The title is from the song New Slang by The Shins
In his dreams, the world ends, not with a whisper but with a bang. It ends screaming, fighting tooth and nail as it is ripped in two.
Footsteps slowly echo away, and water drips down the cold stone wall. Torchlight creates more shadows than it dispels in the dank, miserable cavern.
Rumpelstiltskin paces the border, mentally prodding the cell for a weakness, any weakness at all. It seems, however, the children have done their homework. He spits, aims a kick at the bars. Just because he's exactly where he wants to be doesn't mean he's happy. He's caged, and now all he can do is wait. He hates waiting.
His mood shifts suddenly, and he giggles. They think they can trick a creature they believe is able to see the future? Bless their hearts. He can't see the future, of course. Life has too many possibilities, too many twists and turns, and everyone has a choice. But he has his fingers in every pie, and he has enough foresight and cunning to guess what will happen next or, more commonly, arrange it. It's close enough that it's almost the same thing. It's close enough that they should know better.
He traces his finger along a cranny in the rock wall, his disposition souring again. Caged. Confined to a cheerless, murky cell while he waits for the curse to be enacted. He's so close he can taste it on his tongue, but it's like reaching through the bars to touch something only just inches from his outstretched fingertips. Still too far.
He waits, and wishes he'd brought something to read.
In his dreams, there is gruesome sound, the screams of the dying and the wails of the despairing. He runs because the noise shreds him, and he isn't strong enough to listen anymore.
He hears the approach of people, and the guard calls his name. Unwinding from the sitting position he'd taken on the ceiling (gravity is one of the few playthings he has left), he swings to the floor and lands in a crouch. There are two hooded figures present beside the guard.
It's almost insulting that they think they can fool him on something as simple as this. Who else would want to – or be allowed to – visit him? He won't let this one slide, and is as obnoxious as he can be without driving them away before he gets what he wants from them.
He moves a piece on the chessboard in his head. Check.
Regina's disguise is a bit cleverer, but just as transparent. Apparently getting trapped by the Charmings automatically stamps 'gullible' on your forehead. He supposes he can see the logic there. Regina is easy, too. He's been manipulating her for years – what's one final nudge? She leaves and he grins, draping himself on the bars.
Checkmate.
In his dreams, he is nothing, just a hollow shell painted grey-gold. He wonders if he used to be something, but doubts it.
He is Mr. Gold, and he has a pawnshop and a horribly pink house. He walks with a cane and wears ties and collects rent from just about everyone in town. The days blur, and sometimes he feels like they have happened before. Everyone is afraid of him, and often that seems like the only thing right about the world.
He doesn't have a son or a dagger or a curse, until one day he does.
Everything comes into focus. Everything makes sense, even the garish paintjob on his otherwise pleasant home. He is almost positive Regina learned that kind of petty vengeance from him, and isn't sure whether to be proud or annoyed and settles for both.
The clock ticks, and the forward motion of time is like a breath of fresh air after being buried in a coffin for twenty-eight years. For the first time ever in Storybrooke, life moves on.
Juggling two people in his head takes some getting used to, but this new self is similar enough to his original self that he is able to blend them together and become one person again.
He remembers his chessboard and resets the pieces, ready for the next game.
In his nightmares, he fails.