It was 1983. He'd owned the shop now for so long he couldn't remember how long he'd been doing this same routine. Each morning he woke up, stretched, and got into the shower. He dressed in a suit, adding layer after layer to make any who felt the need to deal with him feel underdressed. That was a trick he'd learned as a lawyer. He read the newspaper, cooked himself some breakfast, eggs and bacon that morning. He drove to town and parked his car in the lot, one of his usual places, and hobbled down the street to work. A couple of people passed him. He didn't avert his gaze; rather, he stared into their eyes aggressively so that if they happened to glance up, they'd immediately look away. It was intimidating, he knew it, and he didn't care. It wasn't his job to be friendly. On the contrary, part of being a pawnbroker meant using them for his own benefit. Buy low, sell high, remind them that whatever he paid them for whatever object or heirloom, no matter how precious, was not market value because he had to make his own profit when he sold it again. It didn't matter how many figures he saw when he received his banking statements in the mail; he ran the store mostly on its own profits without having to dip into his trusts or stocks or the family money. People hated him for it, some of his tenants reminded him of his money when they asked for a break on rent after a difficult month, but he only shook his head.

"If I give you a break, then what's to stop everyone else in the town from having a break. Money runs the world. Without the drive to pay, we'd have a free society, and you can see how well that's working in certain parts of the world. It'll be full rent, on time, or we can discuss the date of your departure. Your choice."

They always paid.

On his way to the shop, he spotted Marco hanging a new sign on one of the storefronts. He walked by his ladder, brushing past another individual he didn't know. They gave him a nod. He looked at them long enough to let them know he'd seen the gesture and chosen not to return it.

As he unlocked the door to his shop, he paused glanced over his shoulder at the abandoned library on the corner across from him. He repressed a shiver as he stared at it. It was the same as always; newspapers stuck to the windows, doors locked up, clocktower boarded up, the white paint graying from snow deposits, and clock forever stuck at 8:14. The Library always made him feel uneasy, not because it looked like a haunted house, but because it was becoming an eyesore. For the most part, the town of Storybrooke was a quaint little place. It was almost as disgustingly charming as the people here could be. Their Main Street had a sense of cleanliness and decorum to uphold, and for the most part, it did. The one glaring problem with it was that damn library! It might have been fine if it was just a storefront, like the rest of the shops on Main Street, but naturally, it had to have a corner lot and hold the famed clocktower that could be seen for miles! Why the Mayor had yet to find a suitable replacement for the librarian who had died on the job was a mystery to him. Why she couldn't hire someone to at least come out and get the clock and storefront into proper working order was just incompetency. One of these days, he would file a complaint with Regina about all that, but today there was too much to do.

Frustrated, he held his tongue, turned back to the lock, and let himself inside of his shop. He opened the blinds, flipped the sign on the door to "open" in case someone felt like coming in to make a deal, and then took a deep breath of the musty smell that came with age. It still felt like home, probably more like home than his pink house, which he still needed to get painted.

He escaped to the back room just like always. It was his favorite place in his shop.

The spinning wheel he'd first seen when he bought the place was back here, along with a fold-away cot for nights he got carried away and just decided to sleep there. There were two tables crowded into the back that he could use to polish or repair or clean or whatever he needed to do. It was a welcoming place.

On the table was a golden teapot he'd bought that no longer shined; it was part of a larger set. His task for this morning was simple: polish it until it gleamed. That would earn him a good meal at Granny's for lunch before turning to repair a cup from an old tea set. Lovely thing, but there was one cup that was chipped. He could have sworn that when he'd first acquired it, the cups were whole, and he couldn't for the life of him remember how one of them had gone rogue and been broken. Nevertheless, he'd fix it. As soon as he remembered where he'd placed the chipped piece.

Thirty minutes into his task, he was pleased. He'd polished the pot to perfection. Now for the rest of it. He took the pot out to the front of his shop along with the rag in his hand and found the spot that it belonged. The bell rang as he finished setting it out with its lid, properly clean and ready for sale. He'd make a good profit on it, but doubtful from the woman who had just entered. Regina Mills, formally known as Madam Mayor. She was young, but she'd been the Mayor here as long as he could remember. Their relationship was a complex one. As the owner of the land she ran, he had a certain amount of power in the town that she was rather jealous of. Much of their contract said that she needed to come to him for approval of anything that she wanted to present for a vote, she had to buy him out of the land that she wanted for public use, and a handful of other wonderful necessities that meant these meetings happened far more often than he'd like. It was his land. He got the first say. He supposed that made him the most powerful man in town despite her election. They were cordial when they had to be, but there was always tension underneath their politically motivated politeness.

"I'm not happy," the Mayor snapped the moment the door closed.

He sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her dramatics. He didn't have time to work out her problems, especially if she was going to present it with that particular song and dance. He was here to help her with the town if she needed it, but he wasn't required to listen to her when she was in a mood as she obviously was. That was for someone else to handle; otherwise, his job was to sell his baubles.

"I believe Dr. Hopper's office is down the street."

"Oh, I don't wanna talk to him. I wanna talk to you."

"Very well, Madame Mayor. What is it you wanna talk about?" he questioned, moving on to the next item that matched the teapot, a bowl for sugar. He set it up on the counter, removed its lid, and began to rub it down. That was the problem with polishing one item and not the others; suddenly, everything else paled in comparison.

"This town. This isn't the deal we made."

The deal they'd made…

He'd never forgotten a deal he'd made not in all his life; in fact, it was something he prided himself on. But he couldn't think of a single thing that Regina might have been referencing. "This town, this isn't the deal we made?" They'd made a lot of deals when it came to this town: when she wanted to build, how, where, jobs she wanted to create, property she wanted him to sell...but they hadn't made any deals lately, nothing that would make her unhappy. What she was upset with him about was beyond him. If she wanted help, she was going to have to be more specific.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about."

He looked her in the eye, mostly for intimidation, but also to let her know he was being truthful. It was one of the few helpful hints he had gotten from his father. Regina's gaze fell from upset to disappointed, and he was at least pleased that the gaze seemed to have worked.

"You don't, do you?" she said in a small voice that made him think she might cry. He hoped she wouldn't. He had a handkerchief in his pocket, but not one he wanted to hand over to her or anyone. It was silk. Suddenly Regina turned away from him and hurled herself at the other end of the room. Dramatics.

"I was supposed to be happy here."

"Forgive me, but, um, you're the Mayor. You're the most powerful woman in the town. What is there to be unhappy about?" he questioned. He was digging and maybe doing a bit of ego-stroking to get to the bottom of her temperament. He couldn't fix whatever deal she wasn't happy with if he didn't know what it was.

"Everyone in this town does exactly what I want them to!"

"And that's a problem?" he questioned, striding around the counter.

"Well, they do it because they have to, not because they want to. It's not real."

"Not happy," "supposed to be happy," "it's not real"…clearly a job for Doctor Hopper or, better yet, the young stallion of a sheriff that he suspected she was "seeing" on the side. He had work to do, and unless she had a question about the land, then she was wasting his time.

"I'm sorry, what exactly is it you want?" He'd moved a glass mobile before he started polishing, and now he wished he hadn't. The glass unicorns hung down between him and Regina, obstructing his view of her. But he never let his eyes waver. He continued to stare at her as though she was the only one he saw. What did she want from him?

"Nothing you can give me," she answered after a small pause. Then she turned and left the shop, pulling something out of her pocket before she got to the door.

Dramatics handled, he turned back to his work. He polished off the sugar bowl, the cup for creamer, four teacups, and finally four saucers. From the backroom, he retrieved a small box of cards. It was his inventory, everything in the shop had a place, and everything had a price, including the tea set. Yesterday he'd typed out the card on his typewriter, now he scratched out some of the previous notes about a lack of gleam and needing a good polish, noted that it was in excellent condition, and upped the price from $200 to $250. He should have been proud of himself, he should have felt the same satisfaction for a good morning's work that he always did, but Regina's interruption had him feeling restless. What was she talking about? What deal was she referencing? If she was the Mayor, why did he feel like he spent all his time solving her problems? So many, many questions she'd drudged up…a sure sign he needed to take a break and have lunch.

But Granny's Diner wasn't quite the distraction he'd hoped for. After putting in his usual order with the old woman's slut of a granddaughter Ruby, he sat to wait and listened to the conversations around him. Suddenly he realized what had Regina up in arms. No one in this provincial town liked change. Everyone stuck to their routine and their schedules as if it would kill them to deviate. He was guilty of it too. But he liked to think that unlike the Mayor and the rest of Storybrooke, his world wouldn't be turned upside-down from a father and son whose car had broken down and were staying for a few days until it was fixed. Widow Lucas seemed pleased to have the business at the bed and breakfast, but the pair were all anyone was talking about at lunch. Who were they? Why were they here? How long would they be staying? Honestly, it was as if there had been a jailbreak instead of just a couple of visitors. And why it had upset Regina the way it had…

It wasn't his business. It wasn't his job to look after her or the town. His job was to collect rent, offer Regina consultation when she requested it, and look after his shop. Nothing else. If it didn't affect him, and it certainly hadn't so far, he didn't see the need to care.

He retrieved his food when it was ready and took it back to the shop, putting the citizens and their gossip out of his mind. He ate and spent his time looking for the missing piece to the teacup he wanted to fix.

It was just another day in Storybrooke.

The key to writing Storybrooke during its Curse? Repetition. Lots and lots of repetition. I know we're only two chapters in, but there should be a few sentences where the writing sounded familiar; hell, there should be a few paragraphs where the writing sounded familiar. And that's because they are. In these chapters, you will note sentences and entire sections that identical, copied word for word, from chapter to chapter to chapter. That's not done because I'm lazy (although it did present a nice break on occasion). It's done because it's made clear that Storybrooke in its Cursed state is dull. It's all about repetition, people doing the exact same thing over and over and over again, walking the same route, having the same thoughts, noticing the same things, over and over and over again. Gold is no different. That being said, the key to writing Mr. Gold/Rumpelstiltskin during the Curse? Hit him where it counts. When writing Moments, I remember thinking about how convenient it was that the Library was across the street from the Pawn Shop but really thought nothing of it. It wasn't until I was in the middle of writing The Dark Curse and Belle died that I realized...that's part of his Curse. The Library bothers him because it's not what it's supposed to be, the dead librarian is missing, it's dirty and rundown...it's missing Belle. I don't know if that was done on purpose or thought about as much as I thought about it, but as soon as I had that lightbulb, I loved it! How about you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jennifer Baratta, Fox24, and Alarda, for your reviews on the last chapter! I'm so happy to have you reading and so thrilled that you enjoyed the backstory to Mr. Gold! I hope you'll continue to enjoy as we go forward, even if this is only a short little ficlet! See you in the next chapter! Peace and Happy Reading!