A/N: I'm never entirely sure how to write then/ now scenes, so I hope the use of italics helps to differentiate things a little.
Gold hisses through his teeth as a sharp elbow jabs him viciously in his side, growling furiously into the blonde's hair as she stamps down on his foot. She wears only her tights, however, and, in spite of her height advantage and surprising strength, she's slight, and her struggling is quickly deterred as the cloying concoction that wets the handkerchief he holds over her mouth and nose takes effect.
Catching her at the waist as the blonde slumps in his arms, Gold lowers her carefully down onto the floor before standing up straight and massaging his ribs; sure that the Sheriff's brief surge of retaliation will leave a colourful bruise.
"Bad girl, Emma."
He shakes his head while studying her curiously as she lies unconscious on the hardwood floor, smirking at her uncharacteristic choice of attire in a not wholly unfriendly manner; enjoying the way her oversized cardigan and thick tights make her look much younger - much more vulnerable - than he's used to seeing her. This, coupled with the soft white dress and the girlish pull of her hair, makes this all seem a little easier somehow. She is his to play with; to conduct - he has always thought of her this way, long before meeting the grown-up, contrary young woman she has become - and her current attire is simply a pleasing visual addition to her role.
"Charming, lovey."
He grins gleefully at the irony of his phrasing, before snooping briefly around her kitchen out of sheer curiosity. Opening the fridge, he raises an eyebrow at the chocolate cake that takes pride of place amongst various other groceries. The words 'Happy Birthday, Henry' have been painstakingly iced in blue on top, and he marvels at the blonde's handwriting. The way others write has always been somewhat of a private fascination; having come to the conclusion that the way his clients signed their names back in the Enchanted Forest was greatly telling of their character. The Sheriff's writing is spiky and complicated, not easily legible, but with a subtle hint of delicacy to the way she finishes off her 'y's and an unusual curve to the tail of her 'd' which is curiously hyper-feminine.
"Happy birthday, indeed."
He murmurs as he takes the cake and throws it reluctantly in the trash. To do so is a necessity, and as he goes about pulling down various streamers and balloons, he tells himself that doing so is the same also. He doesn't think what he feels as he pops the balloons in his hands is strong enough to be called remorse, but he's aware that whatever the feeling may be, it's a negative one. If it were possible to do this another way and allow the boy his special day with the blonde, he would do so, but alas, it must happen like this.
For it is today that will most likely garner the brunette's attention should she imagine the Sheriff to be missing.
He needs the boy's reaction to be one of anger or pain to allow him the time to sort out the finalities of his plan. Should Henry arrive at the apartment and think something to be amiss about the blonde's absence given her clear effort to decorate and celebrate, he's unsure whether he would have time to get her located where he needs her; Henry likely to call upon the waitress, the schoolteacher, or his mother in fear that something may have happened to the Sheriff. He needs the boy to believe Emma has simply stood him up, hopefully causing him to hang around in case she shows up, before heading home or to the diner on foot and refraining from prematurely alerting any of the troublesome women who might get in the way.
He imagines the Mayor's initial reaction upon finding her son in what will presumably be a fragile state will be anger at the Sheriff, but he's relying on her to come to the conclusion at some point over the next few days that something is amiss. He hopes it will be sooner rather than later, not just because of his wish to get things started, but because he doesn't like the idea of keeping Emma subdued for any longer than necessary.
"What will be, will be."
He confides companionably to the young woman lying at his feet, before bending down to pull her up. He tugs at her hands so that she rises into a seated position; her head hanging back to expose her throat as her long hair ghosts over the uneven floorboards. Struggling to manoeuvre her into a more compliant position, Gold eventually manages to hoist her over his shoulder with a grunt of exertion, his weak leg trembling.
"Thank goodness you're a slight lass, eh, dearie?"
Shifting the blonde's dead weight until he's sure he has her held securely, he moves towards the door; his hand up beneath her dress resting on soft wool as he cups her ass to keep her in place.
"Sorry, Sheriff."
He apologises with prim sincerity. Creeping slowly out into the hallway, he listens for any signs of life before determining it safe to journey downstairs. He moves carefully, aware that it would be much easier to simply drag Emma along by her hands, but he has no wish to batter her around unnecessarily.
After all, this is strictly business.
Reaching the front door to the apartment building, he hesitates, peering through the dirty glass pane to check the street, before exiting swiftly to his car which waits directly in front of the door despite multiple signs banning the act. Pulling open the passenger side door, he deposits the Sheriff into the seat - taking the time to buckle her in as the street remains deserted - before limping around to the driver's side. Starting the engine, he speeds off; his right hand held out to keep the blonde's head from lolling due to various bumps and potholes as he goes.
"Miss Swan?"
Regina knocks on battered wood loudly, despite the fact that the door still wavers on its hinges. Receiving no response, she storms into the apartment angrily. Dark eyes taking in her surroundings, she knows immediately that the blonde isn't home, but she marches over to the iron steps that centre the room nevertheless.
Entering Emma's bedroom, she sighs irritably as she finds it predictably empty. She frowns as she spies several discarded items of clothing strewn atop the blonde's bed, before leaning over the Sheriff's messy nightstand to inspect a number of crumpled-up balls of paper. Picking one up curiously, she unfolds it to realise that it is cut to form an envelope, but a jagged rip to one side explains why it has ended up littering the bedside table. There are five such failed attempts in total, each possessing a minor flaw, and each branded with her son's name. Raising an eyebrow pensively, the brunette makes her way back downstairs.
She snoops around the apartment curiously, unable to shake the feeling that something feels decidedly off about the Sheriff's absence. Opening several of the cupboards, before peering inside the fridge, her brow creases at a curiously empty space within, around which groceries and cans have been purposefully shoved to the side.
"One or two beers last night, dear?"
It's a plausible explanation, but it somehow doesn't feel right. Turning for the door, she frowns as she spots a flash of green behind the sofa. Moving over, she bends down to pick up a rather sorry-looking balloon; half-deflated as its rubber surface appears punctured on one side.
"... What on earth?"
She stares at the gaudy green decoration for what feels like a decidedly long time. Squeezing it so as to deflate it fully - a high-pitched whistle piercing her ears - she stalks over to deposit it in the trash.
"What...?"
She freezes as she looks down at the schizophrenic haze of colour that busies the inside of the younger woman's trashcan; the discarded decorations soiled messily with what is instantly recognisable as chocolate frosting. Picking delicately at one of the ruined streamers, the Mayor takes in a harsh gasp as she uncovers pale blue icing; painstakingly piped and meaning so much more than just the destroyed words glaring back up at her.
"Why? Why would you do that...?"
She whispers, but she finds she's having a hard time believing Emma to be the one behind this. She knows the Sheriff can be profoundly awkward and uncomfortable with either showing or receiving sentimental gestures, but if the blonde had harboured doubt about celebrating the boy's birthday, the Mayor is sure she would have backed out long before toiling over a cake and decorating the apartment.
Eyes widening fearfully, she shakes her head as her gaze darts around the empty apartment fretfully.
"What the hell happened, Emma!?"