Love Lingers, Lost
A One Upon a Time Fairytale

Chapter Three
Storybrooke

Mr. Gold glanced down at the watch upon his wrist. He cleared his throat, but it went unheard in the quiet crowded shop. Standing, his smooth hands took hold of the cane beside him and he slowly made his way around the front counter and to the far window. The sun barely penetrated through the thick windows, its skinny rays of light illuminating the fine particles of dust in the air. Mr. Gold led an immaculate business, though it always seemed like he was in constant battle with the magnetic dust qualities of his inventory and the old building.

Coming to a rest at the door, Mr. Gold fiddled with the "Open" sign and peered out into the streets. The lunch rush had started, with many of town's inhabitants hurrying from work to grab a quick bite to eat. Through this mad scurry, Mr. Gold eyes followed the unflattering blue shirt of Storybrooke's Letter Carrier. He watched from behind the door pane as Penelope and Max stopped at the Dental office across the street. Her hands disappeared into the messenger bag at her side and drew out a three envelopes—all rubber-banded together. Painstakingly, she scanned each letter with a device at her belt and waited for the confirmation on the correct address before stuffing them into the small mailbox on the side of the building.

Archie happened to be heading in the opposite direction with his Dalmatian; Pongo. The therapist stopped and exchanged a few words with her while their dogs sniffed at each other. A genuine smile caressed her pale face.

Within the cramped pawn shop, Mr. Gold's fingers tightened around the cane at his side as he scrutinized the banter. For years in this cursed world he had strived agonizingly to lure her into his routine life. It was obvious that the woman he once knew was buried deep within her, but Penny's skin was thick and her suspicions of his corruption ran high. In this world, he did not have the added benefit of sharing innocent teenage years of tending farmland with her.

His lips curled around his teeth, and he did not wait for Archie to say his adieu; turning on his heel, Mr. Gold limped his way to the workroom in the back. Turning, he pulled shut the dark yellow curtains separating him from the rest of the shop. In a drawer, under large gray shelves behind his desk, there lay a folded dress. Though it trailed to the floor, the fabric was thin—torn in places—and its color still fading. He drew it from its locked confines and smoothed it over his clean, chestnut desk. It had once been a deep meadow green, with black ties in the matching girdle. Mr. Gold's eyes traced over the V-cut neck, following the seams down the long flowing sleeves. The unpleasant memory of the manner in which the dress received such disrepair drifted to the surface of his thoughts; and to avoid a moment of desolation, he forced the memory back into the vault from which it came.

The folds of the dress felt incredibly soft between his fingers. Though he was a decent seam-stress, Mr. Gold had been working for many years on repairing this dress. He dared not, however, pass off the priceless garb to the town's tailor: for if it was permanently altered in any way, there would little in this world to ease his rage…
Fetching a needle and thread of similar color, he leaned his cane within reach before sitting. He had a lot of work to be done before the dress would be ready to show on the floor of his shop. Today, he would work on repairing the frayed strands of cotton along the hem.

The fine, sharp needle slid effortlessly through the delicate fabric. His mind flashed with the blur of color that flew through the air when she twirled in this dress. The way it fell against her curves and swished up against the smooth skin of her thighs.
Mr. Gold bunched the fabric in his fist like he remembered her to do before she would yank the skirt to and fro: her heels hardly touching the grass as she twisted and jerked, undulating to the deep thumping of the drums, her eyes closed in self-contained bliss.

Sinking back into his chair, Mr. Gold closed his own eyes and dragged the pale mass of cloth onto his lap. He could recall the slight mist to his breath, how the stars were bright in the cloudless sky. Shadows were cast into the thick trees by the firelight, but the darkness hide him well; he had stalked her that night, eyeing from afar as she thrashed herself around the fire.
The heavy rhythms of the music matched the painful beating of his own heart, and his gaze followed her; his covet sending a tremble into his knees. What he wouldn't have given in that moment to feel that dress flutter about his thighs, for her legs to be wrapped about his waist, and her head to be thrown back in an ecstasy of his provisions.

Mr. Gold brought handfuls of the dress to his face, sucking in a deep breath. The fabric no longer smelt of her, though the memories of that fateful evening still lingered in their place.
A groan escaped his throat. Under those stars, he had watched her throw away her innocence to a common nomad. And with all the cursed magic at his fingertips, he did nothing to stop it.
He owned her loyalty, but not her heart.

A sharp prick against his clinched hand yanked his thoughts back into the present. Eyeing the tiny bead of blood that seeped from his palm, Mr. Gold wrinkled his nose and pitched the dress back onto his desk: the culprit needle—still dangling from its thread at the hem—clanked gently against the polished wood.

Suckling the blood from his palm, his gaze bore holes into the patterned drapery that separated him from the store. Every ounce of him had held back the urge to release his passion for her that night, not only out of respect for their business arrangement, but because she did not resound those affections for him.

His tie was beginning to become too tight around his throat, but he resisted tugging it loose with his finger. So many nights of anxiety would have been avoided had he confessed and gone after his desires. She was a ripe woman for the picking; all he had to have done was plucked her from vine and drunk of her sweet nectar.

A smirk twitched at his lips. Lesson learned, he thought to himself. This time, Mr. Gold promised, he would not restrain his cravings. He would not let this curse come between them again. His hands drew the pale green dress back into his lap and resumed their repair, adjusting his posture in the seat to accommodate him. "I will have her." He growled, a rumble escaping through his chest as he thrust the needle into the cloth and tugged at the thread behind it.

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Happily Ever After

He moved his feet quickly, dribbling the leather football between his heels. His arms flailed about trying to keep his balance while he gently kicked the ball against the side of the house. Baelfire carefully made sure that he kept it from jumping into the street, lest another incident like yesterday occur. The guilt of his father's actions did not sit well in his stomach.

Bae frowned down at the ground, his pale cloak billowing about him from his movement. This new village that papa had chosen, albeit less impoverished, had not won his heart. They had a maid to clean and cook, and papa could conjure anything they could ever need. But Bae longed to spin wool at the wheel or sheer the sheep that used to flock in the fields behind their old house—this idea of living luxuriously sat in with him as pleasantly as heavy rocks in his gut.

Rumpelstiltskin had changed; the once loving father was now all consumed with material possessions and living a life of amenity. Not only had his papa isolated himself from their old life, but had been the cause of Bae's own isolation from the rest of his friends. Far afraid of what his father might do to any passerby that might come into contact with Bae, he played ball by himself in the shadow of his new house; the only place he might find solace.

Light chatter and footsteps around the front of the house set Baelfire on alert; he straightened his slouch, tensing. There were two voices muffled by the thick walls—and though it was impossible to understand their conversation—the divergence of their voices was unmistakable; one expressed apprehension while the other emitted poise. He could identify the more confident voice as Rumpelstiltskin, but the second presented more of a mystery.

"Bae?" His father called out.

Scooping up the leather ball into his arms, Baelfire wiped his forehead on his arm. He had to be strong now. He had to be a better man than what his father had become.

With a sigh, he started around the corner of the house and into the hot sunlight. "Yes, Papa?" He replied, eyeing the cloaked figure of his father. Rumpelstiltskin smiled at his boy and opened his arms, inviting Bae within his embrace. Baelfire shuffled forward until another familiar sight stayed his feet. The woman had been hidden a few feet behind his father.

She was in plain garb, and the expression on her face was one of curiosity and awe. Auburn hair in a tangled mess over one shoulder, she nervously stroked at it when her gaze caught his. "Papa?" She muttered, perplexedly looking between Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire.

"Gwendolyn!" Bae shouted, immediately dropping the foot ball. All notions of bravery flew out the window as he rushed forward to her, totally bypassing his father. Throwing his arms about Gwen's waist, he held tight to her, squishing his face to her collarbone. When she had left the village and not returned within her promised two weeks, Bae had felt in his heart that he would never see her again.
Beholden for this touch of familiarity, he held her close, ever fearful that she might suddenly dissolve. He forced his eyes to open and stared around her at the gold-skinned man that called himself Baelfire's father. His gaze pleaded for Rumpelstiltskin to not take her away from him.

Gwen seemed to have been taken-aback by the abrupt embrace, her arms lingering up in the air as she struggled to keep from falling back. "Bae?" She tried, her hands tentatively resting around his shoulders, stroking the shaggy head of hair that was buried against her chest.

Baelfire gently drew back enough to take her hand, mentally reprimanding himself: he probably smelled different from his stay here in this strange village, foolishly he had thought she might identify him with so few hints. Bae pressed her warm palm to his smiling cheek. "Yes, it is me." The tips of her fingers swept aside the stray locks of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

Gwen's expression instantly relaxed, but instead of her gaze wandering off to an unseen spot above his head or somewhere over his shoulder—like he knew her to—her gentle brown eyes met his.

It must have been a fluke accident; happenstance. "How did you get here?" He inquired admiringly, peering up at her, his chin in the nook of Gwen's shoulder as he brushed away the strange feeling that settled in his core. He gripped tight to the fabric of her blouse; she smelled of firewood and horse and forest—all things familiar and comforting to Baelfire. "We thought you had died."

Her smile faded and she chewed nervously on the inside of her cheek. Then, with a slow turning gaze to the man behind Baelfire, she thumbed over his shoulder at Rumpelstiltskin. Her mouth opened to explain, but no words emerged from her lips.

Never, in all his life, had he seen Gwen use her head to gesture at someone. Any questions bubbling to the surface about her unexpected appearance muffled in comparison to this sudden hitch in his reality. Disengaging himself from her, Baelfire reached up and pulled her face back to look at his. Her eyes locked onto his. "Can you see?" He whispered, praying that she'd tell him otherwise.

Baelfire's heart dropped, however, when she nodded; the slight smile on her lips tried to convince him that there was a blithe fragment of hope within her decision—but Bae knew better.

"No." He cried, taking a step back. Gwen reached out for him, but he evaded her hands; still reeling that her eyes no longer held vacancy. He wanted to scream out and demand how she could possibly have sight, but it was clear to Bae how it happened. "You made a deal with him, Gwen?" His father was a coward; Bae could understand the call of magic luring him in to solve all problems. But Gwen? Gwen was not a coward. Too what extent did she throw away her life in order to have the simple pleasure of sight?

"It was but for a few errands." Gwen answered calmly, drawing her gaze back to rest on Baelfire, her palms easing up to express sincerity. "I wanted to make sure you were safe." She finished slowly.

Bae felt like he should have recognized that Gwen wasn't herself as soon as he had latched onto her—peering around like a newborn child and squinting at the intruding sunlight. He been so absorbed in the bliss of Gwen's appearance that he hadn't even noticed her walking stick was not present within her hands.

"Safe?" Baelfire spat. How did having sight make any difference to her being able to discern the quality of his welfare? "You traded him for nothing." He forced, spitefully. It was quite obvious the reason behind Gwen's visit was not one of liberation: the thought made him cringe, but he stood up straight and forced a tough façade. He refused to be craven like them. "I am alright, Gwen. Papa made sure of that." Angrily, his eyes flashed to Rumpelstiltskin.

This gave Gwen pause, her own eyes glazing over for a moment before squinting at the boy, as if trying to understand. "Your father?" She probed in disbelief and confusion, her voice faltering. "He—"

Bae could have stomped his foot; her lack of understanding set him off even more. "He is the Dark One!" He finished for her, thrusting his finger at Rumpelstiltskin.

A look of shock crossed her face, and her breath hitched. Something strange fell in the air about her, as if she realized some menacing beast had slithered along at her heels. Gwen cautiously turned her gaze up to face the man—his secret no longer hidden in the dark, Bae knew that she now saw Rumpelstiltskin for who he had become.