"You're sure you've got him?" The woman from the agency refuses to release the baby, mutterings of minding his head everywhere. Mr. Gold maintains patience, though, an unflappability as prepared and unblemished as his suit.

The corners of his mouth, however, entice him to smile and marvel over the alert, searching eyes staring up at him. A boy, that's what Regina wanted, and she sure was in for something special with this one. He could feel it.

"It's a long trip, all the way back to...where did you say?"

"Maine. Storybrooke, Maine." A fine, forested cross between Purgatory and Hell, he thinks.

"Wow, that's a long drive. I don't envy you." She's a harried but well-meaning sort, fussing over the baby even though he's left her arms. He takes that as a sign she's passionate about her job.

"The mother didn't want to come and say goodbye?" he asks.

"No. She, she said she didn't think she could go through with it if she did. Poor thing. It's really for the best, though. She's so young."

Morbid curiosity denied, he shakes it off. He'll see her soon. Everyone will. The stagnant years inspired him at times to wonder just what she would look like, how her mother and father's features would have blended to create the savior, the hope, now just an unwed teenaged mother no one expects anything from—he knows better. Emma will surpass everyone's expectations, perhaps even his own.

He thanks the woman and begins the journey. It's a ride that belongs more in a comedy movie than here, a man and a baby traveling cross-country. Oh, he considered bolting, considered so many things, but Regina still had a few bits and fragments of magic left. He did not. Not handy anyway. The route was calculated for him before he even agreed to this venture. She had the issues of gas, hotels at which to stay, and scheduled phone calls already planned out, the viper. He couldn't veer from it if he tried. It's under the guise of just a meticulous route, but he can feel the magic behind it.

The cries in the middle of the night pull him from a dreamless sleep, the kind of sleep he prefers. Good dreams no longer exist; nightmares plague him, memories of events that never should have happened. So he doesn't mind fetching the formula and shaking it up in one of the many bottles Regina's provided him. He doesn't mind throwing a spit-up rag over his shoulder and watching the boy guzzle the milk.

"Easy, kiddo. It's all going down that gullet anyway," he whispers to him, and just for a moment, he pretends. He pretends the mini-fridge and coffee maker are gone, replaced by straw-stuffed beds and meat drying amid the smoke above a hearth. Slowly, he begins to sing, rocking the baby in the recliner, no, the hand-made rocking chair. The little eyes flutter, a little longer each time the lashes brush up against the cheeks.

"And you promised me a story. Tell me about your son."

He exhales. She'd like this story, all right.

Thunder rolls along the plains, one right after another. Perhaps a tornado will whisk them away back to a place full of magic, like in the story.

"Probably not just a story is it?" he asks the car seat behind him. He has stopped so many times, for diaper changes, feedings, to stretch his legs and give his cane some use. The rest of the time, in spite of the radio on, he's told the child stories, the true, oh-too-true stories this world has butchered and censored and misconstrued time and time again. It doesn't all have to be a secret, not like in Storybrooke. Here in a car, with no one to repeat any of it, he can pass on his knowledge the way the poets of ancient Greece did.

It's not that he dislikes this world, necessarily. It has its perks. Extraordinary machines, no one smelling like dung, on that note, showers, an absolutely beautiful automobile he's rather surprised Regina conjured up for him. It and airplanes, ships, trains—the vastness of this world can be traveled, can be traversed, adventures to be had by anyone—and only he knows the pain of not being able to take advantage of any of it. The others aren't aware. Even he wasn't fully aware until he'd been allowed this trip, to take in the skyscrapers, the mountains, and even the monotonous plains.

"I did want to see the world. That part didn't really work out."

Didn't work out for anyone, love.

The boy needs a name, he thinks, pulling down the visor as well as flipping on his sunglasses to shield him against the Kentucky sun. The last several days, he'd been Kiddo, Lad, My Boy, and, by accident, a name he hasn't said out loud for years.

He shouldn't be Regina's, his conscience nags him. The right thing to do would be to drive all the way back, force him into his mother's arms, and make her care for him. Funny how the right thing to do didn't always coincide with the greater good. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. There is no reason to become attached to the boy, he reminds himself. You'll watch him grow up just like everyone else, only you'll be one of the only ones aware of it. And it was the only way to make Emma come. He could never forget that. Whatever bond he felt with the child, however much he pretended during those times late at night when he was too tired to keep being Mr. Gold, whatever warmth he felt from the blood in this baby's veins, the child was not his. No one was his. And he was no one's.

Regina dashes out of the house the second he sets foot on the brick path to the front door, carrying the boy by the car seat. Her eyes wide and shimmering, she presses her palms together and holds them up against her mouth and nose.

"Oh! Oh, give him to me!" she breathes, unbuckling the baby in record speed and cradling him in her arms. For a split second, he feels something of a kinship with her, and he wishes to remark that even two such as they aren't immune from something so precious as a baby's presence.

"He's perfect!" she coos, tears streaming down her face.

"You're sure you've got him?" he asks.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Gold." She composes herself. "I can take it from here."

"They're a handful, you know."

"I have a nurse coming from the hospital soon. Believe me, he and I will be fine." She holds the baby up and nuzzles his opened hand.

"Have you got a name picked out?" He shouldn't be inquiring. He doesn't want to give anything away.

"Of course I do. You should have known that when I specifically told you a boy." Her expression softens a tad and she looks back down at her acquisition. "Henry."

"Henry," he repeats. Emma and Henry. "It means 'home ruler.' Family name?" he can't resist asking.

"It's the best name I know," she says with more bite. "Was there anything else?"

"Not a thing." He steps forward and strokes the baby's face. "You be good to your mother now, Henry, lad. She'll need you." And we'll all need her, he thinks as he turns and hobbles back down the brick path.

A/N: I heard somewhere that Regina adopted Henry when he was three weeks old, but I'm not sure if that's true or not, and I'm also pretty sure that Emma gave birth while in Arizona, but I'm not sure if that's right, either, so that is why I am being purposely vague when it comes to some of the locations and Henry's age. Since when has age been a priority on OUAT anyway, lol? I do not own the show or the characters. Reviews are much appreciated.