Three Minutes
~O~
Outside, the world was cold.
Bellowing foghorns pierced the soft, sleepy gloom of the harbor, its waters imbued with the quietude of the very early morning. An obscuring force, the fog crept along the surface of the water, discoloring the boats and barges that meandered gingerly in its opaqueness, until they quit the dreary confines of the harbor for the yawning sea.
Foghorns bellowed and seabirds wailed—but still, the world was quiet. The harbor was not dissonant; rather, from its deep, dark waters emanated an algid tranquility that, in a gentle way, severed the port from rest of the town.
There's no greater pain than regret.
Rumpelstiltskin watched the boats disappear, one by one, into the fog, and felt a vague urge to do so, too.
Try abandonment.
Then, he closed his weary, chestnut eyes, imagining Bae at the table in his kitchen with a cup of coffee and a book; his lips unfolded, and he smiled—softly, and just barely. Your Papa's here, Bae, and I'll never, ever leave you. Not again. But the image was tentative, and it faded quickly, prompting Rumpelstiltskin to replace the elusive thought with the concreteness of the harbor.
He opened his eyes.
The port was empty, appearing more stagnant than dormant, and he grimly wondered if its stillness suggested the likely irreparability of his broken relationship with Bae. Utter nonsense, he huffed, and then flinched, gripping the gilded handle of his cane; to his ears, the throbbing of his ankle was audible, and momentarily, it was deafening.
"Oh, Mr. Gold."
As the voice sounded, his knuckles whitened, and he corrected his posture.
"…Henry."
Out of the fog flew a flock of seagulls, guided by the light from the lampposts that encircled the harbor.
Rumpelstiltskin glanced at his wristwatch, and then at Henry, and asked, "Shouldn't you be in class?"
"Yeah, but not until eight o'clock."
"…You've three minutes until eight o'clock, Henry."
"What's the problem? That's plenty of time."
Uninterested in arguing, Rumpelstiltskin redirected his gaze—this time, away from Henry. To his eyes, the throbbing of his ankle was visible, and momentarily, it was the brightest shade of red; inundated with dizzying flashes of color, Rumpelstiltskin attempted to snuff out the brightness by embracing the bliss of a closed pair of eyes.
"Have you read My Father's Dragon?" the boy quickly asked.
Like an anodyne, or perhaps a spell, the three little words instantly eased the actual ache of his ankle, and the imagined one, too, and from under furrowed eyebrows, Rumpelstiltskin blinked.
My.
Father's.
Dragon.
Warily, he eyed Henry, and swallowed hard, suddenly cognizant of his thirst. (Or maybe of his anxiety. Of this, he was unsure.) Baelfire's favorite novel.
"…Yes, I've read it. What about it?"
"Well, it was my favorite book as a little kid, but I've lost it now."
Unable to disassociate his son from the novelette, Rumpelstiltskin considered this transgression offensively intimate, as if Henry had somehow irredeemably wronged Bae. Unabashedly, he scoffed and shook his head.
"Someday, I'd like to go on adventure just like that with you and Neal."
And then at once, in a single movement, Henry hugged Rumpelstiltskin. Automatically, the man stiffened, but the eerie, almost ethereal voice of the seer very nearly moved him to act and drown the boy in the adjacent waters:
The boy will be your undoing.
The ensuing familiarity of the embrace, however, suggested otherwise, and left Rumpelstiltskin not simply motionless, but wholly resistant to action. He was frozen by an inchoate realization that, as it built to a crescendo—
Arms to my waist, secured.
Face to my chest, hidden.
—promptly permitted him to thaw.
Just like Bae.
Propelled by this thought, the man lifted his arms to return the embrace.
But as abruptly as it had begun, it ended, and Henry released Rumpelstiltskin. Between two quick, influent goodbyes, the boy added, "See, Mr. Gold? Three minutes is plenty of time," and then scurried away, almost in a beeline, to the end of the harbor.
Rumpelstiltskin did not pursue Henry, as his initial half-formed thought suddenly developed into a full-fledged epiphany.
This epiphany—
Henry is just like Baelfire.
—stunned the man back into inertness, and as he watched the slight form become smaller, and then nonexistent, he vaguely wondered if the seer had mislead him about his fate.
After all, she had misled him once before.
~O~
Three.
Dark, rusted metal. On a dingy, olive-green door.
Three. A very telling number, Rumpelstiltskin noted as he approached the loft, its threshold akin to a faulty guillotine that rarely, if ever, severed the good from the bad.
Of knocking, the man knew the outcome; to knock was to incite attack, as the loft housed a family of shaking hands, but also balled fists. Like a pristine rose clinging to its last petals.
Rumpelstiltskin did not knock.
Instead, as he rubbed with burgeoning thoughtfulness the threadbare edges of his copy of My Father's Dragon, he began making alterations to his earlier daydream: Bae, with a cup of coffee, and Henry, with a cup of chocolate, at the table in his kitchen with the novelette—
"Mr. Gold?"
Caught in the angles of the stairwell, the voice lingered as a kind of crystalline tune, and Rumpelstiltskin paused to listen to its fading echoes before turning, seconds later, to acknowledge its source.
"…What do you want, Mr. Gold?"
Three pairs of eyes stared at Rumpelstiltskin with blatant wariness, and at once the man astutely thought, Today, the guillotine works. Not hands atremble, but fists clenched.
Coolly, he returned the collective gaze. (An ostensible gesture. Inwardly, he was unsettled.)
He had discovered My Father's Dragon while taking inventory of his pawnshop, Rumpelstiltskin explained, and had decided to give it to Henry as a gift. "Small gestures of affection," he added, an edge in his voice.
"A gift from the Dark One? At what price?"
Rumpelstiltskin ignored the individual for the group, as the inquiry was, at its heart, collective.
"It's a gift, dearie. Gifts are free."
"Right, well, give us leave to decipher the subtext, will you?"
The Charmings. Clanking of keys. Dingy, olive-green door, opened. Through the threshold. Dingy, olive-green door, shut. Three. Silence. Rumpelstiltskin.
Casting the loft a sharp glance, Rumpelstiltskin thought, Fine. Tomorrow, I'll try again, but as he began his descent downstairs, he started to wonder, was this an omen? This obstacle, did it suggest that—
The boy will be your undoing.
The stairway roiled, spiraling inside of his head, as well as outside of it, and as its declivity sharpened, the throbbing of his ankle did, too. Red flashes. Weighty thumps. Perpetual loops.
Bae, and then Henry. Smiling.
The stairway stilled, and the sudden quietude instantly revealed a soft, metallic pitter-patter that, during his brief, dizzying moment of panic, he had been unable to register. It's raining, he realized, and then quickly eyed My Father's Dragon; he had torn the cover, and automatically, he juxtaposed it and the chipped cup. (Really, he could hardly see it.) Suddenly, the downpour resembled applause—
You've got three minutes. Clock's ticking.
—and then, a murmur.
See, Mr. Gold? Three minutes is plenty of time.
Bright, sterile ceiling lights flickered as Rumpelstiltskin began his descent downstairs; but again, he halted his footsteps to study the novelette. It was:
Worn.
Torn.
Hoary.
(Loved.)
…Yes, I'll give Henry the novel tomorrow, he decided, but his hesitation was palpable.
And his teeth were clenched, too.
-Fin
~O~
Author's Notes (PLEASE READ):
To be honest, I had intended this ficlet to present the Rumpelstiltskin/Henry relationship in a warm, encouraging light, but I also wanted to be realistic. (And this was difficult, because I'm all for Rumpel/Henry and Rumpel/Bae.) Right now, OUaT is not going in a Rumpel-adores-Henry direction, so until I see some kind of actual love between the two, this ficlet is as good as it's going to get for me. However, I DO believe Rumpel will eventually do the right thing, and probably sacrifice his powers to save Henry. So, in a very little way, I tried to have the ficlet end on a hopeful note. (Well, sort of.)
Anyway, all credit goes to Ruth Stiles Gannett for her great novel, My Father's Dragon. (Why does it exist in our world and FTL? No clue. For this story, it just does.)
Also, forgive the vague scene with the Charmings. To me, they often speak as a group, and thus sometimes need no identifiers. But if you're curious, the snarky bastard speaking is David. :)
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this ficlet! (Also, apologies for my excessive use of the dash.) Reviews are very welcome, and thank you for reading! :)