Disclaimer: Is this really necessary?
One other thing: If I may, I'd recommend that you all check out "Someone's in the Wolf" by Queens of the Stone Age as you read this. Thank you for reading!
Observing it from the town, the forest doesn't seem so bad. It looks kind of cutesy, if maybe a little curious. In fact, those with sharp enough eyes often spot puffs of smoke ascending from one area of the wood, a sure sign of residency. Of course, those who've trekked the woodland will admit that if it weren't for that straight, stone path stretching over the forest floor, they'd been devoured by the plants, darkness, and animals dwelling there within the very second the wayfarers had realized they were lost.
Trees thick and tall reach for the afternoon sky in silent exaltation. It's bright and blue up there, summer sunshine peeking through the space between the tops of the trees. Nature sings up there, little birds flitting around nests hidden between the clustered foliage while small rodents scale the wooden giants. Up there, the forest is every bit cutesy as the townspeople perceive it to be.
Down here, though. . .? The forest that encompasses the path? It's a different story, I'm sorry to say.
Down here where many a traveler has passed through,, summer's afternoon sunshine neglects the passage, blocked by massive double walls of perfumed wood and foliage. The tip-tops of the wooded structures bow inward slightly, creating a natural arch over the path. Down here, branches and limbs reach out for passersby like clawed fingers, the faint scents of pine and evergreen enticing and horribly-hospitable. It isn't dark, per se, but there isn't much in the way of clarity, the colors and lines dim and fuzzy. There's a backdrop of blackness far beyond and between the thick tree trunks. On breezy days, when the air flirts with leaves and branches in the bright blue world above, whispers drift out from the dark, murmurs proffering the sweetest of delights and promises.
Over the groaning forest floor , creatures both big and small trample over sticks and leaves and other treasures. They crunch under shifting weight. Something far off shrieks, and then an eerie silence falls over the woods, lasting for only a moment before fluttering wings beat the humid air and life begins anew. A predator's on the move.
They say, however, that if you stay on the stone path, you'll be safe from harm. Of course! Monsters never step out into revealing light. The girl cloaked in rich-red clings to this rumor just like any other self-preserving traveler, but admittedly not a day goes by that she doesn't feel tempted to step off her safe haven and into the darkened forest. She itches beneath her eyes, on her palms, through her legs, and wonders with the curiosity of a young woman who hasn't quite left her childhood what's out there. Wanderlust is an ailment she can't quite shake, and when she muses aloud to her grandmother about traveling the lands beyond the forest, the elderly woman nods her head, cackles, and comments on how her granddaughter sounds just like she had as a young girl.
Apparently, wanderlust is genetic.
Somewhere above the endless rows of trees she can see wisps of smoke gently rising in the air, disappearing against the blue of the sky, sometimes mingling with the white shreds of clouds streaked across soft blue. Other times, they even seem to become the clouds, and it's at this that the cloaked figure blinks, shutting away the illusion as slender fingers close tightly around the straw handle of her basket. She keeps stepping along, seeing the wisps of smoke as a beacon. Grandmother's house isn't that much further, just a mile more and around the bend.
Eyes keep straying, keep trying to catch just a glimpse of life outside of the path, and maybe it has something to do with her innate desire for adventure. Maybe it has something to do with plain and simple curiosity. . .or maybe it has something to do with the noises coming from just beyond the brush. Something's moving, coming close, and she stops right where she is, freezing in instinct. The young lady's body tenses for but a moment, mouth gaping open slightly. Her fingers constrict around twisted straw while eyes widen for a second before narrowing and cutting past the foliage. Her heart skips when a streak of brown shoots out from between long blades of clumped grass, darts across the stony road, and scurries up a tree across the way.
A chipmunk. . .? And she has to chuckle at her reaction, one hand leaving the handle of her basket to check her rapidly-thumping heart. A sigh passes her smirking lips as she shakes her head, pulls her cloak closer to her frame, grasps the basket handle once again, and treks along. Her gaze flickers back to the tree the creature had frenetically scrambled onto , as if it had something to escape. That bothers the young lady a little, but she continues replaying that old travelers' tip like a mantra and stays on the road with wavering devotion.
"They say if you stay on the path then you'll avoid any trouble. . .Wise and considerable advice , if I should say." The voice -lilt and playful- practically comes out of nowhere, and the red-hooded young woman slows her pace and pivots her head in the direction in which it'd come. There, between the trees and bathed in the shadows of crossing branches and clustered foliage, is a man. Small and gaunt, with a smirk of his own flitting across his sharp, angular features, he leans one skinny shoulder into the tree trunk.
"But that also means you're eluding adventure, doesn't it?"
The cloaked girl steps along slowly, unsure if his comment warrants a reply. A second's worth of staring decides for her. She turns her eyes and attention away from the stranger and continues walking forward, ignoring him for the most part.
"I've nothing against the fellow who cherishes his own well-being. That's all well and fine . .but it's an awful shame when he gives up his dreams and wishes all at the command of a rumor, don't you think, Miss?" Her eyes, proven to be independent from the rest of her body, glance back at the man. They see scraggly, neglected hair and filmy, murky eyes that flit around in an intense, mad dance. Every part of his frame glows lurid gold, as if he's some kind of spectral bound to the shadows of the forest. And that's where he stays, she notices, as he slips between each trunk to follow her, somehow purposely avoiding the light of the path the girl seems so taken with.
Silence falls over the pair again, and he grins as if he finds her staggering attempts to ignore him amusing.
"Not much of a conversationalist, are you, dear," he asks finally, fingers digging into tree bark, picking it to pieces. He stares into the woody epidermis with an almost thoughtful expression, grating the bits and pieces between his roughened, calloused fingers.
"Sorry. I've got somewhere to be." The girl replies tonelessly. She doesn't take a peek at him this time. "I don't have time for small talk." This comment earns her a shrill, excited giggle from the fellow following her. An arm extends out, and his head falls back slightly as he crows.
"Miss Red Riding Hood, off to see her dear, sick granny." Announcing as he slides along the trunk of the tree, lets his arm fall back to his side, and grins cheekily at the girl. He knows who she is, but she doesn't seem impressed, not with the way she keeps her back to him. Her alias is kind of obvious, and everyone in town knows about her perpetually sick grandmother. If anything, the lass is annoyed by the way her follower is making a spectacle of himself and how he just won't buzz off.
He's a little miffed himself -miffed that he hasn't seriously caught her eye yet- and something of a frown passes over his grotesque features for but a second before another tickled grin slithers its way onto his face. He's got the show-stopping number right here, right up his leather-bound sleeve, and he's more than enthused about using it.
"Ahh. Well, you better get a move on." He's looking at his gold-tipped finger nails. They're drab and dingy these days. He doesn't even bother to conceal the tinge of merriment lacing his words as he speaks. No sense in hiding who you are after all. Usually once people realize that their dealer is being genuine and true to himself, they're not as reserved about constructing deals with him. Trust, in its many degrees, is an essential part of wheeling-and-dealing. He'd learned that many a year ago. "It didn't look like she had much time left from what I saw."
And there it is: the anticipated pause. He'd practically heard her gears screech to a stop. Absolute music to his ears!
To Red Riding Hood's credit, she doesn't immediately whirl around to face the man. Instead, she means to catch-up to her speeding, jolted heart and to soothe her stiffened muscles before she can even think to confront him. Her mind's reeling, her sense of security and comfort violated in mere seconds as she fights the urge to spin around and spew a thousand panicked questions at the stranger. A soundless breath passes through her lips, and she feels her frame cooling and calming with each practical thought that passes through her mind. Everyone knows that when she's carrying a basket outside of the village, it's for her grandmother, and everyone knows that when granny gets sick, she always manages to bounce back in a matter of a couple of days. Her heartbeat steadies. That's better.
Eventually, Red Riding Hood does turn around. She's planning to keep her questions straightforward, frank. . .her voice low and deadpan, but when she opens her mouth, the string of words that pass through her lips are tinged with worry and anger. "What. ." she clears her throat, "what do you mean by that?" But the man is out of sight, no longer brushing against the trunk of the tree. Gone. The young lady's brow furrows, her eyebrows arching in mixed confusion and irritation.
And then she startles -heart jumping, breath catching in her throat- when he suddenly appears just off to her side, just beyond her peripheral vision, and amusingly enough, just beyond the light of the path. She jumps and spins to meet his eyes, wild and dancing orbs of murky gold. She looks angry. "Why, don't you know?. . ." His own eyebrows arch upwards. "I would think that a lass who travels these woods as often as you do would be very aware of the dangers lurking out here." He laughs again, this time a short, high-pitched chortle that rattles her bones.
"Yeah, but they won't go anywhere near the path. . ." She explains in a voice that's practiced that line until it'd become as natural and mechanical as eating. Her eyes watch as the man snaps his arm through the air like a whip and wiggles his index finger at her side-to-side, back and forth.
"Ah ah ahhh . ." back and forth, back and forth. "That rule no longer applies, dearie. The wolves have grown defiant as of late." Insane eyes glimmer with delight when he sees the girl's bottom lip pooch out, almost like she's pouting at the new information. "You didn't know then. . .Huh." A hand disappears into the folds of his clothing and rummages around. Red Riding Hood doesn't let this escape her attention, growing subtly tense while her own eyes dance between the squirming hand, whispering clothing, and the man's peculiar face. When the hand reappears, it holds in its grasp a simple flask and nothing more, and the lass relaxes somewhat, keeping her vigilant eyes on the flask as it's lifted to the stranger's lips and tilted back.
"Where'd you hear this?"
A quick drink, and the flask disappears back into the folds of his clothing. "Sorry.. . .I can't tell you that." He keeps it secret because he knows that'll only keep her on edge. He wants to build-up the suspense so she'll just HAVE to make a deal with him, just HAVE to. "But what I can tell you is that one of them seems to have a fondness for breaking into little ladies' homes and partaking in a feast right there." He sees her tense-up again. The grin that practically lives on his face widens, showing off two rows of stained, yellow teeth. One of them glimmers gold in the right lighting, but it's much too dim down here to notice.
"You're lying," she manages, voice shaky beneath the authority of the accusation. She turns to leave him behind, not realizing that she's widened her steps and quickened her pace. This time, he doesn't follow her. He'd much rather reel her in this time around.
"I'm not much into lying. I prefer a much more . . .honest approach when it comes to my trade. . .". Still nothing, so he continues. "However, if you're going on ahead, you should at least take along a form of protection just in case. . .a knife perhaps?" From behind her, she can hear him rummaging through his clothes again, and with curiosity she watches him from over her shoulder. This time, the hand produces a type of short blade sheathed in black leather. The young lady half-turns as he unsheathes the weapon and gasps lightly when an unknown light hits it and silver streams across the metal. The strange man chuckles to himself, grin falling back to a simple smirk, as he watches the girl, she hypnotized by the gleam of silver.
"A silver blade. . ." He goes on to explain. "It's been said that wolves of this area have grown susceptible to silver. It paralyzes them with just a touch." A long finger traces up the side of the knife, "and utterly demolishes them with a single stab," and he flicks the handle into his grip and slices through the air as he says this. Red Riding Hood flinches despite being several feet ahead of him but continues to watch, memorized. The beauty of the weapon is simply incomparable. Without realizing it, she takes a step forward and another and another and another until the considerable amount of space between them has shrunken to a comfortable two feet. The tips of her shoes flirt with the line dividing the dark of the forest with the light of the path, and she just watches the knife.
"It's as good as yours, dear. . ."
Her hand reaches for the weapon, tips of her fingers itching to grasp the object. . .
"As long as you're willing to pay the price for it, that is."
The hand pauses in the space between the two strangers. She blinks and shakes her head and then drops her hand back to her side. The magic's gone. "Yeah, and I bet you want all the gold in the kingdom for it too, huh?" The man grins once more, bearing those rotting teeth. Gold for silver? It's not the strangest trade-off anyone's suggested before, but it does have its novelty. But really, what does all the money in the world mean to a man who can spin gold from straw? He chuckles then, low and grating, and to her it sounds like a nest of snakes uncoiling in the dark. Skin prickles, hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, and she's fighting to suppress a shudder. In the end, she manages to stand her ground and cloaks her mixture of confusion, fright, and utter annoyance beneath a shroud of apathy.
A quick motion conceals the knife in its sheath. "Money amounts to nothing to me," he says only after his body has stopped rattling and he's gathered his composure, what's left of it anyway. When he looks at her, she can see the shallow glee glimmering in pools of abysmal gold. She can see his pupils quivering to the beat of her thumping heart and the way his skin illuminates sickly in the dark. She truly realizes now that she's not dealing with an ordinary man. Red Riding Hood has heard tales of Dark Fae and their tricks, of their fake potions and unfulfilled promises of wealth and power. Is it possible that he-?
"What do you want for it," she asks, subconsciously tugging her cloak tighter around her frame.
"Only what you're willing to give for it. The price can be as high as the endless sky," he answers, raising his armed hand far above his head, "or as low as the solid earth." He stoops, allowing his hand to drop as low as his knees.
"I have nothing. . ."
"Oh, everyone has something." his gaze flickers to the basket in the lass' grasp. It's a lovely thing, hand-woven from black-dyed straw with tiger-eyed jewel beads embedded into the rows of straw. Her line of vision follows his, landing on the straw basket, mind sifting through the list of items settled inside. Bread, soup, tea leaves. Things to nurse her grandmother back to health. There's nothing there that could possibly interest him. There's a twist of painted lips as she bites the inside of her cheek. When she looks back up, their eyes meet, and he's smiling.
"The basket?" A single eyebrow raises, questioning him rather than making a suggestion.
"I suppose that could work. . . What's in it?" He sways towards her, stooping this time so he can check out the basket, but Red Riding Hood takes a step back, challenging him to venture out onto the open path. He, however, is not so easily ensnared and instead stops when his shoes toe the line between light and dark. She's a crafty one he thinks.
"Things to make Granny feel better. Food mostly."
"At this point, I doubt she'd get much use out of them." Another chuckle. He slaps his knee in good-humor. Red Riding Hood's losing her patience. She really doesn't have time for this, especially if what the man has said is true.
"What use could you get out of them?"
"Why else would a man desire food? . . .Hunger, dearie. I'm hungry."
". . .That's it?"
"Well, I guess the basket would make a lovely accessory," he replies jokingly. "So, do we have a deal? Your Granny probably can't hold out much longer. . ." Dangling the knife between two fingers, he watches the hooded young lady teeter and peer down at the basket in-hand. It's a family heirloom, crafted by her grandmother's grandmother. It won't be easy to give it up, considering what it means to Granny, but her life could be in danger, and Red Riding Hood's wasted enough time with this man. Who is he anyway?
So she steps forward and holds the basket out to the man. "Deal," and he takes it with much pleasure. She could see it in those strange, otherworldly eyes of his. When it's her turn to take the knife from him, she reaches for it, and he snatches it back, tempting her into the darkness with him, just like she had done him earlier. The young lady eyes him coldly and tries again, foot slipping into the shaded area of the forest, right off the path. He just grins, finally accomplishing his deed, and slides the blade into the much-younger pair of hands. "Who are you?"
"Sorry, Miss." He slips the basket handle around one arm and under his armpit while pulling out his flask with another. "That wasn't part of our deal." And with a short bow, he disappears into the darkness of the clustered trees, humming an upbeat tune that somehow fits him.
She comes to Granny's house in a sprint, the knife hidden within the folds of her dress and her heart pounding in her ears. By the time she reaches the door, she's slowed her pace so she can catch her breath and so she can pat her clothes just to make sure the weapon's in place. Looking back at the past ten minutes of her life, Red Riding Hood has to wonder why she'd let that man pull her over to the side of the road in the first place. What happens if he had been lying? She'd given up something precious to her grandmother for something potentially dangerous, not to mention she'd let someone make a fool out of her. Doubt starts to swell in her heart, and she has to take two deep breaths to calm herself down. What if the man's right, and there's a wolf in there right now? What if it's too late, and Granny's already gone?
What if the knife doesn't work. . .?
Her hand brushes the wooden door knob of her Grandmother's modest cottage, and she makes her decision. It's better that she looks like a fool and that her grandmother's still alive than it is for her to turn back and let the wolf kill someone she loves so dearly. Another deep breath, and she knocks on the door. From behind the slab of wood, she can hear the muffled sounds of someone shuffling and of feet padding heavily across the floor. Another knock and finally, someone speaks. "Who is it?" It's gruff and deep. Red Riding Hood's skin prickles again, and she's reminded of the strange man in the trees who wouldn't give her his name.
"It's me, Granny. I wanted to come check up on you." She waits, wanting to roll her eyes at the stupidity of the situation. Seriously, did this guy really think he could fool her? Just like that? But she's still shaken-up, knowing that there's a monster in her grandmother's home, and Granny's probably dead, and she probably could have made it on time if that stupid man hadn't distracted her.
"Come in, sweetheart. I'm in my room laying down." Suddenly, the knife pressed against her chest is burning, searing through her clothing and spreading along her body like liquid fire. Her heart speeds away and reminds her of the time she'd caught a young rabbit when she was a little girl. It'd kicked and squirmed until she'd lost her grip and let it go. She couldn't let go this time. Definitely not this time. She grips her heart, her emotions, and her thoughts, and opens the front door.
Granny's room is near the back, and all Red Riding has to do is cross the front room to reach the bedroom where the beast lay in waiting, wearing her grandmother's clothing. Only, he's not at all what she'd expected. He resembles a man, but he's a beast all the same. Pointed nose, blonde-brown hair framing an unshaven face. As soon as she appears in the door frame, his too-human grey-blue eyes are looking her over, and she can tell he's fighting the urge to drool like animals tend to do. He's tucked between clumped sheets of her grandmother's bed. There's a huge hump rising up like a hill in the middle of the mattress, and Red Riding Hood pales at this, suspecting that's where her Granny now rests.
"Sweetheart, what a surprise," he says in that falsetto, gruff voice of his that makes Red Riding Hood want to slap herself on the forehead. Her grandmother never calls her "sweetheart" or any other variation of the nickname. Cautiously, she enters the room and slowly approaches the side of the bed. The lass makes an effort not to touch the area where the blade is hidden even when her eyes fall on that hump in the wolf's belly.
"Hey, Granny. How're you feeling? I had a basket of soup with me, but I tripped an lost it in the forest. Sorry. I know how much the basket meant to you. . ."
"It's fine. Accidents happen." The creature tries its hand at a soft, reassuring smile, but it just shows-off big, fang-like teeth that gleam yellow in the lighting. Again, she's reminded of the man in the woods and how he glowed in the dark of the trees. She shudders this time and just can't stop it. "Oh. You're not catching a cold, are you? Here," it starts to sit up, "let me check your temperature."
"No," the lass starts. She holds her hands up, motioning for the imposter to lay back down, and then finishes in a much-calmer tone, "I'm fine. It's . . . It's kind of chilly out today." She lies, but she's done much worse in her day.
"You can go turn on the stove if you'd like to warm up a little." The creature's eyes are practically glowing. It thinks it can outsmart her.
Think again.
"It's okay, Granny. Besides, you look like you've got a big fever this time around. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Don't be silly. I'm feeling much better."
"You sure don't look it," she retorts with a smirk, and the monster laughs. She thinks she hears it howl almost.
"Nobody looks good when they're sick, sweetheart."
"That may be true, but sheesh! Look at your hands." The red-cloaked girl states, nodding her head towards the four-clawed digits peeking out of the sheets. "They look swollen, and it doesn't look like you've been giving your nails much attention lately either."
"I haven't really had the energy to move much, let alone do my nails," it chuckles this time, and it sounds like animalistic panting.
"Your voice sounds pretty bad too. . .That fever must be really taking its toll on you."
"It is."
"And your eyes. . ." She leans forward just a tad but keeps her hand ready. "They're huge."
"All the better to see you with, my dear," the wolf chimes-in charmingly, flashing its teeth. Red Riding Hood just nods, smirking at the remark. She leans in further, body arched over the mattress so she could get a better look at the creature. Her hand steadies itself right over her chest, right where the knife lays concealed.
"These teeth, though. . .they don't look human, Granny," and then it happens.
"All the better to eat you with, my dear," and the wolf lurches for the young lady, fangs bared and clawed hands preparing to hold her down. But she's ready for it. Her hand quickly reaches for the knife hidden in her clothing. The animal's face invades her line of vision, blue-grey eyes gleaming yellow. The pupils quiver, dance. . .like those of the man in the woods. In a flash of silver light, the wolf is forced back, howling as it grips its mid-section, but it's not down for the count, not like Red Riding Hood had been told. It lurches for her again, and she tightly grips the knife in her palm. Silver stained scarlet-red glimmers wickedly in the room's lighting. This time, when the monster comes for her, it's at a much-slower pace, the pain hindering its abilities. Anger fuels its strength, so when the lass goes in to cut the wolf across the stomach a second time, it knocks the blade from her hands before losing its own balance and stumbling into the wall next to the entrance.
Defenseless, Red Riding Hood backs away, eyes on the only exit in the room, and the wolf has it blocked. Although in pain, the creature isn't dying and stalks towards her, blue-grey eyes dancing madly with rage and hunger, the human-sized bulge in its stomach leading the way, and she can't take her eyes off the monster that's towering over her.
It happens all in an instant. . .
The creature lunges at her one last time, its victory ensured. Red Riding Hood closes her eyes, welcoming the darkness. Both open their eyes wide when the wolf yelps and both prey and predator realize that they're no longer alone. She looks at the monster and notes curiously the arrow piercing through wolf's throat. Looking around the wall of fur and meat, she spots a man in the entrance way, a bearded man with messy hair and dressed in various furs. He nears her and pulls her way from the wall just as the wolf collapses to the floor, supposedly dead in a pool of ruby vitae. Its human features morph completely into those of a true wolf. Heart pounding once more, the lass tries her hand at catching her breath as she drops the Huntsman's hand and then observes the useless knife in the corner of the room.
Time passes quickly, Granny is restored, shaken but alive, and they learn from the handsome yet cold Huntsman that the wolves in the area have been infected with a curse that can transform them into supposedly-invincible men at will but at a price: they're overcome with gluttony and the uncontrollable urge to kill. The Huntsman felt it his duty to eliminate these scourges, as they mocked what it truly means to be a wolf. And having done his duty, he left the cottage with the corpse, having denied all offers made by grandmother and granddaughter to stay and have something to eat.
The granddaughter wonders silently if he's heard of the weakness-to-silver rumor.
Out in the orange evening light, a hoodless Red Riding Hood fetches water for her grandmother and spots a familiar figure sitting on the edge of the open well. He's humming that little tune and kicking his legs back and forth. Every now and then, he takes a nip from his flask. He's content as a lizard basking in the summer sun, and why shouldn't he be? He's just had a nice meal. "Fancy meeting you again, dearie," he says, craning his head to look at her over his bony shoulder. "So, did everything work out for your dear, old granny?" He's smirking at her, feeding off the rage building up in her blue eyes.
When she's just a step or two away from him, she fishes into her clothes for the knife and then flings it at the ground before him. "You liar! You said it would work! You told me it would kill it! The deal's off!" Fuming, she's fighting the urge to push him into the well. The only thing that saves him is the fact that she doesn't want him contaminating her grandmother's only source of water.. When it comes to fellows like him, there's no telling what diseases he may be carrying. He chuckles to himself, not even close to feeling threatened.
"If you think back, Miss, " he begins, spinning himself around to face her and planting his feet on the grassy earth. The hand holding the flask flits around in the air about him. "I merely mentioned that it was word of mouth, worthless dribble entertained by fairies and mortals alike." Another nip from the old bottle. He sees that she's practically ablaze with rage. In the subtle ways, though. Her eyes are hardening, her body tensing. Barely. "And our deal wasn't created on the basis that the knife would work but on whether or not you'd take it from me." His voice is practically singing, lightly dancing over each syllable in an old folk tune.
"I want the basket back. It belongs to my family. You couldn't possibly find any real value in it anyway."
"Sorry, that's not how I work."
"Then I'll make another deal with you for it." She folds her arms over her chest, eyes reading into his expressions with cold apathy. She's finished playing games now.
"Hmm? . . ." He tilts his head to the side and peers up at her, toeing the soft earth with the tip of his boot. His index finger taps the mouth of his flask.
"You liked that meal, didn't you?"
He watches her, listening, interest piqued. His silence and smiling face is all the answer he's giving her for now. Keep digging, dearie.
"I can make you another one just like it. Give me the basket, and I'll cook another one for you."
"Hmmm . . .Not good enough, especially since a stomach only stays satisfied for a short time. This basket, on the other hand, will last much longer so as long as something doesn't happen to it." There's a tap, tap, tap of his chin as he thinks of what he can make of all this. What can he really get out of her? "Tell you what, though, I'll give you this most precious family heirloom . . .but. . . BUT," He holds up his index finger to mark the catch, "whenever I appear at your front door, you must cater to my hunger. . .You'll serve me. . .What do you say?" The flask disappears again as he holds his hand out to her. There's that old, too-familiar smile playing on his dried, cracked lips, and she sees rows of dirty, yellow teeth. Now that she's this close, she also sees a single gold tooth glittering in the dying light.
This time she's much more reluctant in sealing the deal, and she replays every word uttered by him in search of any hidden agendas or crooked clauses he may use against her in the future. She wonders how often she'll see him after this. She's never come across him up until today, and even that could have been a once-in-a-lifetime encounter. He isn't going to just purposely hover around her town to collect on his end of the bargain, is he? She supposes cooking for him isn't such a big deal. So she extends her hand to his and firmly grasps it. They shake, slowly.
"Deal. . ."
It's a typical day at Granny's Diner with its typical steady morning traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary, no weary travelers enchanted by Storybrooke's small-town appeal. Just those old, familiar faces slipping through the door -the bell always sweetly tinkling with each swing of the door- and into their usual haunts. Sheriff Graham's there, ordering his daily fix of black coffee, and Dr. Whale's sitting in a booth, probably taking a peek at her every time she leans over to wipe a table clean or to hand-over a patron's order. Every now and then, when she's walking alongside the booths, Ruby thinks she sees a scar on the back of his neck, and she can't help but to think that there's something horribly familiar about it. But she shrugs it off, like always, and reminds herself that she sees the back of his neck often. Of course the scar looks familiar. . .
The door opens, and Autumn breathes her chilling breath upon the Diner's occupants. Ruby's arms prickle as an old, familiar figure steps into the restaurant, leaning on a cane and humming a tune softly to himself. Ruby rubs her arms and blames the goose-flesh on the wind as she watches Mr. Gold from the edges of her eyes. She knows it's coming before he approaches the counter, and she's ready for him. She turns her back to him briefly and towards the kitchen window. Sitting there on the sill is a simple egg and bacon breakfast with buttered toast and a cup of black coffee. Every time he appears in the door frame, she questions why he'd come to some dinky little diner when everyone knows he has much finer things to eat back at his estate. Ruby almost always decides that it's because he simply likes to throw his authority around. For a moment, she's reluctant in turning to face him, knowing that later tonight he'll be coming around her grandmother's bed-and-breakfast to collect rent.
But he's there behind her, waiting to collect his meal. She can feel his eyes on the back of her head, and she thinks she hears his voice whispering down the corridors of her mind, ordering her to turn around. We had a deal, dearie. Remember? But it's all in her head, and she eventually does turn around, her typical coy half-smile spread across her features as she hands the dish to him.
"Good morning, Mr. Gold."
"Good morning, Miss Ruby," he replies in a light, almost-musical tone. It's always a good morning for him. He takes the dish from the waitress. "Thank you, dear." She gives him a nod, letting a brief silence fall between the two of them. . .
. . .And then he smiles that old, eerily-familiar smile. . .
End Notes: Jinkies! That came out longer than I had expected. I'm aware that there are some loose-ends I left dangling there, like how in the world is Dr. Whale/the Big Bad Wolf still alive after that whole ordeal, but I felt mentioning that would take from the main gist of the story. If you're left curious about a few things, drop me a pm. ^^ I'll be more than happy to discuss the contents of this story with you. Heck! I'd love to discuss anything that has to do with "Once Upon a Time". I did take some things from the werewolf myth, such as the silver weakness among other things. See if you can't spot them. Anyways, thank you for your time!