Disclaimer: I don't own anything

Summary: There's a break in at the Mr. Gold's pawnshop, over yet another deal gone wrong, however, it is the first time the altercation has ended quite like this.

Prompt: "gun, clock, tower, ice, curlicue"

Rose walks through the back alley of downtown Storybrooke and thinks about the preceding events that have brought her to this point. Primarily, the actions of others—her father, namely, and the other participant in this, Mr. Gold. Frankly, for almost the whole of the incident, she has been a casualty, simply caught in the crossfire.

Of course, now she knows she can't shake off all the blame. She is the one after all who is walking across town to break into Mr. Gold's pawnshop and steal the most recent contract between the two men. She simply wonders when she went from spectator to perpetrator.

It started with the eavesdropping, done while de-thorning her namesake in the back of her father's florist shop, and until this month, that had been her only involvement.

With the deadline looming, Rose checked out the books from the library merely as a hypothetical (certainly not a pre-meditated), a fantasy, really. After all, her father was always locking his keys in the shop or house or car, and maybe, if she learned this new trick, they wouldn't have to keep calling the locksmith and shelling out more money to him each time her father got careless. Maybe, if she got good enough, she could even make a little extra money out this new hobby, use it to help her father stay out of the red every month. Use her new powers for good, not ill, and all that.

The pick set, Rose tells herself, had been an investment. It was old, and Mr. Tillman of the auto-body shop had given her an odd look when she'd purchased it from his garage sale, but then had shrugged it off—he'd been called to unlock Moe French's car enough times to understand the purchase.

Then came the practicing (still of course, all just a thought experiment, to see if she could even do it), just around the house. This was quickly followed by the flower shop, which she would practice on whenever she stayed late to close up, and finally, once earlier this week, in his worked up state over make the payment before the cut-off date, her father had locked his keys in his car. Rose had opened the door with little effort. The larger man had thanked her and patted her on the back, but thought nothing of it, just another thing he didn't know about his somewhat different daughter—"kids these days." She shakes her head, thinking about her father, who god love him, wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer and how he really should let her handle all future dealings with Mr. Gold.

She remembers begging her father not to take out the loan, the town pariah not being known for his fair business practices, rather his high interest rates, especially if seemed, where Moe French was involved. Her father would not be talked down, however, and now here they are, a day away from defaulting—a few hours, really.

So, walking through downtown, well past closing time for all the local shops, Rose still can't exactly pin down when she became an active participant in these men's games; just that like it or not, she is one now.

It's a biting winter night, the town having frozen over earlier this week. She wears an old coat of her father's from his youth (a time when he was a much slimmer man), for it's warmer than anything she owns and is darker than her green dress coat, only a little long in the arms, atop her uniform from the florist shop of not-particularly flattering khaki slacks and a black cardigan.

She walks to the local pawnshop, but does not pass by the front, instead, sneaking behind the neighboring building. She carries with her only her set of picks and a flashlight, for once she's inside. Rose stops at the backdoor; this entrance is infamous. It's the one by which all those who sign not quite above-the-board contracts late at night enter. For many signators, it would not look good to go in by the front door of such an establishment as Mr. Gold's, at such an hour.

She assess the door's two locks with a critical eye. There's a simple lock on the actual knob, which should't be too difficult, and up about an inch there is a deadbolt. That will require a bit more work, but not unmanageable, she thinks.

Let's get to work. Rose kneels down in the hard packed snow. Yes, she thinks to herself, as she unrolls her kit, pulling out the tension wrench, it doesn't matter just exactly when she became an active participant, set on vandalism, just that she's on the path now. She slips the wrench into place in the keyhole of the doorknob and applies a small amount of pressure. With her left hand, she maintains pressure with the wrench, while with her right, she slips in the first ofher picks, the half-diamond pick.

Within each lock is a number of spring-loaded pins, each with a different position they must assume to release the catch thereby unlocking the door. However, with picks and a good ear, moving and tricking a pin to catch and hold its proper place isn't so very difficult. It is all about listening for when the pins click into place at different depths, as if a toothed key is there.

She performs the first step, called "raking," by sliding the half-diamond pick along all the pins, in the event that any will set automatically. Rose feels a few of the pins give way. Good. She exchanges her tool for the all-purpose hook pick. She works on the rest of the pins, one by one, finding just the right depth. When she hears the final pin clock into place, she smile—the last one is always the most difficult. She turns the knob with the tension wrench and feels it turn without any resistance.

Rose moves on to the deadbolt, looking around to check and make sure she is in fact still alone. This lock proves to be more of a challenge, and she has to stand on her knees to work on it—she can feel the snow seeping through the fabric of her slacks.

She doesn't like working in the dark, and part of her wants to turn on the flashlight, ut knows it would be idiocy. Instead, she closes her eyes as she works on each of the internal pins, feeling for when it gives way. Click—she finally gets it.

Rose sighs, standing. Her knees are complaining loudly, for they're very cold and wet. That's when she remembers that she didn't do laundry, meaning she'll be wearing these again tomorrow. Great. She grumbles opening the door, but oddly, it won't budge.

As she takes stock of the door, she realizes the problem. The locks are open, but the door is sealed shut from the recent ice storm. Apparently it hasn't been used this week. She tugs harder, and finally it flies open.

CRASH!

Rose jumps ten feet, stifling a scream, at the sound of a falling icicle off of the gutter. When she realizes the sound was just falling ice, and not the start of some security alarm system, she wants to laugh at herself, but holds in the sound. She looks at the rest of the icicles hanging from the gutter; Rose is lucky it hadn't been one above her head that had come loose, for they are sharp as knives, and probably just as capable of drawing blood.

She enters the shop and slips off her shoes—can't be dragging in sludge and making the break-in any more obvious. She shuts the door behind herself and turns on the flashlight.

Rose has never before been inside Mr. Gold's shop, and certainly not in the backroom. The enormity of the task suddenly hits her. She has only around eight hours and the shop is just so vast—not to mention that she doesn't know for certain that he keeps his contacts here.

The backroom apparently doubles as his workroom, for there's a table with a half-finished project of some sort, painting or refinishing a wooden display case. Briefly, she peeks around, not really finding any papers, just boxes and stocks of old things. She moves out to the main room.

Rose's eyes go instantly to the wooden filing cabinet atop the center counter. She shrugs, thinking he would never be stupid enough to hide such important items in so obvious a place, but she might as well check to be sure. She walks behind the counter and pulls open the first drawer.

However, what she pulls out surprises her: the cards are blank. They're all blank

Who keeps blank files?

A new cabinet perhaps, she wonders, but the worn-looking wood suggests otherwise. Maybe he's hiding something in the back, behind the drawers, Rose thinks. She pulls out the drawer entirely and peers into the empty space.

"Miss French, what are you doing?" The voice startles her, causing her to drop the drawer, scattering it and its blank, white cards all across the floor.

There he stands, Mr. Gold, the infamous pawnbroker. The infamous pawnbroker with it out for her father. The infamous pawnbroker to whom they still owe this month's payment (overdue tomorrow).

The infamous pawnbroker who owns the shop she's just broken into.

Rose sees little point in lying. "I'm looking for the contracts between you and my father."

"Ah, you mean the very one that goes past due tomorrow, I assume." He takes a step closer, "And has he misplaced his copy?" Gold asks, mockingly.

Rose finds little humor in his words, in light of the fact that since it is her father, he in all likelihood has lost his copy of the critical document. "I don't know." She scoffs. "Probably."

"So you, the ever loyal daughter, set out to destroy the last surviving copy; not a bad plan, but I must say, you were off to a very poor start." He gestures toward the cabinet with his gilded cane, "Would I really keep such precious items in such an easily accessible pace, my dear?"

She shrugs. "Had to start somewhere." At her own forward movement, she notices the hand in his pocket clenching. He's holding something, she realizes. "You're armed, aren't you?"

He smiles, "Quite." He removes the small revolver from his coat pocket. "This isn't the first time someone has broken into my little shop." He turns the gun over in his hands, examining it with a precision that makes Rose shiver. "I find it best to always be over-prepared." Mr. Gold turns away from her to the counter, setting his cane against it, picking up the telephone. "In any event, I'll be having to call Sheriff Swan now."

"No, please! You can't!" She lunges forward, but her foot catches on the discarded drawer. She trips forward, but suddenly, he's caught her beneath the arms, one hand inside her over-large coat, the other out—the hand that's holding the gun. Rose looks up, awkwardly aware that he still has hold of a firearm.

He meets her eye, "Careful there, dearie." He lights, righting her, but as he pulls back so she can stand on her own, the hand inside the coat just barely grazes her left breast. Rose's eyes go wide at the contact.

He just touched my breast.

There's no question, the touch had not been an accident. A woman just knows, and Rose knows that he did that entirely on purpose.

How odd.

She's always known him to be a charlatan dealmaker, more likely to steal your dinner and the shirt off your back, but he is no womanizer. It is out of character—at least the stock-type, villain character the town has painted him to be.

She stares, dumbfounded, but he's not even looking at her. He's dialing, presumable the police station. This moves her to speak, "Please, I'm begging you, don't call the police."

He sighs, poised mid-dial, and asks, "And why should I not? You have, after all, broken into my shop, with every intention of ransacking the place and stealing a very costly, legal document of mine."

When she doesn't answer, because what he says is true and he has every right to turn her in, he continues to dial. Then Rose has an idea—an absolutely, crazy idea. "Wait. Let's make a deal."

Mr. Gold stops instantly—she can't even see him breathing. "And just what are you hoping to bargain with, Miss French?" However, he sets down the phone, contining. "I know, you've no money, no marketable skills to speak of, for you see, I don't exactly count flower arranging as a skill."

Oh, but I do have something. She steps forward. "What about myself." She feigns confidence, hoping it'll come with the playacting.

He's silent for a moment, but then clears his throat. "What could I possibly want with you?" He says, raising a derisive eyebrow.

"You tell me, Mr. Gold—you were the the one, after all, who just copped a feel."

He chuckles, "You caught that, did you?"

Rose wants to say, it was kind of hard to miss. Instead she settles on, "Yes, I did."

"So what exactly do you entail, dearie? You've yet to provide me with any specifics."

She balks and blushes; she hopes he can't see it in the dark, but judging from the look in his eye he can and is enjoying her discomfiture, "Whatever will get you to not call the police."

"So you would what?" He smirks, and Rose can finally see what he's the most feared man in town. "Be willing to service me in exchange for my not pressing breaking and entering charges?"

She pauses and it just about to say yeah that pretty much sums it up, when she realizes something further: "Not just that; I'm worth more."

"Oh really." He places both of his leather-gloved hands over his cane, leaning forward, "Tell me, what're you worth, dearie?"

"A loan extension."

He scoffs, eye her, "Fine. If you are indeed serious about the deal, I could be obliged to offer a week's extension."

Too short; they'd never get the money together by then. It would take much longer. "Three months," she counters.

"You must think yourself quite talented, Miss French," He considers for a moment before adding, "This all seems a rather high bargain. Why don't I just call the police and be done with it?"

"Two months, then."

He paused before addressing her, "Take off the coat." Rose hesitates, but catches herself. She's offering sex but is uncertain to take off her coat. The outlandishness of the situation makes her want to laugh, but the look in his eyes tampers her mirth. She slips off her father's coat, letting it fall to the floor, to lie with the blank cardstock.

He appraises her, though what he can see she doesn't know; she's just a plain-looking girl, wearing unflattering, pleated pants and a baggy sweater. "I offer you two weeks."

"No." She says, obstinately. She's come this far. What's she got to lose? "One month, at least."

"Deal," he says, smiling.

He just agreed, Rose thinks. Oh my god, I just propositioned myself to Mr. Gold and he just agreed.

The man in question taps his cane, thinking. "So, now that we've finalized the details of this little arrangement, allow me to tell you how this is going to go."

She watches Gold slip off his own coat, hanging it on the rack by the door to the backroom, along with his gray scarf. Beneath he wears his usual: a pristine suit, shirt, and tie combination. It's all immaculate of course, much too much for this tiny town, and Rose can't help but feel incredibly underdressed and not the least bit feminine—especially in light of what she's just agreed to do.

He turns back to her, continuing, "Now if you were to try anything underhanded, I won't hesitate in calling the police; and trust me, your little story of seduction won't win you any favors when your prints are all over my shop, and your father's loan comes due tomorrow, but," he gestures, as if pulling the idea from thin air, "if the law were to say, fail, I have other ways of settling the scores." He carefully slips off his leather gloves and sets them on top of the cash register, before turning to her, gun still in hand, "Have I made myself quite clear?"

"Yes," she replies, more than a little breathless. What has she gotten herself into?

"Good." He turns and sets the gun inside a glass cabinet, on the highest shelf, out of reach.

Watching him, Rose briefly wonders if his leg is going to pose a problem, but she doubts he'd have agreed to anything he wasn't up to (pun most definitely intended).

Mr. Gold loosens his dark blue tie, "Sit, there, on the counter."

Rose knows she's bushing furiously, but she does as he says. She ponders if the glass countertop is really such a wise choice of location, but does not mention this. As he takes up his cane from beside the cash register, she realizes this is the first she's ever actually spoken with Mr. Gold. She tries, but can't recall exactly when they met—it's more that she's always known of him, their eyes catching as they pass one another on the downtown streets or at Granny's diner, overhearing him talk money with her father in their shop, but she's never shared a conversation with the man until tonight.

He limps over to stand in front of her, not looking at her as he sets his cane against the counter. Rose thinks to herself that he looks rather awkward and unsure, but of course that can't be the case. When his right hand falls to her shoulder, she lets out a surprised squeak.

He raises an eyebrow in question, "Doubting yourself, dearie?"

Rose sits up straighter on the counter, attempting haughty, but achieving something closer to over-compensation, "No, not at all."

"Is that so," he says, face impassive. He takes hold of her chin and examines her closely. Rose forces herself to meet his stare. "Are you quite sure you're happy with this arrangement?"

"I know what I'm doing," she says, and without waiting for his reply, she leans up and kisses him.

Familiar, her minds says, oddly enough. This feels like someplace known.

Mr. Gold does not respond right away; Rose thinks she can taste his surprise (and perhaps that he took tea after dinner). Finally, he turns his head and replies. As the kiss deepens, the arm on her shoulder moves down to her wrist. His hand slides around it, to take her hand into his own, but as his thumb moves over the smooth skin of her wrist, Rose feeling a touch of resistance as he crosses the scar tissue there, he halts instantly.

She pulls back, blinking, "What?"

But Gold isn't looking at her, instead wrapping his hand around her wrist, and turning it over, to get a better look at the scar found there. "How did you get this?" Before Rose can answer, his left hand leaves her face to push up her sweater sleeve, exposing the long burn-scar that runs the length of her forearm, from elbow to palm. He runs his thumb over the raised skin, almost like a seam to the sleeve that is her arm. His mouth barely moves as he pushes out the words, "Who gave this to you?"

"I—no one. I got burned." Rose shivers as he inspects the scar with clinical scrutiny. He lifts her arm to get a better look.

Gold drags his thumb the full length, all the way down, and taps where is ends abruptly at the start of her palm, "Recently?" He pushes her sleeve as far as it will go, bunching where the scar makes its jagged start in the wrinkled, infant-smooth skin on the inside of her elbow.

"No. I don't really remember when, I've just always had them. I fell, I think on the grill or something, when I was little."

"Them?" Gold looks up from the scar. "You have other's like this?" he asks in a harsh tone, and he sees her eyes dart to the other arm. Again, he doesn't wait for her to answer, pulling up the sleeve on her other arm, revealing an identical scar, just as long and bold against the white of her skin.

Oh god, she thinks. She should have known this was going to happen. Rose shouldn't be surprised (and most certainly not hurt)—it's not like he's the first person to find her scars repulsive. She remembers giving George, her first boyfriend, back in high school, quite the shock one summer at the pool, when she'd taken off her cover-up, for she almost always wore long sleeves. Rose didn't do much swimming after that.

However, she hasn't predicted this, and now Gold is disgusted. Rightly so, they are frightening, off-putting things. He is going to turn her away now, not that she can really blame him, and probably call Emma too. What is Maine's statute on propositioning, she wonders, for strangely enough, she doesn't know off the top of her head.

He's still staring at the scar, still rubbing idly over the elevated thing, the contrast like selvedge on a bolt of silk. The feeling is strangely moving, strangely erotic, really, and she really, really wishes he'd stop, because it's making her blush and what's more, it's just a matter of time before the shock wears off and he tells her and her ruined arms to get off his counter and out of his shop. Rose can't take it anymore; she pulls her arm out of his hold and tugs her sleeves back down. "I'll go now," she says, and pushes herself forward to slide off the glass counter.

He looks like he's been punched, but the look is gone in an instant, and he wears his poker face once again. "If that is your wish," Gold says, pushing his shoulders back and pulling himself as tall as his spine will go.

"That's what you want—you just haven't said so. It's just, I thought with the, you know." Rose motions to her arms.

He looks very confused, but suddenly, like a waterfall in spring, his face falls into a sadness, a deep one at that. "Ah, you think I am repulsed."

"Well, aren't you?" She toys with the cuffs of her black sweater, stretched out from all the pulling and tugging. "It's not like I don't know they're awful."

"They, your scars, are awful, but not for the reason you assume." Gold takes her wrist again, but this time slowly, not in any way clinical. His eyes do not deviate from her own, as he slowly slides up the sweater sleeve again, nor does he look away as he brings her destroyed wrist to his lips. He dips his head, closing his eyes, only at the last second, just before the kiss.

Rose shivers, a small gasp of surprise escaping her lips. No one, she thinks, no one has ever done that before.

Without pause, he places another chaste kiss a touch higher on the inside of her forearm, and then another. And another.

He works his way up the line of the burn to where her sleeve is bunched, just past the crook of her elbow. He kisses there, and when his lips leave, revealing the infant-smooth skin to the air, it goose-pimples—for Gold always turns down the heater at night in his shop.

He finally looks away from the task and takes in Rose's face—her eyes wide and mouth a tiny "o."

Then the bastard spoils it all by smirking. He leans back in, giving the inside of her elbow another kiss—this one decidedly less chaste. He sucks on the sensitive skin, nipping at it gently.

Oh god, Rose thinks again, but with an entirely new mental intonation.

When he finishes making his mark on her, he takes her face in hand, "I do hope that puts to rest any lingering concerns you had over my repulsion, Miss French."

His smug expression rouses her. "Aren't we a little old for hickey's?" she asks, examining the already russet colored skin. "I mean, really? Was that necessary?"

Gold raises an eyebrow, "You tell me—it was you, after all, who thought me disgusted enough to renege on our little bargain." He eyes his work, proudly, "What's more, I always think it better to err on the side of over-thorough, don't you agree?"

He was comforting me. Rose smiles. "Over-thorough—that's one way of putting it."

He chuckles at her words, and then he is the one to kiss her. Rose does not hold back, her hands slipping around his neck, nor does she protest when he nudges her khaki-clad knees apart to step between them. Instead, she slips her tongue into his mouth, as his hand comes to rest jut above her knee.

However, that's when he seems to freeze. They kiss, rather intimately, but his hands don't move, glued to her jaw and that spot (nice, but not terribly adventurous) only a little past her knee.

And yes, the kissing is good, (quite, if she's honest about it), but Rose wonders why he's stopped progressing. She wonders if he's waiting for something, for her (it can't possibly be that he's nervous—in the past, those she's been with have only waited for her to take the lead if they were nervous or inexperienced—two things that can't possibly be said of this man, who kisses so over-thoroughly).

Rose thinks for a moment, and then has an idea of what he might be wanting from her. She moves her hands, from where they've landed demurely on his shoulders, and instead, starts to undo the buttons of her black cardigan.

He notices the movement and pulls out of the kiss. "What are you doing?"

"Well I just thought, you seemed relatively interested before, you know," Rose says, her hands stopping at the third button, "when you caught me, I thought, but if not—"

He catches her wrists. "Yes," Gold says, a touch breathy, and then with a composed smirk, "I'm interested."

Together they don't bother with the rest of the buttons and simply tug the sweater over her head. As she struggles to free her hands from the sleeves, she feels Gold unsnap her bra. When she feels it come loose, his hand gives the final tug and the sweater falls to the floor, while his other hand pulls down the brassiere (boring, basic black, not that it matters much, lying lost somewhere with the sweater and blank note cards). He's alive and come to life, like a puppet now animated. His right hand trails down her collarbone to circle her breast and then cup it, in its fullness.

Rose gasps into his mouth, leaning forward on the glass counter, pulling his shoulders closer. It's been a while since she's done this, too long

Mr. Gold's left hand runs down her smooth back, over every inch of skin, as if he's looking for something, but whatever he'd been searching for, he doesn't find it, just more smooth, unmarred skin. His hand moves down to her waistline and pulls her close, till their torsos are touching, and oh yes, Rose doesn't need to be told that he's interested.

She slips a hand beneath his jacket to rest on top of his slightly damp shirt, between his shoulder blades. With her other hand, she tries to push the jacket off his shoulders, but he bats her hand away. "Patience, dearie," he says dismissively, leaving her mouth to trail a line down her neck, down her chest and down. With his left, he angles her back and puts his mouth to her breast, and when Rose shivers, it's certainly not from the cold of the shop.

She gasps, and tangles her hands in his hair, as she feels his tongue roll over her erect nipple. Gold switches to the other, while he rubs his thumb on the soft skin of the underside of her breast.

Rose hears herself moan, feels the man responsible smile, nipping lightly, and suddenly a hand thumbing her breast isn't enough. She lets go of his hair and moves his hand to cup her sex through her khaki work pants, sighing with relief of finally having a little friction there.

Gold doesn't need to be told twice, and he pushes against her, running his middle finger along the seam of her pants. She nods an assent to the movement, but then almost laughs at herself, because his head is still doing wonderful, talented things to her breast, and he can't see her nod. As his hand slips below her waistline, Rose thinks, to hell with it, and lets go of him altogether to undo the button and zipper of her pants.

He takes the hint and straightening, he settles his hands on her waist, saying, "Lean back, love."

Rose does so, placing her weight in her hands atop the glass counter. Gold with little effort, quickly slides the pants and her underwear with it down her legs, tossing them behind, and before she can blink, he's there, a hand between her legs and one at the place where her back becomes rump.

He runs a finger up, through her slit, meeting no resistance, because god knows she's wet and ready for him—for Mr. Gold. Rose would be shocked, if she wasn't already busy kissing him like a dying woman.

She's happily caught between his hands, her own keeping him close by the lapels of his suit jacket, when he finds it, and oh lord, how does he know—because of all the men, boys really, that Rose has been with (less than three, but more than one), she'd expected him to be much the same: jiggle his hand around a bit in the general neighborhood without much attempt at anything else, before undoing their own belts and flies and moving on to the main event, so to speak. Yes, they could, if asked to circle the clitoris on a diagram do so successfully, but actually finding one on a said female, seemed to be a bit beyond them, and oh god…

Rose's head goes back, gasping, because he knows exactly how to circle hers on said female, and she tugs his hair a bit, not really thinking about much of anything except, don't stop.

She's close—he can see that. Gold's hand not already occupied, he brings up to the back of her neck, the nape, right below her skull, and pulls her into a forceful, passionate kiss.

Rose's leg jitters with that first tremor, that says the destination isn't far behind, if he just keeps at it. She feels him smirk against her mouth. He pulls her head back, just a touch, so he can look in her eyes, watch her take her shallow breathes.

Rose opens her eyes. They dart about, wondering what he's looking for, but he's just staring at her so intently. She closes her eyes and tries to lean in again, reinitiate the kiss, but his left hand holds her neck steady. Her eyebrows furrow, curious. "What?" she asks—though the words are a struggle.

He is thoughtful for a moment, but then makes his choice. He says, "Let me see."

It takes Rose a moment, but he rubs at her center with a little more force, and suddenly she realizes just exactly what he wants to see. She blushes, can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks (and significantly lower): he wants to watch her come. he would be the first to see this act, this state of being, one that's only ever been between herself and her dreams (and well, appendages).

"Yes?" he's insistent, but she still hears the question in his voice.

Rose nods, unsure at first, but then stronger, "Yes."

Gold's hand picks up the pace, and at the sensation, without even meaning to, she tries to bury her head into his shoulder, but he holds her steady. He reminds her, "Let me watch you." Then with a final push, she's gone, crying out, shaking because of him, from him, for him.

While his right hand brings her down, still moving, but slower and slower, each time drawing a jolt of pleasure out of her worked-over body, his hand on her neck relents. Rose falls into him, grasping his lapel and his hair, as her shaking subsides, little mewls escaping her mouth. She can feel the stubble on his neck, as she holds him like a mast. She feels like crying; she feels like flying.

She pants, as she tries to regain feeling in her boneless limbs, not to mention sanity. When her breathing slows (though her heart's still banging pots and pans inside her chest) she hears a jingling sound, like bells, strangely.

His belt, she realizes. Right, there's more to this than just me, she thinks. Rose smiles into his neck at the idea, because she welcomes the coming act, on this, the down-slope of her climax, because she's feeling strangely empty and hazy and still wanting. However, at the sound of his zipper going down, she realizes something. she sits back, putting her hands to his shoulders, "Wait."

"What?" he says, voice strained, hands at the fly of his suit pants.

Rose takes him in, eyes wide. For all his previous composure, she can see cracks now: a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, dilated eyes, apparently from watching her own face lose control before him, at his ministrations. His belt is ajar, his fly down, and though he's not exposed, he's most certainly hard.

He leans forward, bracing himself on the counter—aggressively, if she had to put a word to it. He grumbles, "For godsake woman, what?"

He's too intense, and she's nervous, because this isn't an easy thing to ask—never is. She can't hold his gaze. She explains, gesturing with uneasy hands. "You see, it's just you don't have, that's to say—I'm not on birth control." At that she looks up at him, hard and waiting, but she's not going to risk this.

"Ah, I see," Gold sighs, and bracing himself with his left hand, he pivots so that he is leaning back against the counter. he takes two more steadying breaths before continuing, "My work table, in the back,' he points with his left hand, the right rubbing his temple. "Bottom drawer."

Rose feels suddenly very exposed, without his own body covering her, as well as rather undignified, sprawled, legs apart, on his glass counter, still aroused. "What?" she asks, out of breath.

"You're the one whose not lame, dearie, not to mention, the one who has more to lose if we are not careful with this little deal."

She thought he was going to say something along the lines of "putting up a fuss," and she can't quite explain the relief she feels at his actual words. What's more, he makes sense, so she slides off the counter, with as much dignity as she can—that being none. As she walks toward the backroom, she picks up her coat from the floor and pulls it around her shoulders, for she's embarrassed and very, very cold. Rose can feel him watching her, and as she passes beneath the doorway, into the back, suddenly the clocks begin to chime.

Midnight.

Many clocks fill the air, antique grandfathers, she thinks, and not all at the same time, either. they mask any possibility of hearing him, at the other end of the shop. They continue to sing, as she goes to his desk and kneels down to look in the bottom drawer. True enough, there they are, in the back, two different, small boxes of condoms. Rose wonders if he has a preference. To be safe, she takes one of each.

She stands and starts to walk back. There's been six chimes. That's when she realizes something.

She could leave.

Rose has her coat, and her shoes are by the door. She slips a hand into the coat pocket, and yes, her house keys are there. Sure, she was short a lot more than she brought here tonight (primarily a large amount of dignity)—she'd be leaving her clothes, but what did that matter? Her father certainly wouldn't be awake when she came in, and none would be the wiser in the morning. She didn't have to stay.

Rose looks between the two doorways; the grandfather clocks chime on.

Past time to rewind the damned antique clocks, Rumpelstiltskin thinks as he tries to bring his breathing under control and slow his heart rate. He will need to maintain some semblance of control to get himself to the restroom, to take care of this little problem, before he can clean up his bloody shop.

This was a terrible idea, and those damn clocks won't bloody stop, banging out with all their different bass lines. Surely to the gods, it's been twelve strikes by now, more than enough chimes to cover the sound of shoes being slipped on and back doors opening and closing.

Yes, surely twelve strikes (and so many, many more).

Finally, it is silent, and he knows that she is gone (and he still has a hard on), but then, he knows she's been gone as far as he is concerned for so very long.

He doesn't blame her, not in the least for leaving. It was all him—it always has been. He'd been weak, a coward, too fearful to actually approach the girl, but allow himself a not-so-secret fondle, which of course she noticed. He kissed her and made her come, blushingly honest, and then he let her go. He pushed her away, what he did best. Terrible idea, but he can't say he truly regrets it.

The last of the chimes tapper out (he'll have to re-wind them first thing tomorrow, because gods know he's too damn tired and wound up to do so tonight); Gold sighs, running a hand through his hair—hell of day.

"I saw two different kinds," Belle says, "didn't know which you'd want, so I grabbed both."

Seven fucking hells, she didn't leave.

Yes, truly—he's not just imagining this—she stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but a winter coat.

At the intense nature of his stare, Belle begins to fidget, but sucks in a lungful of the cold air, stands taller and walks back to the counter with as much dignity as she can muster, while in her state of mild undress, slipping on note cards all the way.

Her little—bloody, tiny—hands set the items in question on the counter. In no way, shape, or form had he ever imagined they would reach this place.

When she stopped him previously, he'd bent the curse, used a touch of magic (because as anyone who knows anything about magic knows well that all worlds have magic, if only you know where to look and to grab for it), but he'd been imprecise. He vaguely pulled the first image in his mental catalogue, the counter of the dwarf's pharmacy—Mr. Clark, that was his name here—sending them to the most innocuous location he could think of off the top of his head.

The minute he felt the air shift, denser for the added boons, he realized there truly wasn't much point.

For he was giving her an out.

The imp was freely giving her a chance to leave and pretend this whole debacle had never occurred; they'd be reduced to meeting on the street, upon which her face would chameleon red as blood and she'd never meet his eye again. Probably, all for the best that way.

All the same, now he had condoms in his desk. He had just said be there, and there they be—and here she be.

Belle stands, not three damned feet away, setting condoms on his glass countertop. Apparently he'd lifted two different brands from Clark's shop—like it damn well mattered. She was actually going to let him do this.

He realizes he's still staring at her dumbfounded when a bit of her spark comes back, "What? You look like you thought I was going to make a run for it."

Gold recovers faster than the trickster, reverting to his usual lawyer-rhetoric, "In my experience," he says, taking in hand one of the condoms, not bothering to look and choose between the two, "women tend to leave once they get what they want."

"Well, maybe I haven't gotten everything yet."

His hands freeze, as he began to tear at the plastic wrapper, but then he scoffs, for he realizes what she thinks she's still lacking, "I daresay, after your little performance you more than earned that extension, dearie." He's being crass and cold to cover up all the rest.

Belle goes red in the face; he's never liked a color better. However, she still can see right through him. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He makes a noncommittal gesture, raising his eyebrows, "Yes, well." Her words shock him, freezing his hands, but then he promptly ignores her and turns to the task of putting on the article (his mind with its fake memories tells him that he knows how to do this, but in the curse, it's been a rather long time, and of course, in reality, still it's been a rather long time). "Forgive me, if I'm a bit skeptical."

What's more, the girl's bloody well watching him—trying to appear otherwise, obviously, but he can positively feel her staring. "Curious, are we?"

She tries to avert her gaze, but that does little to help, for his hands are shaking, though they seemingly know the way to do this, but it's not going well—he shouldn't be this unsettled by her.

If he was looking at her, he knows he'd see her blush. She chuckles, "Yeah, I guess I am."

Suddenly, a frightening thought hits him—he feels like he's fallen through ice, like that one time with the Snow Queen and the not-so-frozen river. He has to ask—has to know, "You do have," he suddenly feels the undeniable needs to clear his throat, "experience in this area, do you not?"

"You mean to ask if I'm a virgin."

"Yes." There, gods, he has finally got the thing—condom, is the term—on. It's not the most dignified bit of new technology (though even in the old land, he'd heard of such things in the city, made from animal intestine. Unsurprisingly, he had not been interested, and any ladies of the night he'd paid to pleasure him and the demon within had never requested he wear one) but useful; he sees the practicality.

"I'm not, so you don't have to worry about that."

He stiffens; the bastard fiancé. He should have magic-ed the boy into something more crushable, he thinks. Fool of a knight.

She things she sees him bristle, but that would be strange, because she's not his and she's never known him to care much for anyone or anything but money—though this would be the first she's ever seen him so carnally involved.

"Good," he says, but there's little happiness in the word.

Mr. Gold turns back to her. "Shall we continue?" he asks, but then he takes her by the chin, though not forcefully. She can't help but look him in the eye. "You are sure about this, aren't you dearie?"

So, he had been letting her leave. Rose pulls her chin out of his hold, and in reply, because he's apparently a lot more dense than she'd though, she takes off the coat, but brings it around to hold in front, between them.

Rose can't help but shiver as her back and backside come in contact with the cold glass. She embarrassingly wonders if her skin is she's leaving a smudge print. She looks up to the man, looking down at her with a mix of utter confusion and adoration—no. No, that's lust, Rose, she thinks, don't be stupid.

She extends a hand expectantly. "Well?"

This rouses him. He shakes his head, "Well, what?"

She lifts the hand holding her father's coat a little higher. "My coat for yours, of course."

Gold blinks, and Rose thinks he'll deny her request, but then, he slips off his jacket, his mouth in an unpleasant line, "Aren't you an entitled little thing."

Then she's the one the to cover her feelings with crass and cold words, "Can't get dad's coat dirty, and you keep it fucking freezing in here."

At the mention of her father, his face turns even more sour. He yanks the coat out of her hand, causing a surprised cheep to escape her mouth. She rushes to cover herself, more out of habit than any thought to modesty—not after what she's just shown him. He swats her arms down to her sides, and examines her body in one long, unbroken stare, mouth slightly open.

Rose raises her chin, though his eyes aren't exactly on her face at the moment, but the look he wears, awed and hungry, make her suddenly find herself biting her bottom lip.

Gold recovers; the hand not holding his jacket tweaks her nipple. "The cold suits you, m'dear."

She rolls her eyes and bats his hand away. "Give me that," she says reaching for his suit jacket, but he moves his arm back out of reach, with a smirk. As she lunges forward for the clothing item, his other arm wraps around her waist and pulls her flush against him, and without a break, his mouth covering hers. As they kiss he relents, wrapping his coat around her shoulders.

He's smiling, she thinks. He leans forward over her, and Rose can't help but picture one of those silly old postcards in sepia she loves so much—perhaps he's got a few around here somewhere; she wraps her arms around Mr. Gold's neck pulling him down and into her a little further.

However, Rose highly doubts in these sepia postcards any of the ladies being kissed had their minds on that particular part of the male anatomy (the men on the other hand, that's another question entirely). This close, she can feel his erection, hot and hard against her bare belly.

The rubbery latex sticks to her skin and the contrast is so damn distracting in relief to the expensive, well-cut fabric of his suit pants. She smiles, wondering what the dry cleaners will think at the sight of Mr. Gold bring in clothes stained with lust and smelling of sex. Now, Rose is sure, that will be a first.

She shivers, for she wasn't lying when she said he keeps it fucking freezing. He does, and the glass is so cold, and the damp between her thighs is doing nothing to help, sending little shakes all the way to her numb toes, tiptoed on the floor, but his center is burning up and solid. She lifts her chin wanting to take him entirely for herself. She grinds against him, following that heat. She must get warm somehow, after all. She slips a hand between them, and wraps it around his cock. She runs her thumb down the back seam of him, causing Mr. Gold to make a pained sound.

That's when Rose knows he's a goner.

He grips her hips all the tighter, like he's falling to his death off a precipice that is the planes of her body, and strangely, darkly, she hopes he'll leave bruises and then her mind can only think of him and how she wants him inside her, filling her, and she wants it now. "What are you waiting for?" she whispers into his mouth.

Nothing apparently, for at her breathless words, the lost, falling man, nigh near tosses her back onto the glass counter.

Rose hears the glass shelves and the items they hold shake with the jostling, some breakable shattering. He better not charge for that, she thinks, briefly—for she wouldn't put it past the bastard.

"Too many things," Gold says (is he answering her? Or is that about the shelves?), and it can't be her imagination, but he sounds so sad, like the echo in a well, but then he continues, frantic and wanting, and it's the thickest she's ever heard his accent, "but not this."

Well, that is it in way of Americans for Rose. With three inconsequential words, he's just ruined an entire continent for her—grand.

However, he does just that—makes it (her) grand.

He pushes her legs apart and grasping the backs of her knees, pulls her flush as they can be, without truly being one. Rose cries out, at the friction against her all too-recently worn-down bits. She kisses him deep, as he enters her, but holds still for a moment, waiting for her to adjust to him.

In reply, Rose hooks her legs around his waist, never wanting to be anywhere else, and it's all the answer he needs. He slips out a bit, for feeling of entering again. And again. And again.

"Oh gods," he says, and Rose's brow crinkles, what an odd saying, another Scottish quirk perhaps? Whatever it is, she likes it. She drives her little calloused heels (for she does work hard in their little flower shop, no matter what he says about her flower arranging) into the backs of his thighs, to drive him hard, ever in and onward.

At his hammering, she wails a quiet sound, for he's building back up in her that want. She pulls him into a kiss, as she feels the clammy sweat break through his shirt. Rose knows Gold won't last long enough to bring her off again, but as she plunders his mouth, she doesn't mind over much (the idea that it truly is even a possible thing, one that she'd only blanched over in two dollar paperbacks in the line at the grocery store—but only if no one was around, and usually even then, hidden by a more benign library book—or heard about while drawing water at the well with the other women—well? What well? Oh, right, the wishing well in the woods, with Ruby of course. That well. Back in high school, surely).

She feels him begin to lose control, breaking with uncoordinated shakes. He pulls back from their kiss to call out his pleasure and hides first in her hair and neck and then burrows his head down between her breasts.

Rose holds him there, closing her eyes, fisting her hands in his hair. She smiles and suddenly a line comes to her from some book she read, once upon a time: if it is written. She wonders if they are Hindus and been waiting lifetimes to damn well do this, but then shakes it off, for that's ridiculous. And he's stirring.

Gold's breathing has gone even, and his hand in the fold of her thigh and torso is too distracting, his thumb ghosting over her, at the top of her lips. Rose lets go of his head and hair, where she'd been keeping him at her bosom, instead tracing lazy circles over his clammy oxford.

So close—they've almost put themselves back together, this lifetime.

Rumpelstiltskin falls with a great crash, like a tower, built upon the sand—the sea washing him away, the sea of Belle. He breaks like Rapunzel's tower, the one he destroyed oh so long ago.

He falls like its been decades in the making.

He gasps and starts to pull away, but finds she's holding too tight to his neck and hair and that he must stay just exactly where he is. Rumpelstiltskin concedes, and tries to remember how to breathe at a steady rate, resting against her sternum.

As he feels Belle's hands slip to his back, he indulges for a moment, nuzzling her breast, scraping his stubble against her pearly skin. She lets a squeak escape, but it's laced with desire—he is, after all, still touching her.

With one last brush to her swollen nub causing her to moan for him, he chuckles and breaks free of her hold altogether. He grabs her wrists a touch too roughly (for he remembers too well how he could break her miniscule form and heart with his very hands, easily, too easily). "I'm all for enthusiasm, but I have an early morning, and I think I've little energy left, except for tidying up of course."

Belle's look of want changes to one of mild indignation. Better.

Worse.

Gold continues, "And you, dearie, ought to be getting yourself home, don't you agree?" The confidence masks his embarrassment at pulling out of her. She gasps at the sudden void and the return of the cold. He cups her cheek for a single instant, and looks at her (he's still such a weak, weak creature). Her eyes show only lust and exhaustion—no hate. Well, that is surprising to put a word to it.

When he can't take that look or her swollen lips any longer, he turns away.

He bends down, to take back up his cane from where it had clattered to the floor (possibly when he'd thrown her none too gently onto the countertop). For a moment, he toys with the idea of taking her knickers also, but brushes the idea away.

He walks back to the cash register and with his back to her, slips off the offending article that's filled with all his lust and wanting (close to three decade's worth) with more effort than he expected. He tosses it in the rubbish bin beneath the counter smoothly and covertly, hoping she doesn't catch the action.

He zips himself up, tucking in his shirt and for the last, tightening his tie. He hears her sliding off the counter awkwardly, for the sound of bare flesh and glass isn't exactly melodious. He listens to her gathering up her things, slipping on unmentionables, straightening clothing.

He does not turn to watch. Though, gods know how much he'd like to, instead he bends over and picks up a piece blank card stock from the floor. He takes a pen from out a drawer and jots down the quick message. It's simple and to the point:

Mr. French, In the spirit of the season, I've seen fit to extend your loan by an additional month. See that you do not tread lightly on my atypical charity.

Rumpelstiltskin smirks at the note, imaging the pig's reaction. Wouldn't it be just tragic if the man had a heart attack on the spot. Oh, yes. One can only hope.

Rummaging through the drawer, trying to lose the jitters from his hands (must be low blood sugar, surely), he pulls out an envelope and stuffs the note inside. He signs with only the letter "G" on the back, in his ornate, old-world handwriting, with too many a curlicue.

"What's that?"

He turns to her. His Belle is all put-together now, excepting the hair, which she is trying to smooth with a hand (it's not working). He can see, but only because he knows all too well, that she looks well-sexed.

He smirks; she blushes.

Gold licks the edges of the envelope, eyes never leaving her face. He folds and seals it. "An explanation, for your father." He extends the note toward her, but when she reaches to take it, he grabs her wrist and pulls her close, kissing her hard, again. He wonders if she can taste the bitter envelope paste—truly, one can only hope. Finally, when he knows they both must breathe, he releases her, "Go. It's late."

She nods, absent mindedly, stepping back. She turns the envelope over in her hands, suddenly pensive. She laughs.

"What?"

"He'll think he's seen the ghost of Christmas past."

Gold scoffs. "Perhaps, but I don't remember the ghost being quite so attentive, upon my reading of Dickens," he says, eyeing her like he's seen more of her than the usual man. At the quip, she smirks, and he likes the look.

She didn't run when she had the chance, and she moaned to my touch over and over.

"You better be on your way, dearie."

She nods, and haltingly walks past him into the backroom. Suddenly, he regrets—as she said he always would.

He goes after her, a bit too frenzied. She's already slipped on her shoes and is reaching for her little case of lock picks; mustn't have that. He tsks at her, "Leave the kit, if you please, Miss French."

"But it's mine."

"Yes, and a possession which you used to break into my shop, if I remember correctly."

Belle huffs, but doesn't take the set. "The least you could do is offer me a ride home, if you're going to keep my kit."

He thinks of how nice she'd make the passenger seat of his black Cadillac look—terrible idea. The godsbedamned. "That would be rather hard to explain to your father in the morning, now wouldn't it?"

She chuckles, "Just a little."

As she reaches for the door handle, he adds (because he's a bastard, and can hardly help it, or remember a time when he wasn't), "I'll be waiting for the payment next month; do see that it's on time.

Suddenly, the hand on the knob freezes, "You don't make bargains like this often, do you?"

He pauses, not sure what to tell this girl, this girl who isn't his. "No, I don't." Then, he's honest, because he does vaguely remember that. "Not the same, but something similar. However, that was a long, long time ago."

"And were you so cold with her too?"

He thinks of a one-liner, to throw Belle off, a hundred, actually, but stops himself, "Aye, very."

She nods and opens the door, letting in the winter wind. She steps out, into the world, without a backward glance—just like before. He's at the door instantly. He stops it, as she attempts to pull it shut behind her, "But it was a pleasure, doing business with you." Belatedly, he adds, "Miss French."

She eyes, him curious, glad at least, that his halting the door didn't cause her to slip on the ice of his back stoop and cause her to make an even greater fool of herself. Gold's words however cut her frustration to the quick.

He hardly knows how to do this, she thinks.

There's no answer, of course. Especially when she's standing in the cold and he hasn't offered to drive her, and goddamnit she's tired and has to walk across town. At least it's not snowing.

She smiles, because it's all she can do, and let's go. Rose walks out of the alleyway and into the street, but oddly, she never hears the door shut—she does not turn back to check.

As she passes the functional clock tower, she pulls up the collar of her father's coat. For having just traded sex for time, she wonders if she should feel worse, or at the least, not quite so pleased, but that's a question for tomorrow. That and why his chilly demeanor after they'd finished hurt her as much as it did. All she knows, is that though she's short a set of picks, plus an envelope and all the intangibles in between, for some reason, she can't help but think she's gotten the best of the bargain.