wary eyes are on his. "I do hope I'm not interrupting your busy schedule. But it would seem I've been remiss in inspecting the property lately. As landlord, it is my obligation. Allow me to rectify this."
"I've operated this inn and the diner in good working order. Both are in perfect condition." Mrs. Lucas insists, swelled with pride and righteous indignation at the perceived slight to her business. Red splotches patch her cheeks. Her eyes narrow behind the wire frames of her glasses.
He smiles politely while biting down his impatience. "Be that as it may, I must insist on inspecting a few rooms." After a moment of silent eye contact, each staring the other down, Mrs. Lucas sighs. Miss Lucas, still leaning against the far wall with arms crossed, stares at her grandmother in shock, red-painted mouth falling open. Mrs. Lucas simply hushes the young woman, shooing the young woman back to the diner where their customers are waiting. She takes hold of an old, brass ring of keys and precedes him up the stairs.
Approaching a room, she turns the key in the lock. On first glance, the room is vacant, thus the woman's ease in allowing him access. "As you can see, Mr. Gold, I run a fine establishment." He nods courteously, faking an inspection while he considers how to obtain access to the stranger's room. As he tests the old window, he arrives at one.
"Mrs. Lucas, as I'm confident you're aware, there is a town ordinance against housing criminals. It places those harboring them on an equal footing." As he tests the drawers, he can spot Mrs. Lucas' reflection, watching as she stiffens at the implied accusation against her character. "And, you understand, clientele with a dubious reputation will reflect poorly on the business."
The woman frowns, cocking her head in confusion. "No criminals here," she states indignantly. He smiles courteously.
"Tell me, what do you know of our new friend from out of town?"
The woman puffs up indignantly. Mr. Gold stands patiently, regarding her impassively. He doesn't voice a word and allows the silence to linger. For several beats, the only sounds are the whirring and humming of the radiators and the howl of the wind outside hammering the pane glass windows. Mrs. Lucas stares at him impatiently before her eyes skitter elsewhere, both uncomfortable around him and eager to return to her work. Mr. Gold doesn't acknowledge it, simply stands watching her with a politely detached expression. In the old days, he could force the answer out of her with a liberal use of magic. But there are ways to compel answers in this world as well. Several more beats pass carried only by the radiator, the wind and the sound of a bustling kitchen below.
Mrs. Lucas huffs impatiently, cracking after only a minute or two of silence on his part. "August Booth, twenty-two years old according to his license, paid in full for the next two months in cash. Beyond that is none of my business. And none of yours." That last statement is made with force enough that he almost believes she has the spine to enforce it.
"All the same, I insist on taking a look."
Mrs. Lucas appears unimpressed. "Come back with the sheriff and a warrant."
The darkness snarls within him. Oh, for the days where I could simply force entry. A flick of the wrist and the door would open, a room full of secrets. And, in the meantime, transforming the old wolf into a worm.
Mr. Gold restrains his anger and frustration. "I would hate for such an infraction to reflect poorly on you, Mrs. Lucas. Such a mistake could be costly." He deliberately pats the pocket holding her rent payment in a terribly unsubtle display. Once again, her face pales, message received. She sighs, twists a few keys over on her key ring, and escorts him down the quaint hall to another room.
"Here," she states gruffly. "Inspect all you like. I'm watching." He muffles his scoff at the inn-keeper's threat. Inside the room, he sees very little out of the ordinary. The same floral curtains, plain bedspread across a mattress as comfortable as a brick, a maple wood desk and chair. A few details distinguish this as the stranger's room. There is a leather satchel by the bed, a motorcycle helmet discarded beside. Books lie scattered on the bits of furniture, and an old-fashioned typewriter rests atop a nest of papers on the desk. With a gentle tug, he examines the page sitting, prepped and ready within the typewriter, only to find the letterhead of the inn.
Limping closer to examine the writing, he nudges aside a paperweight to spy…
His heart stops dead in his chest. His breath rushes out in a ragged gasp. Wide eyes stare unseeing at the dark lines in stark contrast to the worn, white page. The all-too-familiar jagged lines and curves stare back. In his shock, the paper flutters to the ground.
"Something spook you? Good. Teach you to snoop," the wolf grouses from the doorway.
Staring back at him from the shag rug is a perfect sketch of his dagger.
"Of course," he states, barely acknowledging the woman's statement. Mr. Gold is still reeling in shock, his cunning mind buzzing with white noise. He turns on his heel and departs. "Thank you for your help." He doesn't see the woman as he exits the room. His mind, for once, is completely blank. No thoughts, no schemes, no plans. Mr. Gold scarcely recalls exiting the inn, only barely registering the brisk breeze against his face and the change in light.
It's impossible. It can't be him. Do not allow yourself to hope.
Despite this, he needs to know. Could the stranger be Bae?
Merely considering the question, presenting that chance as a possibility, ignites a fire within him. It isn't hope. Nothing so pure and precious for one as dark as he. He knows better than to allow such an invasive weed to fester inside of him. It is desperation. The desperation of a man who crossed realms to make amends, to reunite the broken family that he tore in half.
He seems to return to his body at the grumble of a motorcycle's engine. With the question, he's regarding the man with new eyes, fervently examining the man's features for those of his son. Bae's dark curls, similar to Booth's helmet hair. This August Booth, obviously an assumed name. A young man, but he couldn't possibly be…
August Booth swings a leg over his bike, kicking off the asphalt and driving down Main Street. Mr. Gold swiftly slides into his own car to follow, unwilling to lose sight of the man until he receives answers.
Down Main Street, moving away from the center of town, northwest into the woods. Not much lies out in this direction, he supposes. Mr. Gold follows at a careful distance as the motorcycle leans around the curving road, splashing puddles of muck left over from the storm. Finally, the trees skirting the opposite side of the road give way to a graveyard. Marble and granite stones stand as sentries over the corpses of those lives lost prior to the Curse's casting. These stones stand as some of the only evidence in town of the ravages of time.
Beyond the graveyard, he spots the motorcycle turning down a paved path to a brick convent. The Dark One bites back a disgusted sneer. The fairies, those evil meddling gnats! Without those winged monstrosities, none of them would be in this mess! He should have destroyed each and every one of them! Ripped their wings from their backs with his bare hands, one by one, as Reul Ghorm watched. Watched the suffering she caused her sisters. Bitten through the wing joint with his teeth, allowing whatever passed for blood to flow past his chin.
He spies the young man on the shaded porch of the convent, speaking with the leader of the flies. Mr. Booth seems to speak passionately, pacing back and forth. His hands run impatiently through his dark hair as he continues. The useless, meddling gnat holds out her hands to placate him, clearly expressing something. Their discussion continues for a few moments as Mr. Gold watches from the driver's seat of his car on the other side of the street.
As Mr. Booth begins pointing to his own chest before gesturing wildly to the town, face appearing clearly upset even from this distance, Mr. Gold begins to wonder again. His suspicions merely grow. Mr. Booth's fist clenches in his own leather jacket as he speaks before simply shaking his head. That pathetic flying menace continues attempting to appease the man. Evidently, something she says gets through to the man, as he visibly calms. The tension in his shoulders ease as he slumps in relief, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
The young man departs, seemingly fifty pounds lighter, as the bike tears off into the distance. Mr. Gold stalks towards the steps of the convent, stopping Reul Ghorm. "Mother Superior, good afternoon," he greets as courteously as he is able. The entire time, he bites back the hatred for the monster who corrupted his own son against him. The flying menace that took his son from him.
The woman's face is stony as she replies, "Our rent is paid in full."
"I'm not here about the rent," he waves away impatiently, leaning heavily on his cane.
"Well, good day to you, then." She dismisses him primly before stepping around him, careful to prevent any bodily contact. Before the wingless nuisance has taken more than a step, he halts her.
"Tell me, that man who just left here…" The question rests on the tip of his tongue for a moment. A fire burns in him so badly, so brightly, it almost chases away the dark. Bae, his son, so close after so long. His fear of the answer nearly paralyzes him. What if it is Bae? Will his son despise him? What if it isn't? "Who did he say he was? What did he want?"
"I don't have to tell you that," she sniffs.
"And I don't have to not double your rent," he threatens in equal measure. Her narrowed eyes widen slightly as she recognizes the weight his threat holds. "What did he want?"
Ultimately, the irritant acquiesces. "Advice and counsel." For a moment, she neglects to continue with anything more specific or substantial. A pointed glare prompts her to continue. "He came to town looking for his father after a long separation, and he recently found him." So much hope burns brightly within him. Bae, his son. But that bright hope is tinged with fear and enough pragmatism to recognize a coincidence.
"Ah," he answers. "And a happy reunion has already taken place?"
Mother Superior appears taken aback by his interest. "No. He hasn't spoken to him yet."
"And why not?"
"It was a difficult parting. There are many issues to be resolved between them."
"Papa! Papa, I found it. I found a way for things to be like they were. I want you to come with me. I can make things right. Have you heard of the Reul Ghorm?"
"The Blue Star. The Blue Fairy? Oh, son, please tell me you didn't. Fairy magic doesn't mix well with what I am."
"But you promised! She can help us! To take us to a place without magic."
"A place without magic? I'd be powerless. Weak."
"Like everyone else. It wouldn't matter. We'd be happy." Somehow, the boy doesn't recall how bad things were when he was powerless. He can't see how much better things became with the power.
"We could be happy here."
"Father, please. You're getting worse. And you promised. This can work. It can. You made a deal with me. Are you backing out?"
"No."
A green, glowing light illuminated the inky night as it swirls in a vortex, creating a sinkhole. Trees bent and swayed in the mighty winds surrounding them. It towed them irresistibly towards the ground. Bae was pulled in. His hand clamped onto his son's, holding fast, anchoring himself with the dagger plunged deep into the soil. Fear immobilized him.
"Papa! We have to go through! What are you doing? Papa! It won't stay open long! Let go!"
"I can't! I can't!"
"Papa, please! It's the only way we can be together!"
"No, Bae! I can't!"
"You coward! You promised! Don't break our deal!"
"I have to!"
"Papa!" He clung to his dagger, anchored in the ground. His son's hand slipped through his fingers. The last he saw was his son, his boy, being dragged into a portal to some unknown land without him. A land where he could not follow without taking the most drastic of measures. The sound of his voice, hoarse with screams and cracking with age and desperation, calling out for him rings in his ears.
A difficult parting is truly a diplomatic way of phrasing it.
"I see," Mr. Gold answers simply. He turns on his heel and returns to his vehicle. His mind calls forth the memory of his previous interaction with the wretched, winged monstrosity, standing in the sinkhole left by the portal after that harsh, green light faded.
"How do I follow him?" He demanded of the loathsome creature. Rage burned in his veins.
"You had the way. You didn't take it! And there are no more magic beans!"
"That's a lie!" It was a lie. There was another bean. William Smee was a difficult man to track down, but for the right price and with a bit of arm-twisting, he found what the Dark One sought. That more than anything, costing him the bean that should have transported him to Bae, makes him hate Killian Jones and his bitch of an ex-wife all the more.
"We don't do that."
"A lie!"
"You will never make it to that world." At the time, the delusional creature sounded so sure of herself.
"Oh, I'll find a way. There must be other paths. A realm jumper? A mage?" He suggested each, only to her continuing denial. "A curse?" This one caused those irritating, hideous wings to beat faster. The darkness sparked within him as it sensed her fear. Even at her denial, he knew. "Ah! So, it is a curse!"
"Of course you would think of a curse instead of a blessing. Your magic is limited by its own rotten core, Rumplestiltskin." Reul Ghorm claimed, filled with self-righteousness. As if her magic was remotely comparable to his own power. "Anyway, it can't be done. Not without a great price."
"I've already paid a great price."
"So, you'd be willing to sacrifice this world for the next? Because that's how great the price is." Evidently, the gnat didn't understand. He'd burn every realm to the ground to be reunited with his son.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Well, then I'll comfort myself knowing that such a curse is beyond your abilities."
"Oh, for now," he acknowledged. "But I've got all the time in the world. The Dark One is immortal. I have nothing but time. I will do nothing else! I will love nothing else! I will find a way." He vowed with the fairy as his witness. "You took my son, but I will get him back!"
"I didn't take your son!" He recited his mantra. Perhaps if he repeated it often enough, he might actually start to believe it himself. "You drove him away. You pushed him away. You let him go. You clung to your dagger, to your power, and left him."
Those words rang in his ears for quite some time after that. The memories cause his heart to hammer within his chest. With a white-knuckled grip, he clings to the steering wheel, staring unseeing through the windshield.
Perhaps he should seek advice and counsel himself. If the stranger is who he believes, he should have an idea of how to proceed. A plan of some sort. By the time he parks on Main Street, he considers his own possible paths forward.
He walks up Main Street, towards the former cricket's office. Doubts circle his mind like vultures as he slowly climbs the stairs. You're pathetic enough to seek out help? You truly are useless without me! You would tell the pissants of this town precisely where to strike! The moment you air your past with Bae, it will be weaponized against you! Just highlight your weaknesses, why don't you?
Hesitating halfway up the stairs, the Dark One utters a sigh. Will the darkness stop him? What other choice does he have? It's not as if keeping his own counsel helped him in the past. He genuinely is at a loss on how to proceed, still uncertain if Mr. Booth is Bae, and completely unaware of how to proceed if he is. His son has no reason to forgive him.
Mr. Gold sighs, knowing this is the best path forward, seeking guidance for what to do when he is reunited with his son. Gingerly, he raps on the office door. Immediately, he realizes this was a mistake. He never should have come here. Mr. Gold turns and begins to walk away. He makes it three steps. A moment later, the doctor and a barking dalmatian answer.
"Mr. Gold? Are you here for the rent?" Dr. Hopper inquires.
"Why does everyone ask that?"
"Well, because you, uh…" The doctor flushes with embarrassment, eyes darting away behind his glasses. Quickly, Dr. Hopper clears his throat. "Never mind. Would… Would you like to talk?"
Seized by doubts once more, he answers, "I don't know."
"Well, umm… If you'd like to get something off your chest, please come in." The doctor appears a great deal more confident as he steps back from the door frame, waving his hand in invitation. Warily, dreading the truths he's about to bear while seeking guidance, he accepts. Mr. Gold eases himself onto the couch while the doctor assumes his chair. Upon the entrance of the Dark One, the dog perks up. Fur rising, eyes alert, he sits perched protectively at his master's feet.
"What would you like to talk about?"
"I may have found my son," Mr. Gold voices quietly, scarcely daring to utter the words.
Despite his professional demeanor, the doctor's surprise shows on his face. "A son? Wow, I- I didn't know you had a son. How old is he?"
You don't even know. What kind of father are you?
Are you even certain he's your son?
"Let's start with something easier," Mr. Gold dismisses, holding his cane defensively in front of himself. Both hands grip the gold handle in a white-knuckled grip after waving away the doctor's question.
"O-okay." The doctor acquiesces, eyes darting in evident confusion, frowning for a moment before returning to his professional demeanor. The dog alerts to his master's discomfort, deliberately moving in front of him. "Um, what do you mean when you say that you may have found him?"
Rumplestiltskin carefully weighs the evidence. The sketch of his dagger in such clear detail and knowledge, details few would be familiar with. The advice and counsel of Reul Ghorm, clearly a mistakenly trusted voice, but a trusted voice nonetheless. His presence in town indicates he is from the Enchanted Forest, but his ability to cross the town line freely suggests he was not cursed. But none of these are definitive, he knows. "Let's just say, there's someone acting the way I would expect them to act."
"So you… So, you recognize him?"
"Maybe," Mr. Gold sighs. "Or, perhaps, I'm just seeing what I want to see." Is that pesky force of hope blinding me? Am I seeing this August Booth in a different light, what I wish to perceive? "I don't know."
"Okay, well, I mean, wouldn't he recognize you?"
He would recognize me, for certain. In fact, in my present state, I appear closer to my former self. The father he knew. The man before the Dark One. The question is not his recognition, rather his reluctance to approach me.
"There was conflict." Conflict. The boy lost his friends because of what I became. He was inevitably an outcast because his father was a coward, but he was completely ostracized. I don't regret what I became, solely because it allowed me to spare him from the battlefield. But he was isolated, alone. Feared, reviled even. We had a deal. There was a way out of this corrupting magic that didn't cost my life. And I left him alone. I abandoned him. I reneged my promise and abandoned my son to a different realm. "I'm not sure he's ready for a tear-soaked reunion."
"So, he sought you out and he's hanging back?" He neither nods nor shakes his head in answer to the doctor's question. Mr. Booth didn't seek him out. That fact snags in his mind. "Maybe, he's watching to see if he's welcome. Looking for a sign that all is forgiven."
Instantly, he disabuses the doctor of that notion in horror, jerking his head before he can prevent himself from such a display. "No, no, no. He's not the one that needs to be…" forgiven. Bae did nothing in need of forgiveness. The conflict in their parting was not Bae's fault. He's more than prepared to beg his son's forgiveness, but he will not bear that part of himself here. Consequently, he changes course. "I think he might still be very angry."
"Anger between a parent and a child is the most natural thing in the world," the doctor reassures quietly. Once again, he sees the anger and betrayal from Bae before the portal closed, otherworldly emerald light illuminating his son's face as it filled with hatred. The sketch of the dagger rises fresh in his mind.
"I think he might be here to try to kill me," Gold answers bluntly.
"Ah, right. That's…that's not," the doctor answers, masking his discomfort and horror. Despite that, his face drains of color.
Rumplestiltskin sighs. "I let him go. I've spent my entire life since trying to fix it, and now he's finally here." And now they arrive at the crux of the issue, the purpose for his visit. "And I just don't know what to do."
Doctor Hopper leans forward as he recognizes the ball being in his court, elbows on his knees. The doctor encounters his eyes with a level expression. "Be honest. Just tell him what you told me and ask him for forgiveness. And when you're face-to-face, you'll know what to do."
For a moment, he ponders bearing the truth. It is what he must do. Bae deserves nothing less than the truth. However, the truth is, he was too much of a coward to follow his son into the unknown. He clung to the power rather than his son. He anchored himself with the one thing that made him feel strong, the very reason his son wished to flee.
Furthermore, there's all he's done in the pursuit of this destination. All the sins he's committed along the journey. All the lives he snuffed out without so much as a thought, because they stood in his way. If Bae had thought the Dark One a monster corrupting his father before, grasping a fraction of what he's done since would horrify him.
"Honesty's never been the best color on me." Honesty paints his soul black as coal. Honesty coats his ledger crimson with bloodshed and death. His honesty will only drive his son away, that much he knows.
The doctor shakes his head. "There's no other way."
He nods in acceptance, beginning to prepare himself mentally for the conversation that will ensue when he comes face-to-face with his son. He's had centuries to prepare for this, but part of him always dreaded this step, knowing his son would hate him. Thanking the doctor, he pays the man in cash and leaves.
As he departs the good doctor's office, he sits in the driver's seat of his car in silence for quite a bit. Watching out the window without truly seeing any of it, merely allowing his mind to process the past half-hour.
He's uncertain of the amount of time passed before a roar of a motorcycle cuts through the silence, rousing him from his reverie. That same fire ignites within him, desiring answers to the questions. Is this truly his second chance with Bae? Does he accept this second chance with his boy?
Turning the key in the ignition, he follows Mr. Booth at a distance out to the woods. Keeping back carefully, Mr. Gold is warily hopeful as he recognizes this stretch of road as leading to his cabin. The crime scene in the woods.
Night has long since fallen. Moonlight filters through the canopies of the trees. Bare branches cast spiny shadows on the damp, cold earth below. By the time he parks his car, he identifies August Booth thirty feet within the treeline, clearly scouring the ground around him for something. The young man roams through the woods, branches breaking with cracks underfoot, with an urgent, desperate air about him.
This, more than anything, solidifies the feeling in his chest. He's filled with certainty.
"I know who you are. And I know what you're looking for," Rumplestiltskin calls out.
Booth emerges from the trees, looking at him with a dubious expression.
"Well then, I guess all the lying can stop… Papa."
One word shatters his world before reconstructing the pieces. It both devastates him and brings him life. Fills him with indescribable joy and unfathomable sadness. He's reunited with his son, but all the time they have lost… It grants him the same strength he experienced, walking onto the battlefield with the dagger in hand. That strength is coupled with all the fear he felt as a helpless boy, abandoned and alone. With all of this, he appreciates what he must do.
"You were right, Bae. You were always right. I was a coward, and I never should've let you go." His son, his boy, can hardly look at him. Bae holds himself stiff, unmoving. Even in his profile, Rumplestiltskin can see the pain, the weight, the anguish of all of these years. Bae's jaw clenches beneath the stubble, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Both of his hands clamp down on his cane to prevent from reaching out, despite how desperately he wishes to, knowing it won't be welcome. It will be a long, hard road to make things right. Not discouraged by this, Rumplestiltskin continues, his lip trembling. "I know it's little consolation, but… I just want you to know that ever since you left, ever since you crossed the barriers of time and space, in every waking moment…" his voice breaks. Tears burn his eyes. A sob catches in his throat, choking his words. "I've been looking for you. And now that I've finally found you… I know I can't make up for the past, for the lost time." Ignoring the pained spike shooting up his leg, he steps closer, moving around to face his son. "All I can do is to ask you to do what you've always done. And that's to be the bigger man… And forgive me. I'm so sorry, son. I'm so sorry, Bae."
In a sudden movement, Bae turns to him. Two strong arms wrap around him, gripping him tight. Rumple wraps his arms around his boy in turn. The force of the hug nearly knocks him off his feet. His boy, grown into a man. He weeps, overwhelmed by the love he feels. Typically a small spark of light hidden deep, deep down now burns bright inside his chest.
"Oh, my boy. My beautiful boy. Can you truly, truly forgive me?"
"I forgive you, Papa." The words he's so longed to hear shatter his heart and mend it in the same moment. His boy leans his head down against his shoulder, clinging tight. Rumple hugs his son tight enough to try and make up for all the ones he missed.
After a few long moments of embracing his son, Bae pulls back slightly. Rumple remains at arms length, holding his boy. He examines Bae's face with pride and joy, colored with a deep sorrow. His boy has grown so much, in the hair on his face, the look in his eyes. His brave, beautiful son. Bae's sky-blue eyes are brimming with tears.
Blue eyes? A voice in his mind asks. He stamps it down.
"You were looking for the dagger," he states. He doesn't ask. He already knows the answer.
"I thought if you still had it, it would mean that you hadn't changed."
Rumplestiltskin stands tall, shouldering the challenge. "Well, let's go and find it and see."
He tells Bae to follow him as he returns to his car. A moment later, as he's turning the key in the ignition, a motorcycle grumbles to life. Every other moment, his eyes flick to his rearview mirror, watching carefully for the single headlight. His ears perk to every grumble of the engine behind him.
This is his chance to prove he's changed, that he's the father his son deserves.
The pair drive in a convoy to the remote reaches of town, following the twisting road as far as it goes before they hit the border. Rumplestiltskin signals before pulling over, exiting his car as he hears the motorcycle's engine cut. Emerging from his trunk with his cane in one hand and a shovel in the other, he nods towards the treeline. Bae nods, taking the shovel in hand.
Rumplestiltskin leads as the two hike through the woods in silence. Frost on the ground and twigs crack underfoot. There is a narrow path through the treeline as they climb uphill away from the road. Cautiously, Rumplestiltskin counts his steps, watching for a clearing in the trees. The pair hike past the slow-moving creek bubbling downhill. "We're close, son. Halfway there." Their breath fogs in the chill of the air. Every other step sends pain lancing from his ankle, up his leg and spine.
At the top of the hill, they find a clearing circled by pricker bushes. Stepping carefully through the thorns, Rumplestiltskin continues leading for another hundred yards, continuing to follow the creek upstream to where it originates uphill. Dead leaves blanket the ground, damp enough to make the climb slick and treacherous, concealing tangled roots beneath.
Moonlight filtering through the craggy canopy of trees to illuminate their path, the pair continue to climb until they come upon another clearing, this one larger. A lone tree disturbs the space. Rumplestiltskin finds the exact tree, a towering pine with a split trunk at his eye-level, and moves ten paces into the treeline with Bae on his heels.
Bae instantly notices the disturbed earth, the leaves strewn to the side and begins to dig.
"I buried it here shortly after Emma came to town. Things were changing. Didn't want to take the chance of Regina finding it. Or, gods forbid, Hook," he explains.
"Of course," Bae answers, breath puffing out with the effort of digging into the frozen earth.
Fear strikes his heart at the mention of the pirate. Not for his own fate. But his son. Fear turns quickly to rage and bloodlust. If the pirate should even look at his boy the wrong way, he'll kill him. Severing his limbs at the joints will look like child's play. Slowly dissecting him, pulling out each blood vessel intact and lining them up for the pirate to see. "Bae," he gasps raggedly. "Promise me something. Promise me you will never go near him." Bae meets his eyes, confused. "That bastard will stop at nothing to hurt me. He is a ruthless pirate who doesn't give a damn who gets in his way. But I will not let him hurt you." He shakes his head, horrified at the thought.
"I'll be safe, Papa."
Rumplestiltskin nods, his mind already turning over possible measures to ensure his son's safety. Top of the list being killing Hook. For the moment, as the rat bastard is occupied, his focus is the dagger. Proving to his son that he has changed.
"It should be right about here, son." He assures. Should his son conclude he's lying about the change, all will be lost. That is something he cannot risk happening. Under the dirt, he spots the canvas sheet he cloaked the dagger within. Rumplestiltskin crouches down, leaning awkwardly upon his cane. "Here, look." Eagerly, he withdraws the cloth from the earth, unveiling his dagger. Without hesitation, he holds it out to his son.
"I want you to take it." Bae encounters his eyes with uncertainty. "Destroy it, the way I know you always wanted to. I found you. I don't need it anymore." Rumplestiltskin says with all the conviction he possesses. As earnest as he is capable of being, he promises his son. "I chose it once. I have spent centuries regretting that choice. Now, I choose you."
Bae glances between the dagger and him before he accepts the dagger carefully, twisting it in his hands. Examining the blade with a certain wary respect. If he didn't know any better, he might dub it awe. "It's remarkable," Bae whispers.
Something in those words, his actions, snags in his mind. Something is off. Not as it should be. There's something in this man's eyes. Some emotion he can't quite name as he examines the blade within his hands.
Slowly, Bae turns to him, something like victory in his eyes. The Dark One stands confused, watching for an explanation. Bae tightens his grip on the dagger, holding it up, leveling it directly at him. Shock and confusion root the Dark One to the spot.
"By the power of the darkness, I command thee… Dark One."
"You're trying to control me?" His shock and confusion slowly recede, giving way to betrayal. His son, his boy, trying to manipulate him? Trying to force him? Rumplestiltskin warily watches the steel glinting in the silvery light of the moon. While there is no force compelling him to obey, this weapon can still kill him.
Bae would never. Not after Beowolf.
"I command thee, Dark One!" Booth bellows.
In a singular moment, it is incredibly clear to him. With a smile like a crocodile, he jabs an accusing finger at Booth. "You're not my son. You're not Baelfire," Rumplestiltskin spits in disgust. Anger doesn't begin to describe the fire rushing through him. Rage. His eyes widen and nostrils flare. Booth will regret ever being born.
Guilt flashes quickly through his wide blue eyes, knowing he's been caught. Suicidal moron that he is, Booth sustains the act after he's been discovered. He lays it on thick. "Papa, why would you say that? I'm just trying to use your power to help us," Booth pleads.
"Enough!" Gold snaps with impatience. "It's over, Booth. Or whoever you are. My son would never try to use me. And he would know that this dagger cannot harness any magic in this world, because there is no magic in this world. That's why he chose this place. He didn't want me-" Quickly, he strikes Booth's fists clenched around the dagger and seizes possession of the blade himself. "Dabbling."
"No magic in this world," Booth repeats with a whisper. Brow furrowed in confusion, he meets Gold's enraged eyes. "So I'm imagining the pirate ship lit up like a Christmas tree that flew into the harbor?" Booth snarks sarcastically. "What caused the earthquakes earlier, if not magic? It definitely wasn't 'honeycombed mining tunnels' or whatever the hell Regina claimed."
"No magic in this world." Gold answers significantly. If the boy is too ignorant to extrapolate the rest, that's not his problem. That magic earlier was from within the Savior, manifesting itself.
"So, why bury a useless knife?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say it was useless. It still cuts through flesh rather nicely. It's about time you start answering questions, sunshine. Why the theatrics? Why didn't you just come to me?" Why did you take the risk of masquerading as my son, knowing that when I figured you out, the punishment for such an act would be severe?
"I needed you to work for it. I needed you to want it so bad, you would ignore what your eyes were seeing." The realization strikes him hard, just how easily he was duped. As clever as he is, he was fooled so easily, blind to reality by focusing on what it was he wanted. Booth answers before quietly asking, "Do I even look like him at all?"
No, that's what makes it all the more pathetic. He offered the possibility before you with nothing more than a sketch and a conversation with a nun. Booth had you running around town, pursuing a fantasy so desperately. You were weak. Love made known to the enemy is a weakness for them to exploit.
"How do you know about this dagger?"
"I hear things." The bastard's nonchalance only further enrages him. With a burst of strength, he lunges forward and shoves Booth back against a tree. Booth staggers, eyes wide in surprise at the strength of a crippled man. In the next moment, Rumple grinds the flat side of the dagger into Booth's useless windpipe with one hand, clenching his other fist around Booth's jacket. A hollow thunk echoes as Booth hits the tree, the sound of wood striking wood.
"No one here knows about this dagger," he says with a voice not entirely human.
"No one here remembers," Booth chokes out.
Without letting up, Rumplestiltskin continues. "And yet, you do. You're from there, aren't you? From my world?"
"The fact that you're asking the question means you know the answer."
"Well, now that that's settled." With a slight turn of his wrist, he releases the pressure against Booth's windpipe. The man draws in ragged, gasping breaths, one after another, each fogging in the frigid air. Gold turns the sharpened, curved blade until the edge presses under the man's jaw. "How about my other question? Who told you about me and the dagger?"
Booth has the audacity to smirk. "A little fairy."
The Dark One's rage is tempered slightly by his own curiosity. Many have feared him for centuries. Part of that was coasting on the coattails of previous Dark Ones, the fear of Zoso carrying over to him. The other part of that was his own deeds. People learned very quickly to fear the name Rumplestiltskin. Very, very few have ever had the audacity to smirk at him, to taunt him. He's confused. He's intrigued.
"Why did you want it? If you know who I am, then you know who I am." Booth nods as much as he is able with the dagger pressing into his throat in acknowledgement. "The chances of you surviving this little encounter are pretty slim. So, why take the risk?"
"Because I'll die anyway."
The answer causes Gold to step back in shock. His arm falls by his side as he reels back, the dagger held loosely. "What?"
Booth steps off the tree roots, rubbing at his abused throat. "I'm sick. I need magic. You can't scare a dying man by threatening his life." Booth sighs defeatedly, limping another step forward. "I was going to get the Savior to believe. But that girl… I don't think I'm going to make it long enough."
The ship glowing and flying suggests otherwise. It suggests the girl isn't the problem in the equation. "Well, did you even try?" Gold inquires sarcastically. The defeated, helpless look in Booth's eyes answers his question, if he didn't know the answer already. "Try again," Gold grits through his teeth.
Booth looks at him with shock. "You're going to let me live?"
So he does know the consequences of trying to trick the Dark One? Deliberately, he tucks the dagger into his suit jacket. "You're going to die either way. This way, at least I might get something out of it."
His rage still burning, he turns and stalks back to his car, leaving Booth slumped uselessly against a tree. Rumplestiltskin storms into his shop, glaring at his surroundings. Surrounded by the lost treasures of an entire kingdom, and yet, each and every one is useless to him. It's hardly a bargaining chip if the pissants don't remember. His impromptu interrogation left him with an unanswered question.
Who is August Booth?
Rumplestiltskin sits in his office, his mind whirring as it turns over the possibilities. A particular detail that slipped his notice at the time comes back to him. The 'thunk' as Booth struck the tree, as if the man's body was composed of wood. Rumplestiltskin glances up at the wooden puppets of a man and woman with rictus, horrific expressions frozen on their seemingly painted faces. Placed side-by-side, hand in wooden hand, the souls of the husband and wife together forever.
A knowing smirk stretches across his face. The boy whose parents turned to puppets, he grew into quite the woodcarver himself. It was his carving that, Rumplestiltskin knew, would ferry the Savior away from the Curse. As a grown man, he fashioned a puppet that was brought to life by the Blue Fairy. That would explain seeking out the gnat for counsel.
He recalls the fate he foresaw for the Savior. Another one of the menace's lies. The vessel ferried two to this land, the Savior and the puppet-turned-real-boy. The real boy, who was about seven years old when he 'found' baby Emma on the side of the highway, according to Mr. Gold's research.
He ponders why he didn't identify it sooner and is enraged to arrive at the same answer. He wanted so badly for what he believed he perceived to be true. He wished so desperately to have found his son again. Hoped beyond hope that the words of forgiveness were true. Rumplestiltskin always knew it to be true, that love is a weapon. It's just been quite some time before anyone has been able to wield such against him.
Rumplestiltskin returns to his home temporarily to compose himself for the next day. The sky is tinged with rosy orange hues of early sunrise by the time he steps through the door of his shop once again. Over the pleasant chime of his bell, he hears the chattering of the phone on the hook. Frowning, he answers it.
"Mr. Gold?" Instantly, the little bastard's voice infuses him with rage. Rumplestiltskin remains silent on the other end of the line. "We need to meet. It's about Emma. There's a problem." Gold barks out a time before hanging up the phone.
By the time Booth enters his shop later that morning, he has already begun conducting his business for the day. The first matter of business, to assess the value or likelihood of selling one of Booth's old treasures.
Marco leans over the glass countertop, his back to the door. He doesn't look up when the bell chimes Booth's entrance. Cold air rushes into the long corridor of display cases as the door opens. "Mr. Booth," Gold begins pleasantly, feeling slightly smug at the stunned look on Booth's face. "Be with you in a moment." The handyman continues his thorough inspection of the damage done to the cuckoo clock by the curse.
Gold smirks to himself. "On second thought, tell me. As one admirer of antiquities to another, do you think it's worth my while having this clock repaired?" Finally, Marco acknowledges the other man's presence and faces his hand-built son, unaware of the man's identity. The desperate longing in Booth's eyes truly is cathartic. He relishes in the feeling.
Booth is speechless, struck dumb, staring at his father.
"I'll take your silence as a yes, then."
"We are very busy right now, and eh, I'm a one man shop," the handyman explains in his thick accent. Gold considers Booth as the man turns away to suppress the expression he cannot mask. "But, eh, I'll get to the clock as fast as I can."
Without missing a beat, Gold returns to the business of his shop. "I couldn't ask for anything more," he answers understandingly. The old man lifts the clock from the glass countertop carefully, departing his shop with little more than a tipped hat in the direction of his son. Parting like strangers. Booth continues to stare after him, watching the door.
"First time seeing dear old Dad since you arrived in Storybrooke?" Gold watches as Booth's eyes slightly narrow, the beginnings of a frown crinkling his brow as he realizes his identity's been discovered.
"I'm sor-" Booth begins to ask. Rumplestiltskin continues to grin like the cat that caught the canary from his perch, leaning on the countertop. Booth jams his hands deep within his pockets in some poor attempt to mask his discomfort. Behind those blue eyes, there's a flicker of fear.
"What surprises me is that a man who claims to be at death's door, can't even bring himself to say hello to his father. What are you afraid of? What are you doing?"
"That's uh, that's my business." Booth answers bluntly, finally managing to tuck away that pesky emotion. As if that would conceal his weaknesses.
"Oh," he emphasizes the sound around a grin. "Fair enough. Let's talk about ours."
"I can get Emma to believe. I can get her to do what she was brought here for," Booth insists. Rumplestiltskin balks at the statement. Belief is far from Emma Swan's problem. Miss Swan has clearly made strides towards breaking the Curse. How intentional these actions were is debatable on an ad hoc basis.
If Booth wishes to squander his limited time chasing down this utterly incorrect notion of Emma Swan's disbelief, he won't trouble himself to correct the idiot. "I must say, even with the clock ticking away on your life, you don't seem to be in much of a hurry."
"I can get her there, trust me."
At this, Gold laughs outright before turning away, holding up his hand. "I'm sorry. It's just, knowing who you are and your nature, trust is a big ask." He sighs, composing himself. "Very well. It seems what young Miss Swan needs is a course correction."
"It's Hook, his influence on her. It's stopping her, holding her back." Booth insists, tugging a hand through his hair in frustration. "He's already put her in the hospital. He's gonna get her killed!" Mr. Gold blinks slightly in surprise. Now, this is an opportunity. Literally, a gift-wrapped path to breaking the Savior from the pirate's hold.
Rumplestiltskin takes a moment to don the suitable concern for the girl as more than a tool to break the Curse. "My own attempts to separate the two have proved fruitless. Exposing the girl to a fraction of the type of violent monster Hook is only endeared her further to him." Perhaps his own lack of research proved an oversight. Growing horror rises in the young man's eyes. Perhaps seeing the carnage of a man who hurt her wouldn't sway the Savior. But being helpless to stop Hook from murdering an innocent before her eyes should do the trick.
"Tell me, Booth. It was your job to safeguard Miss Swan in this land, was it not? You were meant to guide her to her destiny, were you not?" Ducking his eyes in shame, the young man nods. Even as the other cannot see it, Gold smirks. Decent people, or those trying to be, really are ridiculously easy. "Well then, lad, I'd say you're doing a terrible job of it. Who knows what Hook could be doing to that innocent girl, at his mercy all alone on a pirate ship?"
Booth's eyes are filled with dread as he finally looks up. "You don't think…"
"I've had many a man's wife…I have a ship full of men who need companionship."
In all honesty, he doubts it. From the interactions he's seen between the two, he cannot see it. He didn't even intend to insinuate. However, he's not one to forfeit an opportunity.
While he notes the wheels turning in Booth's eyes, regretting what he abandoned Emma Swan to suffer, he strikes. "I have carefully watched over Emma Swan ever since your arrival in this land. While there was nothing I could affect within the confines of the Curse and Storybrooke, the girl has suffered considerably." Once again, Booth lowers his head in shame. While he's unconcerned with the Savior's fate, Rumplestiltskin is able to inject the words with gravitas. "She's been neglected, beaten, abused, even raped. She's been abandoned, betrayed, framed for another's crimes." Booth flinches with each subsequent word. All color floods from his face at the final charge, suggesting he may have had some hand in that. "Captain Hook is currently in possession of my notes. He has all the information he could possibly need to manipulate Emma Swan however he sees fit. You need to get her away from him."
"What's he gonna do?" Booth whispers.
"What, to you?" Gold asks, injecting the question with accusation, eyebrow raised with the question. The young man flinches, almost as if the accusation of cowardice bears some weight. Gold smirks, the gold in his tooth glinting in the subdued light of his shop.
"Why don't you rescue her from Hook yourself?" Booth demands.
"Because he's twisted her against me. She doesn't trust me." The girl is likely right to do so. "Booth, you are going to get Emma Swan away from Captain Hook. Physically separate them. Take Miss Swan to a place where Hook cannot harm her. He is a danger to her. He will prevent her from breaking the curse." And if Hook happens to kill you in the process of kidnapping his newest partner in crime, so be it.
Charged with seemingly the most critical task of his life, Booth departs from his shop as Gold returns to his office with his leather-bound ledger in hand. In his mind, he recounts what he knows to be certain. The Dark Curse will break. He will be reunited with his son. Whether or not his son may forgive him remains a mystery.