Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own this series or any characters, but it captured my imagination vividly enough to write down some thoughts. I couldn't stop laughing during most of the Beauty and the Beast episode. I can't wait for more!
More than You Bargained For
Rumpelstiltskin's deals were always lopsided. They were always skewed in his favor so that it would be the client paying the price instead of him. When the price he extracted outweighed what he gave, it was always a good deal, in his opinion. Everyone got what they thought they wanted at the time, but sometimes they would get more than they bargained for.
Mostly, his price came in the form of trophies. A lock of hair here, a cursed puppet there . . . They meant little to him, but they meant a great deal to the ones he collected them from. Value was such a subjective thing. The only value these knick-knacks held for him was as playing pieces, bartering fodder for some future deal yet to be conceived by the desperate soul willing to part with something else. Simple trades required little from him in terms of magic, so he tended to prefer those, simple objects serving as currency when the gold he literally made every day meant nothing. His trophy room was his bank, and he was his own teller.
So much wealth had amassed over the ages he'd been in business that it collected dust. When he traded in people, he took care to make sure they didn't stay long enough for them to do so as well. Except . . .
Belle had been a good deal gone bad. It was the second time he'd ever gotten more than he'd bargained for.
Mr. Gold's shop was now his trophy room, and the spillover resided in his house. Even in this world, so different from the last, people were still quite willing to trade the precious for what they thought they wanted. He dealt in money far more than he ever had before. The clink of the coins and the rustle of the bills were soothing at times, much like his spinning wheel, but ultimately they meant as little as the gold and treasure of the last world. Still, everything-and everyone-had a price.
Even him.
That much had been made abundantly clear the moment Regina wanted to talk to him. The woman was as cunning as ever. She'd managed to make him blinded enough by his rage that he walked right into her trap. There was no escape, and she got what she wanted from him. The game had changed, now that she knew he was aware, and he had lost his best defense from her schemes. He still had his trump card, however, and judging by her smile, she was working on one of her own.
Damn that woman. What was she up to?
It was almost pointless to contemplate at the moment. He didn't feel like himself right now. Seeing the cup and regaining it had emotionally drained him. Mr. Gold ran his fingers over the smooth porcelain, taking care when they grazed the chipped edge. He had kept it safe, in a place of honor in his house, even for the past 28 years when time stood still and he didn't fully remember its significance. Human life and false memories . . . it was strange to be human again. He was certain even if his former captors woke up from their time-lost stupor, they wouldn't be able to recognize this old, soft-spoken cripple as being the smooth, loathsome, goblinoid deal-maker, still feared even when locked up in a supposedly inescapable prison.
Not even he had expected the limp, but he supposed he should have. He'd spent so long without it after the magic entered, he barely remembered how he'd gotten it in the first place. The false memories in his head told him he'd been on his way to boot camp in the army when he'd slipped and seriously injured it. So close to the truth, but different enough not to spark the actual memory. His curse was insidious like that.
Crafted in some of his darkest hours, it was the cruelest and most powerful single spell ever made, and he'd bartered it away like any of his old trophies. Of course, just like the swordsman who teaches the student all but his master technique, intricate details to the curse remained secret. There were hints and tips about how to break it, so many ways, specific in their implementation, but all chronicled . . . and the savior who escaped the initial casting, the hero who would unknowingly bring the entire thing down around the caster's ears.
Every spell had a counterspell. Every curse had its weakness, true love's kiss being the most common. It was simple enough to work in exemptions for himself. The catalyst's name spoken from her lips was all it took for his memory to seep back into his mind like a dark sludge. He could feel the magic like a heavy fog around them all, and it was beginning to grow ever more brittle wherever Emma stood.
Regina had made a mistake in bringing the boy here. Emma was the catalyst and Henry was part of her.
He was still lost in contemplation, staring at the simple, imperfect cup in his hands when Emma Swan came back into the station and stood outside the bars of his cell. It took her several tries to get his attention, finally succeeding with "Hey, my hand's getting cold, here."
Mr. Gold blinked and looked up to see the sheriff holding an ice cream cone just starting to melt, for a second completely forgetting that he'd asked her to get it for him while she was out with her son Henry. It had been a ruse, really, to get her out of the room for Regina's little chat. He was tempted to tell her to keep it, but he'd been so wound up the past few days that he'd forgotten to eat. Only now that he'd gotten his property returned did his stomach untie itself. He carefully placed the cup on the narrow bed behind him and accepted Emma's offering through the bars.
"Thank you," Mr. Gold murmured softly.
"Don't mention it," Emma rubbed her hand on her jacket in an attempt to warm it up. "So that's what this was all about? A cup? Must be something pretty special."
Emma was pretty sharp to put things together so fast, he had to admit, but it was a stupid question and the answer was obvious. Mr. Gold ignored it and ate his ice cream.
The blonde sheriff wasn't one to quit so easily, though. She leaned on the bars, casually sticking her arms through, as if she had all the time in the world and she would use it all to pester him. "It's a pretty design. Doesn't match any of the other items Mr. French made off with, though. Must be the last of a set. You don't seem like the type to buy a hodge-podge of individual pieces. Not for yourself, anyway."
Mr. Gold could still remember the delicate sound of porcelain shattering on impact with his wall, the feel of the cool ceramic beneath his shimmering, grayish fingers as he flung them in rage. No, he really wasn't that sort.
"One of the foster homes I was in was like that. No two glasses alike, no two plates the same, kind of like the kids," Emma continued on, but Mr. Gold definitely wasn't listening. He was only aware of the fact she'd stopped talking when he finished his ice cream, momentarily puzzled there was no more.
"So who was she?" Emma still lent against the bars.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The girl who gave you that cup. Is it the same one Mr. French hurt?" she said it so casually, Mr. Gold almost broke character to yell at her. Instead his face subtly twitched.
"Where could you possibly get a bizarre idea like that?"
"There's a connection between you and Mr. French, Mr. Gold, and I'm not leaving you alone until I find out what it is."
Mr. Gold's expression was carefully blank save for the slight smirk on his lips, "The only connection I have ever had with Mr. French is through business. And I sincerely doubt you would have the manpower to follow around a law-abiding businessman such as myself when you have an entire town to oversee."
"Assault is a minimum of two years in county prison, not to mention the 8 years for second-degree kidnapping." Emma cocked her head, "Even if you get out of the assault charge for 'Heat of Passion,' you'll still have to explain to the jury how he provoked you. I don't think the premeditated kidnapping will be that easy."
"Unless the charges are dropped," Mr. Gold cocked his head mockingly, mimicking Emma's movement, "And if you allow me to call the hospital and Mr. French is awake, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."
"And I'll let you have that phone call," Emma smiled, "Just as soon as you tell me who she is."
Mr. Gold's expression didn't change. "I believe I'm allowed a phone call regardless."
She shrugged. "Technically. But I can expedite that . . . for a price." Emma swung her ring of keys like it was a child's toy, her smile turning wolfish. "Also technically, prisoners aren't supposed to keep personal items in their cells, so I'd have to put that cup of yours with the rest of your belongings."
He knew a serious threat when he heard one. The businessman sighed, reaching to his side and bringing the chipped cup around to hold with both hands. "You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Swan." For a few seconds as he slid it around his hands, it almost looked like he was planning to hand her the cup, but then he started to speak. "She was Mr. French's daughter, and she was a gold digger." The false memories flew off his tongue as he gazed into the pristine white depths of the cracked porcelain. "I employed her as a maid for a time, and she was clumsy," he thumbed the chip for emphasis as Emma listened and watched intently. "When she tried to seduce me, I rejected her. Her father shut her out for her failure, and shortly thereafter she committed suicide." He finally looked back up to Emma and wasn't sure he could hide the pain in his eyes. "So, you have no one to save and nothing to fix and forced me to recount a terrible memory in the process. May I have my phone call now, please?"
Speechless, Emma nodded, wide-eyed, as if someone had just punched her in the gut. She almost fumbled her keys as she unlocked the cell and escorted him to the phone. Twenty minutes later, Mr. French had accepted the deal, dropping all assault and kidnapping charges in return for absolution on burglary, theft, and all his debts. He even got his truck back.
On his way out of the police station, Mr. Gold pondered if he'd been too lenient, if he should have kept the truck and made the deal less lopsided in French's favor. He looked down at the cup in his hand as he limped his way home, heavily favoring his cane. What did another trophy mean to him, anyway?