Alright guys, some news.
First off, I know I promised you that someone would figure Neal out this chapter. Well, I had to move it. This chapter was supposed to be three scenes but when I did the skeleton (the dialogue and a few bits of stage direction) it got to be about six pages. That's too much for one chapter. Especially if I wanted to keep the posting schedule at least partially consistent. That part is going to either be next chapter or the one after, which means you have more chances to keep guessing.
Here's a tip: Emma already told David, so it can't be him.
I know a lot of you want to see that conversation and it will happen. The story is from Neal's POV so after he has said his bit, I will go back and fill in some of the blanks and that if at the top of my list.
Second, for those of you who even pay attention to ratings, this chapter got a bit violent so I upped the rating to "T"…if any of you care.
And lastly, although I will try, I can't guarantee more than two chapters this week. For those of you who are not in college or have yet to go, here's a word of advice. No matter how much the professors may deny it, I am positive that they actually conspire to have everything due at the EXACT SAME TIME. So yeah…
As always guys, enjoy and thanks for the love you have continued to show me.
Neal had long ago stopped being surprised at the kind of curve-balls life threw his way, but that didn't make it any easier to see Mr. Gold standing in his room rifling through his belongings. He was looking for something but Neal wasn't sure what. Maybe it was axes, or maybe he was looking for some trinket—some clue as to Neal's deeper identity. If that was the case, he wouldn't find it.
After a lifetime of pickpocketing and cons, Neal knew better than to keep the evidence where it could be found. He had hidden his box in a place no one would think to look; a place it would be safe…
He wasn't ready for this. Emma was the reason he was here, not Gold, and yet here he was facing down the very creature that fueled his nightmares since he turned fourteen.
Neal took a deep, silent breath. This was it. The moment—the test.
"Are you looking for something in particular, or were you just enjoying the scenery?" Neal said from the doorway, keeping his face carefully controlled.
"It's quite odd. I don't recall seeing you around here before."
"And strangers don't come to Storybrooke. I know." Neal said, finishing the thought before letting his annoyance at the situation show through. "That still doesn't answer what the hell you're doing in my room."
"I don't take kindly to being stolen from. Mr. Cassidy."
Gold dug the end of his cane into the large rug and stared at Neal. Although everything about the old man's stance was conversational, Neal could practically taste the threat dripping from every word.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Neal said, playing off the truth. Last night, after his little talk with the prince, he had gone directly to Gold's and stolen the axes. Considering he had just broken out of jail and was actually trying to avoid Gold at all cost, it probably wasn't the best course of action.
It didn't matter, though. They needed the axes to get Emma home and Henry needed his mother…and so didn't Neal. He needed her to at least hear him, even if she never forgave him.
"Don't play games with me. Many find it's bad for their health."
Neal eyes narrowed and he dropped all pretenses. He was tired of it, of all the pretending, all the hope. The man in front of him was no more his father then he had been on the day Neal had left. Just because there was no magic spilling out of skin, didn't mean he wasn't as rotten inside as he had been from these moment he plunged the dagger into that beggars chest.
"If you had any proof I have a feeling I would be behind bars."
"The rules are different here now, dearie," Gold said taking a step closer to Neal, "and I prefer to deal with my own affairs. Just because you disabled the cameras, doesn't mean I don't have proof. You would be surprised what one can do with a little magic."
Neal gave a dry little laugh and looked Gold right in the eyes. "No, really I wouldn't. But that still doesn't tell me what you're doing here."
"Isn't it obvious? I want my property back."
"Nothing in that shop is really yours," Neal said, his voice monotone as he bit his tongue to keep from saying the rest of it. Nothing is yours. All you've ever done is take from others and turned it all to ash. The Dark One is nothing but a parasite, hollowing out his father's life and wearing his face.
"I beg to differ," Rumplestiltskin said, with a shark like smile. There was a beat of silence as he looked around the room as if taking measure of Neal's life. As if the lack of personal possessions in the rented space somehow spoke to Neal's unimportance in the old man's life. "I'm in a forgiving mood today, so I'll make you a deal: you return my property and it will be like none of this ever happened."
Neal stared at Rumplestiltskin for a moment before answering, even though he made his choice long before the imp gave him the opportunity.
"No deal."
"Pardon?" Gold asked and Neal got the feeling that the old man was genuinely surprised. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to figure many in this town would be thankful for the chance not to be on the old bastard's bad side. Too bad Neal wasn't one of them.
"You're not getting those axes back." He couldn't give them back even if he wanted to (which he didn't). the first thing he had done after leaving Gold's shop was drop them off at the mines where they belonged.
"I don't think you understand just who you're dealing with." Neal had to fight the flinch that came bubbling to the surface as Rumplestiltskin started doing Impish hand gesture that always creeped Neal out—the one he hadn't done before getting the Dark One's powers.
"I'm not afraid of you," Neal's voice was steady and strong but that was just another in a long line of cons he had pulled in his life. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince with that lie: Gold or himself.
It didn't really matter. Nothing could stop the fact that beneath all his bravado, Neal was a terrified of the man before him as a small child confronting the boogieman under the bed. Actually, there wasn't all the much difference between the two.
This was the man who had haunted his life for the last eighteen years. This was his own personal demon—his own personal nightmare made flesh (or was it more like flesh made nightmare?).
Call it a moment of temporary insanity or call it a flashback, either way the result was the same.
As Gold stood there inches from Neal's face, threatening him—challenging him—all Neal could see were memories of the weeks of hell before he escaped and the decades of nightmares afterword's. The people Rumplestiltskin had killed and justified it by saying it was all for him. The nightly visions of him killing Moraine in various different ways—visions that later warped into Emma and, more recently, Henry as his victims.
And so he did the only thing he could think of; the one thing he could never bring himself to do in his dreams. He fought back.
If there was one thing his brief stint as the odd kid in an inner-city high school had taught him, it was that if you get a cheap shot, take it. If you don't get the other guy down fast you might not get another chance.
With a blind rage that seemed out of character even to him, he kicked out, his foot coming into contact with Rumplestiltskin's bad knee.
But the old man was not helpless. Not now. Not in this odd little corner of the world. Before he crumpled to the ground, he flicked his wrist, sending Neal speeding backwards as if he had just been hit by a car going forty that hadn't even tried to break.
His vision swam as the left side of his head bashed against the hard metal of the light fixture, the decorative detailing digging into flesh above his eye.
The con ignored the stars and blood hampering his vision and reached out, grabbing the nearest object and swinging out with all his might. There was a sickening—yet oddly satisfying—crunch as the large golden cane handle made contact with the imp's temple.
Before he even had a chance to register what was going on, his throat constricted and he was pushed against the wall, feet left dangling a good six inches above the floor.
Neal didn't struggle and didn't beg. He just stared defiantly at the imp with a burning hatred he had never believed possible in his own soul. A sick, twisted, part of him found pleasure in the thought of Gold finding out the truth only after Neal was cold and dead by the imp's own hand.
How fitting would it be for this monster in his father's face to have the nightmares for once? And he would only have himself to blame.
"Rumplestiltskin!" A soft voice shouted from behind him and, for the first time, Neal realized that he had left the door open to the world.
Belle in the hallway, next to Red. Neal didn't' know it now, but as he would later find out, she had been visiting her friend when they had come to check out the commotion.
Gold's hand relaxed and Neal crumpled down the wall. The girls horrified eyes never left Gold as Neal struggled to catch his breath.
After a few seconds, he got to his feet and headed towards the door, both physically and emotionally exhausted and prayed that the sickeningly slimy numbness would eventually leave him. But he doubted it. There was nothing left of his father in that monster.
He stopped at the doorframe, ignoring the two girls watching the exchange. He did not turn to face Gold, not trusting his ability to keep his own pain off his face.
"I know exactly what you are, Rumplestiltskin," he said, hoping that any who noticed the quiver in his voice just attributed it to his recent battle with strangulation, "you're noting but a sad, lonely old man."
He paused and closed his eyes, gathering strength. As terrified as he was of the man, it was still something that he desperately needed to say.
"But more than that, you're pathetic."