It was like he'd never left.
Storybrooke had always been like this: a small, picturesque town with shoppe-lined streets. It was out of step with time, existing in a perfect little capsule like a snow globe. The clock tower pierced the night air, the bells chiming with their haunting melody; a few late-night pedestrians huddled together against the chilled air, coffee cups in hand. A small yellow car drove through the rainy, lamplit streets.
Memories clung to those streets. Sepia figures, haunting whispers…the distant echoes of gunshots and screams. Neal set his jaw in a grimace, and tightened his hands around the wheel. He couldn't afford to get distracted right now: he had to have his wits about him. Somehow—somehow—that bastard had found him again. There was no time for sentimentality: not in this business, not in this world.
He drove the yellow Bug to the end of Main Street and spun left, driving the stretch for a good twenty minutes until he was at the edge of the town line. He stopped when his eyes caught the sleek black car parked on the side. The moon lent its light to the slim figure standing in front of it, his dark hair in a halo around the narrow face that held cold, intelligent features. Neal's features.
Neal let out his breath in a slow, tense stream, cursing silently. Rumanus Gold, the personification of Evil itself. How he hated that man.
Rumanus knew of his hatred. More than knew—he practically gloried in it, wearing it like a mark of pride. He watched as Neal parked his Bug with a contemptuous curl of his lips, lifting his eyebrows as the door swung open and Neal stepped out.
"So," Rumanus said, the mocking smile twisting the corner of his mouth. "The prodigal son returns."
Neal slammed the car door unceremoniously shut, not returning the smile. "The son was the one who begged to come home in that story," he said flatly. "I'm not a prodigal son." He leaned against the car, shoving his hand in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes, and put one between his teeth. "What do you want?"
"I want you to come back," Rumanus said unflinchingly.
Neal let out a derisive laugh. "Come back? Are you insane?"
"I need someone I can trust," Rumanus said as if he hadn't spoken. "I want you as my right-hand man."
"And what makes you think you can trust me?" Neal returned bitterly. "What makes you think I won't kill you, first chance I get?"
"I'm your father," Rumanus scoffed. "You're not one for patricide. You didn't even have it in you to kill Killian Jones when you had him backed against a wall, begging for mercy."
"You remember what happened to Liam," Neal said darkly. "I owed him."
Rumanus flicked a patronizing smile, as if he couldn't be bothered to find basic human compassion, and jutted his chin at the Bug. "Nice car," he said. "Not quite your style, but you always were a rebel."
Neal didn't answer. He simply blew out a stream of smoke, keeping his cold gaze on his father. Rumanus raised an eyebrow at his lack of response, but seemed otherwise unfazed. He placed his hands behind his back, taking deliberate steps toward Neal.
"I notice you're 'Neal Cassidy' now," he confided. "Going by your mother's name."
"I don't want anything to do with you," Neal said through his teeth. "Not your life, not your business, not your name."
"Then why did you come?" Rumanus countered.
"Why did you come looking for me?" Neal returned.
There was a cold, still silence. Rumanus regarded him with an unreadable expression, his smile now a ghost on his lips. He slowly raised a finger, pointing over his shoulder. Neal didn't take his eyes off him, though he knew exactly where he was pointing: the fields.
They were the true source of power in this town, the fields. Marijuana was the business Storybrooke ran on: it was what made it possible for people to make an affluent living on small-town shops and diners, selling organic products and herbal remedies. Without it, the town would crumble to ruin; but that was hardly a danger. For too many years, too many powerful people had turned a blind eye and swept certain illegalities under the rug, ensuring the continuation of the lucrative, crime-ridden underworld that existed beneath the peaceful veneer of Storybrooke.
There were several great families who guarded the inner circle, but Rumanus Gold was the head of the most powerful one. The Jones family had considered them their rivals for as far back as Neal could remember, but the Jones's had been the ones to trespass on the Golds' territory first. Several years ago, the situation had gotten out of hand: lives had been lost, money burned, and relationships severed. But it had been quieted down and concealed behind the curtain created by the politicians and lawyers, using their bright smiles and persuasive words to mask the tragedies that had occurred. But Neal had never forgotten. He would never forget.
That was why he left.
"My kingdom," Rumanus said, stealing back his thoughts. "Much as it pains me to say, I'm not going to live forever. And this business is getting more dangerous everyday, so I'm increasingly aware of that. I need someone on my side who I can trust…and eventually, take over. Who better to do that than my own son?"
"What, you want to start a dynasty?" Neal scoffed.
"Something like that." Rumanus watched him carefully. "Stay a few days. Walk around, talk to some people. I'm doing good work here, Neal."
"No. Helping inner-city Latino kids get into college is good work. Bringing medical relief to Third-World countries is good work. This—" Neal waved vaguely at the fields—"this is something else entirely."
"All right, all right. Question my morals, you always did." Rumanus' smile faded, his face turning serious. "Stay a few days," he repeated. "A week. If you still want to leave after that, I won't stop you. I won't track you down, I'll be completely out of your life. You'll never have to hear from me again."
Neal looked at him for a long time, considering. It was a tempting thought, the idea of permanently removing his father from his life. He'd spent the last few years haunted by him, always looking over his shoulder, expecting to see his soul-piercing eyes staring back at him. And Rumanus was, offering to put an end to all that. The only price was one week. Seven days. One-hundred-sixty-eight hours.
Neal carefully took the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it to the ground, smothering it to ash with the toe of his boot. "All right," he said quietly, not looking up. "One week."