It's early, Isabel's just arrived at the bookshop and set down her purse, when the ground rumbles beneath her feet. She throws her hand out to catch the counter and waits. An earthquake? Do earthquakes really happen in Maine?
A moment later, there's an awful grumbling sound as the entire building seems to roll under her feet. Isabel crashes to the floor and then scoots up against the counter to avoid the books shaken loose from their shelves all around her.
"Apparently," Isabel says to herself, "earthquakes do happen in Maine."
After less than a minute, the quakes stop. Isabel carefully rolls to her feet, rubbing at her shoulder where a particularly large tome hit her, and surveys the damage. The store is a disaster. Thankfully, she doesn't see any damage to the display window, but two of her bookcases are cracked down their backs, and the floor looks like a sea of bent books.
Isabel bends down to pick up the book nudging her shoes, then lets out a yelp when a sharp pain shoots down to her shoulder blade. "Okay," she says as she straightens once more, leaving the book where it is. "Okay, this doesn't have to be that bad."
If there's one thing Isabel's not afraid of, it's hard work. Ordinarily, she'd roll up her sleeves and immediately start on straightening out whatever this mess is. But if she can't even lift a single book…
"Mr. Gold!" she blurts. If the earthquake was town-wide, his shop might have been hit too, and no matter what he claims, she doesn't think he's completely healed from that concussion Ashley gave him.
Isabel scrabbles for her purse amidst the fallen books, making sure to use only her left hand, and digs out her phone.
"Hello?" Mr. Gold says.
"Sweetheart, are you all right?"
She should, she thinks, be used to this silence after everything she says now. Finally, he replies, "I'm fine. Why?"
"Didn't you feel that earthquake?"
"An earthquake? Here? No, I didn't feel anything." His voice sharpens. "But you did?"
Pausing to once more survey her beloved shop, she sighs. "I'm afraid it caused quite a bit of damage over here. It'll take me a while to clean all this up, so I might be late home tonight."
"Oh." Through the phone, she hears him take three breaths before he says, in an unusually flat voice, as if he's suppressing any and all emotion that might bleed through, "I could come help you. If you'd like."
Isabel's brows arch almost to her hairline. Never, not even once, has Mr. Gold offered to help with anything but monetary compensation at her shop. And since their marriage, he hasn't stepped foot inside her domain (as if he thinks she'll grow tired of seeing him both at home and elsewhere? or as if he got what he wanted from his once-routine visits and no longer needs to expend the energy on useless chats?).
"I…I would like that," she hears herself say.
It's a terrible idea. They haven't slept in the same room for nearly two weeks, she's accused him of having an affair, he's not even hiding the fact that he's avoiding her, and on top of all that, with Ashley's adoption cancelled and no charges pressed, Isabel's even further from ending this whole charade than she's ever been.
But somehow the words slipped out, and now Mr. Gold's telling her he has a few calls to make and then he'll be over (though she'd half expected him to just send Dove, his henchman-of-all-trades, to do the heavy lifting), and when he hangs up without so much as a goodbye, it's too late. Her fate is sealed.
"You chose this yourself," she reminds herself.
Working one-handed, Isabel has barely managed to clear a pathway from the door when Mr. Gold's car pulls up outside. He parks in the clearly labeled No Parking zone, and emerges with all the grace she's never been able to successfully emulate. Or discern how he manages. Shouldn't climbing out of a car while handling both a limp and a cane make him off-balance enough to at least seem human?
Startling when she realizes he's nearly to the door, Isabel rises to her feet, hisses when she moves her shoulder wrong, then clasps her hands in front of her to seem composed.
Mr. Gold's step checks when he pulls the door open and enters to see her standing there like a frightened rabbit.
"Isabel?" he says cautiously.
"Oh, good, you're here!" And if she had two good arms, she'd have smacked herself in the face for such an inane greeting.
His eyes narrow as he takes one cautious step closer to her. "Are you…okay?"
Isabel's eyes flick up to his temple where his hair hides the cut she bandaged. Rather than be a hypocrite after the scolding she gave him, she sighs and lets her posture sag a bit. "A book hit my shoulder and I can barely move my arm, but other than that, I'm fine."
As he moves into the store, her husband rubs his thumb and forefinger together, a new habit she's only just started noticing. "Well, let's see it, then. Come over here."
Following him to the cozy sitting area she was so proud of arranging (and that only she has ever enjoyed), he seats her on the couch and then stands over her. Isabel's eyes follow his cane as he leans it against the nearby chair, so she's almost surprised when she feels his hand splay over her shoulder blade. At her jerk, he draws back, his hands hanging in mid-air.
"Sorry," she says, blushing. "Sorry, I just…I didn't expect it."
"I'll be quick," he promises. As he prods ever so gently at her shoulder, he tells her, "Turns out there was a cave-in at some old mines on this side of town. A safety hazard, according to our illustrious mayor, but nothing to worry about. From the looks of it, I'd say your shop might have got hit with the worst of it."
"No one was hurt?" she checks.
She can hear the roll of his eyes in his voice. "Only you, dear."
"Don't call me—"
"A slip of the tongue, I assure you."
His hands are wide and large, and when he digs his fingers into the flesh of her shoulder, she nearly falls backward into him. Her eyes flutter shut, and she tells herself it's because she's afraid of whatever jolt of pain he might accidentally inflict (but she's a big fat liar). Every once in a while, as he moves, she can feel his breath whisper along the profile of her face.
"It's just a muscle bruise, I think," he says. Unexpectedly, his hands dig into her shoulders, massaging deeply, and once the first wave of pain passes, she can feel every one of her muscles melting back into his warmth. "It should work itself out. We'll put some heat on it when we get home."
"Th-thank you," she manages to get out.
The moment he moves away, she nearly cries. (How long has it been since someone touched her? Offered her a hug? Singled her out in any way?) To hide whatever her face might reveal, she bends forward and scoops a few books off the floor to set on the coffee table. Her shoulder already feels better—looser, with more range of motion, only a hint of soreness when she puts weight on her arm.
Her husband stands several feet away from her, an island amidst the sea of books, and studies the store. "You've rearranged," he says quietly.
"Not much else to do," she says. And since that's about as maudlin as she'll let herself get, Isabel shoots to her feet and says, "With my shoulder feeling so much better, I think I can probably sort the rest of this myself. Thank you for—"
"I said I'd help," he says, a bit testily. "I never break deals, remember?"
Isabel studies him closely. When his eyes drift past her to something behind her, she once more looks, but again, sees nothing there. "Do you want to help?" she asks him curiously.
"Do you want my help?" he retorts.
Any other day, Isabel would have told him she could manage and didn't need him. She'd have sent him off to his pawnshop and his real estate, and she would have hummed while using this disaster as an excuse to rearrange the layout of the genres. But…it's been weeks since he's put his arms around her. Weeks since she's had someone to talk to. Weeks since she's shared space with anyone besides herself (unless one counts their hours of observation in the hospital a few days ago, which she tends not to; she was so tangled up in worry and guilt that she didn't fully take in his company).
I'm lonely, she thinks. So very lonely. And her husband, for all his faults (for all the reasons she has to be with him), can be good company when he exerts himself.
"I would love your help," she says.
Mr. Gold's eyes, described by most in town as snake-like, or cold, or like chips of granite—his amber-brown eyes soften into molten gold before he turns away from her and hides them behind his hair.
"Well, then," he says. "We'd better get started."
The third time Rumplestiltskin flicks his fingers at the cracked bookcase, he hears Isabel's bright laughter.
"What do you think that's accomplishing?" she asks him. Despite his repeated warnings, she has an armful of books (the woman obviously has no idea how to 'take it easy') and is heading purposely toward the ladder propped up against the wall of shelves. "You think if you snap your fingers, it'll magically be fixed?"
Rumplestiltskin's shoulders tense, but he only says, "Would certainly make this easier."
"If you can't fix them, we'll just have to leave them empty for now."
"I can fix them," he says. If he can't, he can certainly have new ones constructed by Marco and delivered by Dove. In fact, why didn't he think of that before? He can have the entire shop remodeled with built-in bookcases, rolling ladders, and maybe tiny lips on each shelf so that if another earthquake hits, the books won't be so apt to fall.
At the reminder of the earthquake, Rumplestiltskin feels a snarl building in the back of his throat.
He should be out there, keeping his hand in, studying Emma and Regina's dynamic from afar, learning what precisely caused this quake (he has his suspicions concerning a certain badge, but confirmation is always nice) and what the queen thinks she can hide with her quick response.
But instead, he's here, his suit coat long since tossed aside by the cash register, his sleeves rolled up and tie tucked into his pocket, doing manual labor in a way he hasn't in far too long. He should have brought Dove. Isn't that the whole point of hiring muscle, that they do all your work for you?
Rumplestiltskin switches his focus from fixing the cracked bookcases to taking measurements and mentally writing the instructions he plans to give to Marco as soon as he's done here.
"Oh, sweetheart, would you mind handing me that stack down there?"
When he turns to see this beautiful young woman he's been saddled with perched high up on a ladder, he nearly has a heart attack. Not because she's leaning way too far over. Not even because she's doing something he expressly told her she shouldn't with her shoulder still so bruised. No, his heart flies to his throat and begins marching there in double time because his wife likes to wear tiny skirts and because with her at this height, and him here, he can see nearly every inch of her long legs. In fact, with her reaching that way, he can see almost every curve of her form under her pretty outfit—he could practically teach a life drawing class on the elegance of structure. The poetry of motion. The beauty of a singular woman.
"Sweetheart? That stack there."
Blinking, Rumplestiltskin leans onto his right foot, using the sharp stab of pain in his ankle to recall himself, and then moves to hand her the books she wants. Before she can take them, an explosion seems to go off.
Rumplestiltskin hears the concussion, then feels a wave ripple under his feet. Their carefully arranged stacks of books waver—a few fall—but most stay firm.
Unfortunately, Isabel, caught in the midst of reaching down toward the books, isn't so lucky.
Later, thinking back on it, he remembers seeing her waver. He remembers lifting his arms, the books thumping at his feet, but he doesn't remember the moment of collision. All he can envision, all he can see, is the moment he blinks, and catches his breath, and finds himself staring up at Isabel, who's lying on top of him. Her weight presses him into the floor (it should be painful, there are a few books under his hip, his shoulder; he'll find bruises later) and her panted breaths are hot on his face, and how long has it been since he's been this close to a woman?
Well, aside from the night he slept tangled up with her.
But somehow, maybe because her legs are entwined with his, her chest is pressed against his, his hands are splayed across the small of her back, her fingers are brushing up against his throat where he unbuttoned the top of his shirt…it feels different. More tempting. More unsettling.
More terrifying.
Rumplestiltskin shoves her off of him—not too hard, but pointedly enough that she rolls off quickly (or maybe she just came to her senses herself and wants distance from him even worse than he does her). There's another sharp spear of pain through his ankle as he forces himself to his feet without the aid of his cane (he has no idea where it ended up when he dropped it in favor of a falling woman), and then he is brushing himself off.
Falling, stumbling, stuttering, those are all things a crippled spinner would do. Not the Dark One.
"Th-thank you," Isabel stammers, brushing her own skirt down (it rucked up, during her fall, and Rumplestiltskin has to hurriedly avert his eyes). "Are you—"
"Fine, fine," he interrupts. He spots his cane and bends to snatch it up. Isabel must have seen it at the same time, though, because their hands bump into each other over it. He snatches it away and puts four feet between them.
"I…I can finish up here, if you'd like," she offers, kindly. He must look like a cornered animal.
Rumplestiltskin can't look up. Can't meet her eyes. He can barely breathe. "Yes, that's…"
He's halfway to the door (desperate for an escape) when he makes himself stop and look back at her. "I'll…have Dove come by and get the bookcases."
"All right." He can't read the emotion in her eyes as she regards him. She looks almost quizzical, almost dazed (but certainly not entranced, he tells himself, and why should she be? why would he want her to be?). "I'll just…sort the books."
"Right."
By the time he makes it back to his shop, Rumplestiltskin is a quivering mess of nerves. What is he doing? Isabel isn't real. She's certainly not acting of her own will. Whatever choice landed her this part was made in another world by what amounts to a completely different person.
What's more than that, she's only part of his life because Regina willed it so.
She's a spy, he tells himself. She's a distraction. She's a liability.
And when Emma finally gets around to breaking the curse…Isabel will be a knife in his back. Even if she has no malicious intent toward the Dark One, anything he tells her, anything she sees in him (his weaknesses and frailties; his soft spots and vulnerable moments), she will remember all of it. She will know that he likes tea, that he prefers mysteries to history books, that he longs for someone to hold him through the night hours.
No. He won't let her have anything of him. The Dark One doesn't need anyone (certainly not a woman to hold him like a child in the dark). These things may all be small, but he knows better than anyone the value of the tiny details.
You won't win, he hisses to the image of a cackling Regina. You think you can make me weak? You'll never defeat me.
That night, he's careful to be extra busy at the shop. Isabel can't blame him for working late since his own work was delayed due to him helping her. Calling Marco and arranging the design job took an hour more, as well, so of course it's easier to stay the night at the shop than head home just to come back a mere few hours later. And since Regina has plans to build over the ruined caves that Henry and Dr. Hopper were nearly buried inside, well, he is part of the town council. Of course he has to attend the meeting, and can he help it if it runs late (can he help himself from goading the Evil Queen from behind the mask of Mr. Gold's innocent opposition?)?
The day after that, there are several items that will be important one day (to people who aren't currently awake, but he still has some faith in the savior) that need some form of mending or cleaning. If he doesn't notice the time, that's hardly his fault.
It's past closing time on yet another day, the sun long gone and the streets outside pitch-black between streetlights, when the bell over his door tinkles. It reminds him of Isabel for no particular reason (a lot of things are reminding him of her, which probably just means she's on his mind while he tries to think of a way around Regina's clever ploy). By the time he makes it out to the front of the shop to stand behind the counter like he's been there all along, he's pleased to see a familiar face.
Prince Charming, the better half of a set of twins, one of Rumplestiltskin's more complex plans that paid off perfectly. James was a waste and a nuisance, but David, on the other hand, has been more than helpful in a variety of ways.
"Charming," he says, and nearly laughs at the effect of the word on this blank slate in front of him. Without the curse to write anything in place, all that's left are the remnants of True Love.
It hardly surprises him at all when the poor prince is drawn toward some object that only means something in this world. He'd have been better served examining the unicorn mobile closely, but alas, people are weak (a spinner most of all) and David falls into the curse's trap.
Regina sent him here. Rumplestiltskin has a spare thought to preventing Prince Charming from becoming whatever useless, static character the Queen has planned for him, but she'll be watching, waiting to see if Mr. Gold will play his part or if Rumplestiltskin will reveal his hand.
So Rumplestiltskin lets Charming become David Nolan, and watches him head out into the night to break his dear wife's heart (always good to let the shoe sit on the other foot every once in a while). That shepherd boy was doomed from the moment he fell in love with Snow White really (or rather, from the moment Rumplestiltskin foresaw that he would and took steps to ensure their story played out perfectly to his convenience), targeted by the Evil Queen, hunted by her hatred and thirst for revenge, and there would never be an escape or reprieve for him here in the curse that is her (temporary) triumph.
At least Regina's hatred of Snow White and her Prince is something he can understand. But why would she have targeted whoever Isabel is in their old world? Why single her out to shackle to the Dark One's side?
For the first time, Rumplestiltskin seriously considers who Isabel Gold might be. What could she have possibly done to make Regina hate her so much?
Or…what does she owe the Evil Queen to be entrusted with such a dangerous position?
It's past Mr. and Mrs. Gold's teatime, but Rumplestiltskin finds himself locking his shop up anyway (though that's the fourth new visitor he's had to the shop lately; his dagger isn't safe there anymore, he'll need to find a better, more neutral hiding place) and heading home.
Well. Not home. But his house. Their house. Whatever.
It's almost disconcerting, to enter and not hear Isabel calling out to him. It's silent. Unusually silent.
Rumplestiltskin retrieves the gun he keeps here and moves toward the back of the house. The door to the library is ajar, and he moves soundlessly to swing it farther open.
Isabel is on the couch, her legs pulled up under a blanket, her book fallen closed. Tiny snores mark her even breathing.
The relief he feels is staggering (he tells himself it's because no one's been brave enough to break into the monster's home), and he takes a moment, while stowing the gun away, to steady himself. He breathes in deeply—and smells roses. Books. Wool. Something else he can't identify but that makes him think, instinctively, of Isabel and himself (of the night he spent with her relaxed in his arms).
It calls to mind a different, more modest house, little more than a shack, smelling of sheep and wool and straw and whatever they could make for dinner. Whenever Bae hugged him, Rumplestiltskin always breathed deep, treasuring that little boy smell.
(He'll never smell that again. His boy has to be all grown up by now.)
Without meaning to, Rumplestiltskin finds himself ghosting through the house. He's only ever been here when Isabel is, either awake or while he's trying not to wake her, but now, without her to notice his oddities, he studies every room, peers into every closet, runs his hand over the eclectic mishmash of knick-knacks, antiques, and clutter that fills up every room.
None of the picture frames have pictures. That's what he notices above all. There's only one family picture in the entire house, and it is hidden. In his study, locked in the secret compartment underneath the middle desk drawer, Rumplestiltskin finds the drawing of Bae. A self-portrait, made just weeks before he was given a bean and vanished into an unreachable world.
At the sight of it, his first glimpse of Bae in decades, Rumplestiltskin nearly staggers.
"My boy," he whispers, and draws a careful finger down the shape of his son's face—not quite touching the paper. He put preservation spell after preservation spell on this sheet of paper, but this is the Land Without Magic and he won't risk marring its perfection.
Those eyes, so kind and good. The hair that proved all too often untamable. The mouth that once smiled despite their poverty and helplessness, then twisted into a frown when Rumplestiltskin could finally provide for and protect them.
"Bae." He keeps the name like a talisman, allowing himself to utter it only rarely, but it's like gold, like magic, like True Love in tangible form on his lips. "Bae."
"Sweetheart?"
Rumplestiltskin has been at this game too long to jump and give his guilt away so easily, but he does splay a hand fully over the drawing as he looks up. Unfortunately, there's nothing he can do about the tears on his cheeks.
Light from the hallway spills into the room, split in two by the form of Isabel standing in the doorway. Her face is in shadow, which means his is probably illuminated, and he hastily claws on the most aloof mask he can manage.
"I thought I heard you," she says. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine," he says. "I'll be out in a moment."
She hesitates, but eventually retreats. At the click of the door latching, he hides the sketch away again, allowing himself only one last look.
This is my family, he reminds himself. Bae is the only thing I love. The only one I care for. No one can be allowed to get in the way of that.
Not even (especially not) a stranger with dark curls that spill down her back like a waterfall and blue eyes that never seem to see a monster when they look his way.
She's a trick. A mirage. An illusion that will fade and vanish away.
But Baelfire is real. He's everything. And Rumplestiltskin will not fail him again.
Isabel's already upstairs in their bedroom. As he heads up after her, Rumplestiltskin runs through every part he's ever played, the accents and the mannerisms and the movements, but finds none quite right for playing a fond husband.
No matter. He'll make a new mask. Play a new part. Regina thinks she can trap him? Well, he's the master here, and it'll be him who turns this trap to snare her instead.
"You're staying?" Isabel asks, clearly surprised, when he makes to slide into the bed next to her.
Monster he may be, but he'll give her this one last out.
"Do you not want me to?" he asks.
"No." She shakes her head. "No, of course I do."
When she pulls the covers back, he lies down beside her. When she rolls into him, he takes her into his arms. When she lies there in silence, finally slipping into sleep, he plots ways to hurry the Savior along (and plans for Regina's ultimate downfall).