Hey guys! So, this is going to sound so vain but this chapter is by far my favorite chapter of this story so far…it is also some of my favorite writing, ever. Not because it's overly well written, but and I think other writers out there will get this; this is the chapter where the characters truly clicked and all these once "random" plot lines start to weave together... Or maybe I'm just the most erratic and ill-prepared writer out there so when my characters cooperate I'm shocked… Anyway, I am truly waiting with bated breath to hear your thoughts…I'm nervous though too, because I do so love this chapter…please be gentle?!

MINOR WARNING: There is some cussing in this chapter…Mr. Gold is getting flustered, he can't seem to help it.

Chapter 7: Wraiths

Mr. Gold was very, very confused. He hadn't had a single drop of alcohol to drink since he arrived in Storybrooke. He wasn't taking any strange medications that would mess with his judgment or his sensibilities. There wasn't a family history of sudden onset mental illness. He didn't suffer from memory loss. At least that he could remember.

There was no explanation for the fact he was sitting across from Belle French in an intimate Scottish pub called, of all things, the Eider Duck, which Mr. Gold found to be an awful name for a pub. He likewise found it rather remarkable that one small town could have so many god-awfully named businesses. Today was a day for surprises though it seemed, as the Eider Duck was a quite impressive pub. What luck.

The floors were stone, the walls heavy dark wood. Open fires and a ceiling hung with all sorts of flags from various ships lent a very authentic feel. All manner of sea faring paraphernalia littered most surfaces. They had avoided the impressive bar though in favor of a more private booth that had massive antlers hung above their head. Gaelic music rolled just registering over the muted din of the standard crowd.

"I have'na met many lasses that drink scotch neat, as you are, that's impressive." He couldn't help remark as their server set the glasses down.

"My dad says I have my mother's palate."

He watched her run a delicate finger around the rim of the glass. She had beautiful, graceful hands.

It then in a quick, glaring clarity dawned on him. "Ms. French, I'm sorry. I didn't think…with your father's…" Mr. Gold fought for a graceful way to say it.

Ms. French seemed to quickly ascertain what he was trying to say, "My father's status as a drunk… It's okay. I drink, not much and not often but I enjoy a drink now and again. Drinking isn't a sin Mr. Gold. Drunkenness yes, drinking no."

He gave her a faint smile, "Alright, well I can drink to that, slàinte mhòr." He raised his glass to her.

She quirked an eyebrow at him and he waited.

"Health to Marion," she lifted her own glass, and gave him a blazing, pleased with herself grin as she gave back the English translation to him.

"Just a test dearie, you passed."

"I should have known as a Highlander you'd be a Jacobite."

"Oh aye, indeed. Being as old as I am of course fought in '45 at Culloden," he answered derisively, fighting to not roll his eyes heavenward.

She giggled sipping at what he found to be quite good scotch. "You were testing my Scottish history were you?"

He made a showy gesture, rolling his hand at the wrist and then made a brushing motion. So he was.

"Hm, well, since I passed I should be rewarded."

"Och, is that what you think lass? Prey tell, how do you feel you should be rewarded?"

The light in the pub was dim but pleasant. It didn't feel expectant or intrusive as bright light sometimes did. He relaxed in it, relaxed in the dimness and the concealing shadow.

Her face creased with obvious thought. He enjoyed watching the furrows and lines change on her perfect face. It was as transparent as a windowpane. It was pleasing. She could hide things he was sure, but she seemed blissfully open and honest to him now. Perhaps too honest, he thought back to her confessions at the docks.

"For my reward, I want you to stop calling me Ms. French, it makes me feel old."

He raised an eyebrow, considering, "Names are special things dearie. They are intimate and have great power you know."

She made a noise, he wondered if she even realized she was doing it. It was half grumble, half sigh. "You mean like Rumplestiltskin? The poor miller's daughter had to guess his name or lose her baby?"

"Nothing so sinister my dear. Simply that the breakdown of social stature from the formality of titles such as Ms., Miss., Mrs., etcetera in favor of given names creates a familiarity that can become …cumbersome, especially in business dealings…" he paused wanting to watch her as she absorbed his words. "I am Scots though, we are a fanciful people, we like our stories of imps, changelings and monsters in Lochs. There is magic in names as well."

She snorted this time. It was an indelicate, unladylike sound that yet fit her perfectly. "However, I passed the test, I get my reward. You'll call me Belle…and if makes you taking my business a little harder, well I can't honestly say it'll hurt my feelings any. Next time, don't let me name my reward."

He actually laughed, an honest to goodness full belly laugh. The girl was honest to a fault and he approved. Far too many people cowered to him. Of course they should, he'd have their neck if they didn't…but there was something refreshing about a woman, even knowing her entire life was at his mercy that could and did stand up to him.

Maybe it was because she had nothing to lose, he thought. He did tell her after all that nothing would change the outcome she was facing. So maybe there was no harm in letting one formality slip to the wayside. "Alright, Belle it is. You will still call me Mr. Gold."

"How about Crocodile, can I call you that?"

Mr. Gold was beginning to think she might be a lightweight when it came to drinking. He thought this for about twenty seconds however because he knew the gleam in her eye wasn't the scotch. She was enjoying bating him. If he was being honest, he actually was enjoying himself as well.

Damn it all to hell.

"Nobody who values their life calls me Crocodile, at least not to my face," he was pleased that he successfully managed to say it without grinning.

She hesitated, seemingly gauging his sincerity, "Oh hush, you silly man, you try to act all scary and intimidating…but you're not an ogre."

If only she really knew. He was more than ogre. This, no matter how quaint it might seem, was still not altering anything. He would stick to the terms of his arrangement with Mr. Gaston. Yet, Belle…he rather liked thinking of her as Belle. Beauty suited her. Not just physically, but, and he did have a knack for seeing the heart and intent of things, was pure. She wasn't trying to deceive or manipulate. She was an honestly good being. That was incredibly rare. It was moreover maddening as hell.

"Can I ask you a question Dougal?"

He raised an eyebrow at her using his first name. She scrunched her nose and sipped her scotch, "No…it really doesn't suit you at all does it?"

"Which could be why no one calls me by it, dear."

She leaned back, "What does your mother call you?"

He took a long swallow of his second glass of scotch the server had replaced with his barely noticing. It shook him a bit that he was that unaware of his surroundings. What was this woman doing to him? It was very unsettling.

"By my middle name."

"Hm, and shall I have to guess your middle name?" she giggled.

Maybe the scotch was getting to them both, she was enchanting and he wasn't feeling nearly as prickly as he usually did.

"If you expect to use it I would wager you're going to have to, though the likelihood I'll let you know when you've reached the right one is nil."

"Well…it's not Rumplestiltskin, we know that… Angus?"

He couldn't help making a face, "Angus is a cow my dear, my parents weren't quite so cruel as to name me Dougal Angus."

"Dougal and Angus aren't bad names, they just don't suit you… How about, Blake? Dougal Blake Gold?"

"Decidedly not dearie."

He watched her swirl the amber liquid around her glass; face incredibly thoughtful and he didn't think she had ever looked lovelier.

"No? Okay… Cameron? Dougal Cameron?"

"Wrong again," he actually laughed.

She frowned, "And we're sure it's not Rumplestiltskin?"

"No, it is not Rumplestiltskin…what a dreadful mouthful that is." He gave an exaggerated shiver of his shoulders; he wasn't sure why exactly…other than he thought it might make her smile. He wanted to make her smile.

His chest swelled in odd, though not unpleasant, way as she did smile at him.

What in the blood hell was happening?

"You aren't going to go through the entire alphabet are you my dear?"

"If I have to…" she scrunched her face in thought, "How did you hurt you leg?"

Belle gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I asked that…that was rude."

He arched an eyebrow and fought off the urge to sigh. The question did seem to come from nowhere but he wasn't insulted by it and even felt inclined to answer.

"There was an accident, almost 17 years ago. I was married…a long time ago. I had just started Baelfire in Inverness; it was just starting to find its feet. My wife desired fame, not in the beginning but as I started to make more money and success she desired more of the limelight. I am not the type to parade about. I desperately desire privacy…"

He was shocking himself. He didn't share this story with anyone. He had gone through great lengths to bury it, to forget it. Yet, he couldn't stop himself, couldn't help wanting…perhaps even needing to tell her. This stranger that had her own story, had reasons to despise him and this story could be used against him but he couldn't stop himself.

Bugger.

"I met her when she was with the British Ballet Company, on tour through the UK. I was wrong I suppose to sweep her away and into the bleak life of a lawyer and struggling businessman, I thought we were in love. We did all right for a while…but…" his throat was suddenly parched and he bypassed the scotch for the glass of water next to it. "She filed for divorce, without telling me she was pregnant…"

He only stopped his story because she sputtered, choking on her scotch. "Are you okay…Belle?"

She nodded reaching for a napkin and wiping at her mouth, "I'm sorry…please, go on."

He didn't want to, but he did. "Of course we didn't have a prenuptial, so it was a messy drawn out process… She stopped showing up to the arbitration and negotiations about six months into the process. I didn't see her until the day the papers were finally entered and the judge issued the divorce decree."

He heard his voice break and he felt the tears but he still couldn't stop talking.

"It was the middle of December, a blizzard had come from nowhere, and it wasn't supposed to hit for another day or two. The roads were ice rinks, we were fighting…she was nearly 9 months pregnant; I wanted to know if it was mine. I knew she had strayed from our marriage. I wanted kids, she said she never did, she didn't want to be tied down she said. It was one of the big reasons we never could have made our marriage work."

"She all but ran out of the office building, straight into the storm. A lorry was out of control and barreling down the road, they said later his brakes had gone out …so on top of the sheets of black ice there was no way he was going to be able to stop."

"I ran after her… She went right into the path of the truck…" he longer was sitting in the pub in the that small Maine town, he was back so many years ago in the harsh London winter, feeling that ice, hearing the screams.

"I pushed her out of the way. She was grazed and fell into the ditch. My leg was crushed… The doctors did the best they could to mend it, I have an artificial knee but the muscles were torn and never knitted right."

His eyes finally came to rest back on her trying to gauge her reaction.

"Oh Mr. Gold…" she reached across and to his total amazement took hold of his hand.

He smiled a little wearily at that, "I was told she lost the baby. She refused to tell me if it had been mine…I still don't know if the baby was mine. I wasn't even allowed to see it. I haven't seen her in 17 years either. The hospital wouldn't and was under no obligation since I wasn't her husband any longer, to be cooperative."

"So, I moved my business to the U.S. set my life up again and the rest…" he lifted his glass made a small salute and tipped it back finishing it.

Silence hung about them like a cloud of stagnate smoke, oppressive and choking. So there it was, the story that he went to great lengths to leave in in the UK. She was the first person to hear the story in 17 years and unless something dramatic changed she'd be the last.

The silence was still stretching out and he felt a little uncomfortable under her gaze. She furrowed her brow like she was deep in thought; she had sucked in her full bottom and was biting it. One hand was on her glass the other had pulled her hair over one shoulder and she had a single lock twisted around her finger.

"So it's kind of safe to say that that our pasts have been kinda shitty."

He sputtered and laughed loudly, genuinely, he hadn't expected her to say that. "Shitty indeed…"

She blessed him with a dazzling smile, "I am truly sorry Mr. Gold…" she for a reason he couldn't even begin to guess at squeezed his hand, again, "I propose a toast…"

Since he had finished his previous drink he discreetly motioned to the server who was obviously very attuned to her patrons, as she had known to leave them alone until their glasses were nearly empty then she'd quietly appear and replace if asked. How she missed this one he didn't know, probably because he downed it so quickly.

With his drink now refreshed he nodded to Belle to give her toast.

"To ghosts of our shitty pasts, and to the wraiths our futures, we will show each other no pity but embrace whatever comes with ferocity and fervor. Slàinte!"

"Slàinte," he answered and they downed their drinks. She coughed a bit finishing her drink. "I'm going to go out on a limb her dearie, but I think and not just based on that horrendous toast, that you drunk."

She made a face at him, "No, I'm not drunk, but I am getting tipsy. Perhaps we should call it a night?"

"I couldn't think of a better idea. Will you allow me to walk you home?" He refused to let her pay for her drinks; he was still a gentleman after all.

"The shop is quite a walk past the B&B, I will be fine, but thank you."

He picked up her coat to help her into it, "I would like to walk you, I would feel better, if you'll allow it."

He picked up his cane and she tipped her head at him again as they left the pub into the astonishingly late night.

"For a man who's nickname is Crocodile you're a surprisingly warm blooded man."

"Oh dearie, I'm not a man, I'm a beast," he grinned offering her his arm.

"So you keep trying to remind me…but I'm not believing you yet."

Her arm was warm and pleasurably heavy in the crook of his. The scotch was still rolling through him dulling the ache in his leg and cutting through the bitter coldness of the fall air. He hadn't lied when he said it changed nothing. It really didn't. He still had a duty to his client. The fact that this bewitching creature was like a laser cutting through every piece of armor he had around him did not change that. It was almost like they both had accepted their fates, accepted each other and unlike everyone else had no desire to change the other.

But that was asinine. She didn't care a whit about him, she certainly didn't feel kindly toward him, how could she? Well it wasn't going to work. She wasn't going to play him like a simpleton. Not a chance in fucking hell.

They walked in silence; he figured she was plotting her next move. Even as the thoughts formed in his mind he was dismissing me them just as quick. She just didn't seem the kind to manipulate like that. What was her angle?

"Well, I assume I'll still be expecting you in the morning?" she broke through his thoughts as the reached the shop door.

"Indeed. Bright and early, I'll have two of my associates coming in also and the first showing of the space will be noon."

Belle released his arm and turned to unlock the door nodding, "Okay…"

He returned her nod and started to leave considering it his dismissal.

"Mr. Gold?"

He paused, turned around.

"Thank you. Thank you for…tonight." He watched in disbelief as she rushed forward and hugged him awkwardly. He had to lean heavily on his cane as her weight collided with his.

He stared at her in complete amazement as she let him go and rushed back into the shop. The tinkle of the bell echoed into the night.

He was so fucked. She was nothing like Milah.

DUM DUM DUMMMMMMM! WELL? Whattya think?

There was a bit of Gaelic in here, I don't speak Gaelic so if you do and I screwed up and called someone a bad name, I do apologize lol.

Also, I didn't know this, or didn't realize until I was trying to think of a title for this chapter, the word wraith is Scottish in origin… I thought worked wonderfully for this story. In the show Gold actually calls a wraith, in my story, since they don't exist the ghosts-wraiths of his past come to call on him…

Another confession, in the first mental draft of this chapter I ended it with Gold telling Belle his middle name – the name he goes by – that I didn't ended up as a double blessing. Not only do I love my ending here better but I truly couldn't think of a name that suited him. Mr. Gold just suits him best!

…But he needs a given name too soooo hit me with your best shot! If you like, the winner of the name Mr. Gold contest can give me any prompt or story idea and I'll write it up, anything goes (no slash/incest/bestiality though lol)… So yeah – motivation! Go, go, go!