In the first few weeks following her release, he tries to avoid her. Tries. She doesn't make it too easy for him. She finds reasons to come into his shop, fingers trailing over his things in that idly curious way that is so very her. He doesn't know why she's here – her Storybrooke memories don't include him at all (he knows exactly why she is here; the same reason little miss Snow White and her charming prince stare longingly at each other over coffees grown cold and books left unread).
Every time she enters his store, he stations himself behind the counter, glass serving as a trench or a wall around the castle of his heart, and watches her wander around trying to think of something to say to him but always failing (what do you say to a perfect stranger?)
And, gods, she is just as lovely as he remembers her, even with the pale skin and dark circles under her eyes.
This time, on a particularly sunny and headache inducing day, she stalks in looking extra determined and actually watches him as he limps his way to his place behind the display cases, as far away from her as possible. When he spreads his hands wide over the glass, she watches with almost hungry eyes.
"How are you, Miss French?" Cordial. A touch of mockery.
"Just fine, Mr. Gold." There's a tilt to her mouth today. A very familiar tilt that sets his body on edge. He feels every hair on his neck and arms rise up.
She flashes a quick smile and starts running her hands over his dust covered trinkets. He stares at her for moment before he realizes she can see him out of the corner of her eye. He busies himself, turning away to check on something behind him, but when he looks back, she is not there.
She is behind him, peeking around the curtain to his back room. As nosy as ever, apparently.
"Miss French?" he questions, but she doesn't even look back. By the time a high and almost manic Missy escapes his lips, she is already well out of sight, the curtain falling closed behind her.
He grips his cane and clears his throat, his voice entirely too shrill for his own liking, and repeats, "Excuse me, Miss French."
He hobbles after her, always following. In his back room, she's doing the exact same thing she was doing out front, running her hands over everything that she sees. It sets his teeth on edge. The feeling of being jealous over inanimate objects is unpleasant and humiliating.
She gives the small spinning wheel he has at the foot of his workbench a small twist, watching the arms twirl for a moment.
"I think I use to own this," she murmurs, accent tinted with the heavy tones of a forgotten memory.
"Oh, I don't think so, dear," he responds quickly.
"Really? It feels like mine."
It was all yours he wants to say it and everything else I had but he just shrugs. "Either you owned it or you didn't, dear."
She hmmms and the sound ricochets through him. She spins the thing one more time before turning away, her copper hair catching the gold light of the old lamps. She hops up on the workbench and smoothes down her yellow skirt. Her pale knees are showing and he tries not to stare, suddenly antsy. He's seen more than that in this world (plenty more) but not on her and so it takes everything in his willpower not to step closer.
"Why are you here?" he manages to choke out. She quirks an eyebrow and plays with her hem, purposefully this time, and he curses how bad he is at pretending around her.
"Do you want me to go?"
No. "Yes."
She narrows her eyes at him. Her hair is up in a messy bun and her neck is long and white and he can see her pulse batting its little wings against her skin.
"No, you don't," she argues, brazenly, and he feels his own pulse speed up as if she'd just pressed her lips against his again. This girl would be the death of him, he was sure.
"You don't know me, little girl." The growl is hard and angry, and he hopes it covers over how much he loves her.
She isn't fazed at all. She pets her fingers over her own knees but doesn't watch him watching. She falls silent, letting him stand a few feet away with his cane gripped in one hand.
Finally, she says, "I feel like I know you."
His breath catches but he doesn't respond. Mustn't respond.
She continues, "It seems like everything I remember is just a movie that I've been forced to watch. But here. . . Here it feels heavier. Real. Like I've lived this." She looks him in the eye, so very unafraid of him. "Do we know each other?"
His heart is beating so fast he can feel it rocking through his whole body. He takes a breath and plays the game. "Love … we've never met before in this life." And it's the truth.
She stares at him for a long time, strange wisps of the past, remnants of drugs, and sparks of lost memories fighting for dominance in her pretty eyes.
"Really?" she finally says, low and quiet. She reaches out a slow hand towards his free one. "Then why do you always start trembling when I'm around." She barely brushes his skin before he moves away – jerks away as if burned. He puts both hands on his cane and holds on tight, like a lifeline.
She moves her own hands back to her lap and watches him intently, docketing every move and look. She's always been watchful. Too watchful.
At last, perhaps to save him, she admits, "Maybe it's just the medicine, you know, wearing off."
He doesn't want to agree with her; the sting of her abuse is still fresh in his mind.
"Why are you here, dearie?" he repeats deliberately. She needs to get off is table and out of his shop. Out of his life. She went away once. Why will she not leave him now?
She pulls out a necklace from her pocket. The pendant lies delicately over her folded thumb. It's the same petite pearl drop she used to wear around her neck at his castle. So small but always so distracting when she'd lean over to pour his tea or serve his food, glinting against the sharp sunlight pouring into the windows. He wants to take it from her, hold it to him like he does her cup. He can take bits of her and leave her alone. He can love things safer than he can love her.
He doesn't love her. He tells himself this as his fingers itch to touch her. Bypass that necklace completely and find her cheek, her arms, her hands. Those pale and soft knees. He doesn't love her. He loves the things that represent her, but he got over her a long time ago. Three decades could do that (no, no they couldn't).
"I wanted you to look at this," she says. "My papa thinks it's just a fake, but I knew if anyone would know it would be you."
When he reaches forward to take it from her, she pulls her arm back, further towards her stomach, the piece of jewelry almost cradled in her lap. There was that defiant (beautiful) narrowing of her eyes. Daring.
He takes a breath and hobbles a few steps closer and reaches again, willing his hands not to shake. She doesn't move her fingers from around the pendant, forcing him to touch her. A spark scurries up his arm, like a naughty spell crawling on all fours, forcing his shoulders and back to tighten painfully. At one time, he had been used to this. At one time, her slightest touch had drawn a whimper from the back of his throat.
It still does.
And she still notices. There's something suddenly very wild and fierce and victorious glowing in her eyes. At times like these, in this life and the last, he can't help but wonder if she's magic. Pure, unadulterated magic. Maybe he had cooked her up without knowing it up in that dark and lonely tower of his.
He swallows and forces himself to relax, glancing down at the necklace entwined in both their hands. It was no fake.
He's weighing what to tell her – such an intricate web of lies had to be carefully maintained through every detail – when he gets a whiff of sunlight and peppermint tea and knows that she's moved closer. So close.
Before he knows it, her little arms are locked around his neck, pulling him forward and off balance. He barely catches himself on the edge of the table, tangled up in her kiss. He can't push her away (He can. She is so slight and small, even next to him. But he doesn't want to).
Yes, she is most certainly made of magic.