Constant Stranger | Rumplestiltskin x Reader

Chapter Two

"He's a regular—we talk sometimes—but earlier—" You worried your collarbone, tight press of fingertips, tried to focus on the domestic smell of bread and cloves in Mary Margaret's apartment, one above yours. "I don't know, the way he watched me was so intense, almost—" The next word teetered on your tongue. "Familiar."

She stirred her milky tea, spoon clinking rhythmically, voice soothing, worried. "Well, how do you feel about it? He invited you to his shop, too, right?"

"I've often felt we might—get along, you know? He's so—but I didn't think he was interested." Across the street, the pawnshop sign glittered in late-afternoon light, and Mr. Gold stood on the sidewalk.

"I'd be careful, Y/n, I'm not sure how—good his intentions are. Not to mention, he's quite a few years older." Apples and pears were arranged in a shallow, beige bowl on the counter; she pinched one of the stems.

"I know. Not the best reputation." You sipped your pomegranate tea, smiled slow. "Thanks for always talking with me. Oh—speaking of—how're things with Emma? Seems like you're becoming fast friends."

She laughed a little, spill of joy in her expression. "I really like her—I think you would, too."

***

Enchanted Forest:

The forest yawned damp around you, breeze leeched heat from your body, his castle stark. You slit your fingernails deep into one palm, raised a fist, but the door flourished open before you made contact, his grin caustic. "Welcome, dearie. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

You resisted stepping back. "Myself—Sir."

"I find that—impossible—to believe." He tittered, tilted his head, fluttered fingers close to your cheek. "But—if you so insist—please, come in, tell me what you want."

Heavy air, dust-laden curtains, swirled smell of elderflower tea; low-lidded candelabras bled orange against his skin. "I—"

"And what you plan to give me in return."

You thought he gestured to your neck.

***

Storybrooke:

Mr. Gold polished a small brass whale behind the display cases, set it down with a gentle clatter when you entered. The shop walls seemed to breathe, laden with antique machines, jewelry, tea sets, vials, masks, statues—you eyed the whole, wandered to him. "Hi, Mr. Gold."

"Hello, dearie." His hands perched on the counter, ring luminous.

"It's wonderful in here. How long did it take—accumulating everything?"

He laughed, voice strangely warm, steady, careful stare gauging your thoughts. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Give me a chance to." You smiled; he turned around, chose a bottle, offered it to you, soft, balanced on his fingers. A snail—thin glass shell, brass head, chartreuse oil—flicker in your sternum, giddy, and you picked it up, held it gingerly, solid and sweet. "This is fantastic. Thank you, Mr. Gold."

He watched, pleased, struck by how simple it could be to fall back into domesticities, your beauty, excitement—desire unfurled behind his ribs. "Y/n?"

You looked to him, your name carried a different sensation in his voice.

"Never mind. It's yours—my treat."

"Really? I feel like you're being too nice to me." Steeped in guilt, charged eye contact—how much longer before you split, admitted your feelings?

"Nonsense, dearie, it's nothing."

You clipped open the perfume—telluric violets, anise, mint—"May I?"

He nodded, and you floated it under his nose, back of your index grazed just above his upper lip; his throat shuddered. "Lovely."

The door creaked, and Mayor Mills interrupted your sudden abashment. "Gold, I need to speak with you. You—café boy—out."

***

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