"You have friends in high places, Mr. Gold," Emma said as she unlocked the cell door.
"I am high places," Mr. Gold replied. He shifted on the bench and cast a lop-sided grin at her. "Am I, as they say, free to go?"
"You're going to need to fill out some paperwork with the secretary, but . . . yeah, you can go."
Emma clipped the ring of keys back onto her belt and returned to her desk, keeping a sharp eye on the crippled pawnbroker as hauled himself to his feet. He moved stiffly, haltingly, as if he'd aged ten years in the mere twelve hours he'd been in the cell. Emma knew Mr. Gold was faster and more spritely then he made himself look to the inhabitants of Storybrooke. When, then, had caused such a dramatic change in his disposition?
"My coat and cane, if you please, Sheriff," he muttered, straightening and dusting off his tailored suit with an air of repugnance.
Shaken from her thoughts, Emma reached under the desk to where Mr. Gold's cane had fallen, and retrieved his neatly-folded coat from one of the desk's larger drawers. She returned to the open cell and handed both to him, putting sufficient distance between herself and his outstretched hands.
"I imagine Moe's family will want to press charges," Emma remarked, "but knowing you . . ."
"A slap on the wrist," Mr. Gold finished, smiling grimly as he donned his coat. "Perhaps some monetary compensation. That'll be the end of it, I assure you."
Emma knew he was right, and she couldn't to bring herself to challenge the statement. Something else was bothering her – something small, shiny, and white that Mr. Gold was attempting to conceal in his other hand.
A teacup.
Emma mistakenly looked straight up into Mr. Gold's eyes, and was met with quiet rage behind the dark brown orbs, coupled with the immediate sense that she'd seen something she hadn't been meant to see. Mr. Gold hastily slipped the teacup into his coat pocket.
"Good day to you, Sheriff Swan," Mr. Gold said, and turned on his heel.
He was barely across the threshold of the door when Emma's mouth acted faster than her mind.
"You must have loved her a lot if a teacup was that important to recover."
Mr. Gold stopped. His free hand flew to the bulge in his pocket where the teacup rested. Then, he turned around.
For the first time since her arrival in Storybrooke, Emma pitied her uneasy ally against the mayor. She had done enough private investigation back in Boston to know when a person is trying to cover their true feelings, and Mr. Gold was currently a textbook example.
After a few moments of tense silence, Mr. Gold shakily said, ". . . Yes. I suppose I did."
Daring to venture a bit further, Emma said, "What happened to her?"
Emma had expected him to leave without another word. Instead, he left her with three.
"My own foolishness."
An inexplicable wave of sadness washed over Emma. She held his gaze, searching for more answers. None came.
Mr. Gold turned again and left, this time for good.
Several minutes after Mr. Gold's departure, a thought struck Emma. She furrowed her brow and searched her recent memories, double-checking the validity of the idea.
Emma had made Mr. Gold empty his pockets when they'd arrived at the station. She'd taken all of his personal belongings and meticulously inspected his person for any missed items.
There had been no teacup. But he'd left with a teacup, which meant it must have been given to him from someone outside the cell.
And who had been the only person to approach him?
Regina.
Emma had just found a new side project.
A/N: God, Robert Carlyle is just the greatest, isn't he? I have so much material to work with.