AN: This chapter ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would, so it's being broken up into two parts.

III: Bargaining

I:

The evening melted into the night, and so they passed the next few days. Emma fetched water from the well, her shoulders becoming more accustomed to the labor each time. He sat and spun rope after rope of the soft, thick yarn, which she carefully unspooled and rewound around a wooden shaft, measuring them to his specifications.

They ate the stew three times a day, and when it was gone, he took her to the woods where they'd met to gather roots and herbs to make another one. The tiny garden behind the cottage yielded a few more potatoes and he had more strips of dried meat wrapped up in the baskets hanging from the ceiling. She watched him cook, convincing him to wash his hands off in the bucket first, and she opened her mouth obediently when he held out the large wooden spoon.

Conversations were sparse, often regulated to necessity or explanation. He seemed amused by her ignorance of functioning in this sort of environment, and she cautiously explained how some things worked in her own world. He seemed particularly intrigued in her description of refrigerators, washers, and sewing machines, but cars and computers disinterested him completely. She pictured Mr. Gold, strolling about town with his bad leg and his expensive suits, with his quaint, dim shop and its card-catalogue filing system and thought to herself that some things would apparently never change.

Comparing and contrasting the two men became an interesting and tangled process. Occasionally, he would say something close - almost decisive, almost derisive, voice and expression ghosts of the man she knew. Then, just as suddenly, he would fold back in on himself with something like shame, eyes downcast, cheeks hollowing as he sucked in a breath.

He jumped at loud noises, curled his hands to his chest when he didn't know what to do with them, and looked at the world with his head bowed, hair hanging in his face. She wondered what he was so afraid of, but could not think of a way to broach the subject. He slept each night, curled on his side, leg drawn up beside himself, wrapping his arms around it. She watched him, eyes closed, breathing evenly, until she too, fell asleep. He was always awake before her each morning, preparing their breakfast at the hearth.

And finally, she was absolutely in no way closer to learning how to return to Storybrooke, a thought that sometimes distressed her, and sometimes seemed far from her mind. She thought of Mary Margaret and her cheerful domesticity, the ease with which she cleaned and cooked and cared. She was beginning to understand Henry's assessment of the schoolteacher - it as easy to see how a person like that would be born of this kind of place. There was always more work to be done, and few people left in the village to do it.

When outside, Emma would nod at the people she passed, but they would mainly turn away, whispering with companions or watching her, closed-mouthed. No one spoke to her unless she spoke to them first. She did her best to reign in her frustration with the townspeople, not wanting to put the man into a difficult situation of being responsible for her behavior somehow.

She lay back on her bed, stifling a yawn. Sleepy afternoon sun turned the cabin's air to gold, making her feel drowsy now that she was full from lunch. She'd wound all the yarn he'd given her, so she simply lay there, watching the various containers lashed to the ceiling as they swayed in the breeze.

He was at the wheel, as usual, and she heard him give a faint sigh as he paused finally. Emma rolled onto her stomach to watch him as he wiped at his face. The cut on his cheek was healing, the bruising going down around it as it scabbed. She wondered if it would scar, before realizing that she probably knew the answer to that.

Flexing his shoulders, he sighed again as the stiffness there gave a little. He stooped over too much, she realized, between the wheel and the way he leaned into the staff as he walked. She thought of Gold's ramrod posture. Another contradiction. Both men moved with a kind of fluidity, but where Gold was still and poised, Rumpelstiltskin fidgeted and touched his hair, his throat, his chest.

He rubbed one palm across his throat then, curving it around to rest at the back of his neck. "Going to the market tomorrow," He announced suddenly, voice hoarse with disuse.

She perked up then, rising up on her elbows. "What's at the market?"

Turning, his eyebrows lifted into the weary expression he favored. "Eggs. More meat. Salt. And a bit of leather. Perhaps some seeds. And I'll get more wool."

"You'll be able to trade your yarn for all that stuff?"

He nodded, looking out the window abruptly. "I suppose you'll want to come, too." He murmured.

"That'd be great, thanks."

He nodded again, still gazing out the open window for a long moment, before glancing back in her direction. "...Of course."

II:

The woods were cool and dark as they made their way slowly down the rough, uneven path. At Emma's insistence, she carried the largest basket of spun wool slung across her shoulders, another bundle in her arms. He took the lightest load on his own back, limping heavily even from that. She kept her pace alongside his, careful not to get too far ahead and make him hurry, or to fall behind and risk another argument over who should carry what.

She craned her neck to look around them, trying not to be unnerved by the faint hooting of an owl, despite the fact that the sun had risen just as they'd entered the trees. Above them, gnarled branches twined around one another, casting the wood into a murky darkness. There were curiously few insects and she wondered about that. Several wagons passed them, ignoring them completely as they headed in the direction they were going.

She watched him plod forward, wondering if they should try flagging one down, but he continued on without complaint. She realized sadly that without her, he would have made this trip carrying the entire burden alone.

With the two of them, they made good time, coming out of the thicket of trees to a large, sloping plain. The town rose up before them, surrounded by a tall wall of pikes driven into the soil. Guards crossed the ramparts and patrolled the open gateway.

No one stopped them as they entered the town, but she saw the guards exchange looks. Rumpelstiltskin ignored them, moving at the same slow, steady pace he'd adopted in the forest, keeping his head down. Emma hitched her bag higher on her back, keeping an eye out for pickpockets as she huddled close to him in an effort not to be separated by the crowds milling the streets.

He headed directly to the center of the town, past a large courtyard filled with booths and stalls, ignoring the shouts from vendors and the replies of customers. Instead, he led her towards a dingier part of town, where the air smelled of chemicals, making her eyes water and her head ache. She remembered Mr. Gold's water-proofing substance and realized she had judged it too harshly.

They stopped outside a large, grand house, attached to another stone building by an enclosed walkway. He shuffled up to the barn-like door of the second half, raising his stick to knock heavily.

A small panel in the wood slid back, and a voice barked a question so fast Emma didn't understand it. It slammed shut before he could reply, but the door swung open a moment later. He indicated with his head for her to follow, and headed inside.

The room appeared to be a sort of medieval office, the far wall dominated by a series of shelves of small, labeled slots, filled with papers. The keeper was a woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a blue gown made of something soft and fine, fastened at the sleeves with metallic buttons. She wore a large golden charm around her neck, her thick glossy hair piled on either shoulder. She was clearly wealthy and well-fed. The woman took a seat at the table on the far side of the room, dragging a huge ledger out of the corner and opening it.

"Rumpelstiltskin," She said, dipping a quill pen into the ink bowl on the desk, making a notation in the ledger. "How many?"

"Forty-seven." He replied, nodding at Emma to remove the burdens she carried.

"More than last month," She murmured, sounding pleased.

He said nothing, staring at the floor. Emma realized the floor here was swept stone, unlike the soil in the man's home.

Finally, the woman nodded, closing the book. "Fifteen pieces of silver."

He looked up then, expression alarmed. "That's what I had last month for only thirty-five."

She crossed her arms to her chest stubbornly. "That was last month. This is this month."

He opened his mouth and closed it, looking at the floor again. He gripped the staff in his hands tightly, knuckles white.

Feeling her patience break, Emma stepped up, one arm jerking at the woman in a stabbing gesture. "Then we'll give you thirty-five of them and keep the other twelve."

The woman looked from her to the man, eyes narrowing. "Who is she?" She demanded finally, as though noticing her for the first time.

"She's... She's my..."

"I'm Emma." She interrupted. "So what do you say? 35 for 15; take it or leave it."

The woman stared at her, eyes hard. One hand stole to her necklace, and she dropped it abruptly, shrugging. "Twenty pieces of silver for the lot."

"Twenty-five." Emma corrected sharply.

"It's not worth that," She snapped.

Emma crossed her arms to her own chest. "I think we both know it is."

After a long silence where the woman's expression shifted from rage to something closer to admiration, she nodded. "Twenty-five. But I expect 50 the next month."

"If you've the wool for it, you'll have it," The man spoke up finally, still staring at the floor. His knuckles were red again against the staff, and he seemed to be breathing again.

They followed the woman into the open storehouse the next room over, where a man took their bundles and counted the spools. Satisfied that their report was accurate, the woman left to retrieve the money, while Rumpelstiltskin and the worker packed the bags with fresh wool, stuffing them to the brim.

The worker smiled at Emma kindly when she took the bags back, murmuring, "I always hoped he'd find a wife."

"Oh, no, I'm not..." She began, but was interrupted by the return of the woman.

Emma reached out her hand for the money, counting the pieces twice before tying the bag shut. They excused themselves and headed for the exit, carrying their bags of wool

Outside, he stopped to sit against the low stone wall surrounding the building, the tension seeming to ease out of his shoulders. Somewhere nearby, bells began to toll the hour, low and ominous rumblings accompanied by lighter, singing peals. "Thank you," He said finally, looking away from her.

She plopped down beside him, holding out the bag of silver. "No problem. She was trying to rip you off."

He smiled faintly, puzzled by her words, but he took the pouch from her. "Grenelda drives a hard bargain, but she's fairer than most." Opening the leather ties, he counted out ten silver pieces, holding his hand out to her. "Here."

"Oh, no..." She said, holding up her hands in protest. "I couldn't."

"Please," He said, his smile almost wistful now. "You earned them. I can buy all I need for fifteen pieces. Take these. Buy yourself some clothes."

She looked down at her too-short dress and worn straw shoes. Sighing, she held out her hand, accepting the money.

"There's a shop at the end of this street that sells to our station," He murmured, indicating a whitewashed clay building on the corner. "Meet me at the gate to this area in one hour?"

She nodded. Wrapping the coins in a bit of cloth from her pocket, she stuffed them down her shirt to rest against the sash tied around her waist.

They parted ways and she watched him hobble off before turning back to the building he'd pointed out. "Oh, boy – shopping. My favorite..."

III:

An hour later, she left the shop, carrying another bag, containing her old clothes and new purchases. She wore a pair of soft-woven linen trousers now, tucked into a pair of leather boots, with a matching linen shirt and a long brown tunic with a leather sash. She carried a simple muslin gown, dyed yellow, and a new set of clothes for the man, since it appeared he only owned what he wore each day. She wore a warm tawny cloak now as well, tied around her shoulders.

All in all, she had spent eight pieces of silver after a great deal of bargaining. The fact that she had gotten so much for so little made her even angrier that the woman had tried to short-change them and that the man had been willing to accept it.

His non-confrontational attitude mystified and aggravated her. How could a man like this ever become the hard-hitting dealmaker she knew? Shaking her head, she hurried to the entrance of the textile district, scanning the crowds for signs of the man.

The bells began to ring out again, signaling another hour had passed. He was nowhere to be seen.