Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Or else I'd make sure that those who live in China wouldn't have to wait any extra day to watch… sigh.

Summary: She surprised him the first time; so she does again. Mr. Gold has his dry cleaning delivered that morning.

"Even if I now saw you
only once,
I would long for you
through worlds,
worlds."
- Izumi Shikibu

It's silent in his house (old-world styled and filled with grandfather clocks and globes with continents enough to fill two worlds and then some, all the color of the vaguely antique. Those are, after all, his specialty, as is his hard-won right for all the years and footsteps he's gathered). It started as a rather dreary morning, the rain playing the bongos on his knee. He slept in and lazed about; the shop would keep for a day's time. It's late morning when Gold finally rouses, and the sun has come out, strangely enough, giving the impression that it is going to turn out a rather nice day.

It's just as well he'd forgotten to call Mr. French and remind him to not bring the delivery by the house, but rather to the pawnshop. It is a simple enough request, but one that Gold is sure the other man would have fumbled, much how he handles everything else.

The problem had started with, like all others, Regina, or rather her son—the boy spilled (on accident, supposedly) his hot chocolate last week at the diner, and cinnamon is rather notorious for being difficult to get out of clothing. Gold found he couldn't get it off the three-piece suit anymore than he could fairy dust, lanolin or the smell of dried blood. The little bastard.

The only vaguely pleasant feature of the little princeling was that his coloring was that of Bae's, but of course it wasn't exactly the kind of remembrance Gold welcomed.

The child had been pestering him for sometime now, with that storybook of his. The mayor's stolen son had compiled a list of all his potential characters—Mr. Gold was in the running for every father in the fairy tale lexicon. When he had added "Miller" to the list the morning of the incident, Gold had smirked. Close son, very close. However, at the Mayor's beckoning (screeching, was more like) the boy had turned too fast and coated Gold in his lukewarm beverage.

"I do apologize, Mr. Gold. Children can be so clumsy," the witch had said with a smile. "I can have it cleaned for you, if you'd like?"

And have it returned in shreds or coated in arsenic? He thought not. "No, no, dear. Accidents do happen, after all." Yes, and he'd be sure Regina would be at the receiving end of the best of them. However, that was all for another day.

In any event, he sent the suit over to Moe French at Rags to Riches Dry Cleaning, another of his failing establishments (pity the times – French had recently mortgaged his house; in six months Gold would revel in turning him out, but that was down the road).

As doorbell begins to ring, Mr. Gold smiles to himself, at least the service is punctual. He thinks to himself that he will still have to double check for staining—never can be too cautious. He opens the door and everything stops.

She crept up on him the first time, and she's done so again.

"Rags to Riches Dry Cleaning: if we don't have it back before the clock strikes twelve the cleaning's free—"

The clocks begin to cry—signaling noon and the beginning of the rest of his life.

He puts on his smile that comes closest to charming and says, "Well looks like you're just in time, my dear, if I'm your only costumer today."

The look on her face says otherwise. She puts a hand to the bridge of her nose, "Fuck," the word is whispered under her breath, but he hears it all the same.

Gold's eyebrows shoot upward—some things can surprise him, even in this world—for it's not a word he's heard from those lips before. But then she's always been full of surprises, his Belle.

"I just said that out loud didn't I?" He chuckles at that. "It's just this damn truck. I can't get the hang of the clutch; it keeps sticking or something."

She's rambling—not that he minds in the least—and still holding his dry cleaning. He wants to ask her in for tea, or the better part of forever but refrains. Because she has deliveries to make and he, well he has to remember that little act called breathing.

Then he realizes just one of the many ways this might go. "I trust you are licensed to drive, Miss French." The sentence rolls off easier than any he's said his whole life through (including "I'm not unhappy"). He doesn't need to know her name to know that she is Moe's daughter, his one-time, could-have-been lover and savior.

"Of course, I have my license. I just didn't learn on a stick," she says, flippantly. Then Suddenly, it's her eyes that go wide. She clears her throat, "but of course, have since learned. To drive stick shift. Sir."

"I'm sure, Miss French," he smiles, at her, though if it was anyone else he'd have them hanging by their ankles for not abiding by the rules of his deals. "All the same, I know you're not listed on the insurance, dear." Because I would have run through fire and brimstone to find you if I'd seen your name in print.

"I wasn't supposed to say anything. Oh god, I just bore my soul to my father's creditor who just happens to hate him." She takes off her uniform cap, revealing curls that have been piled on top of her head in a messy sort of way. Gold's glad she's too distracted to notice his obvious staring. "Dad's going to kill me."

The words set his teeth on edge and bring him back to the here and now. Not in this lifetime, dearie, your father won't. "Well seeing as you drove here by yourself, I would have been hard pressed to miss it." He doesn't mention that he would have been hard pressed to miss anything concerning her.

"It was just this once; dad was feeling under the weather today."

Moe French didn't know the meaning of the phrase "under the weather," but he would soon enough. "Nice try, dear. I may be old, but I'm not senile just yet. Your father and I will have to have a little chat about this." Then of course, she reaches him, like she (almost) always could. She's devastated. Can't have that, now can we? "Of course, I'm sure there won't be any trouble adding you to the insurance policy, for a small price of course." She lights up and he thinks she looks like sunshine incarnate. "If you learn to properly drive the thing," he gestures with his cane to the Game of Thorns truck parked poorly in front of his house.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

He nods to her, and because he just can't bloody help himself he asks, "And what do you prefer I call you?

"Isabelle is fine—some people call me Izzie."

Yes, that would be her name. "And no one calls you, Belle?"

Her head tilts, as if she is hearing a tune from a song she'd forgotten she knew the words to, "You know what, you'd be the first."

He likes the sound of that. "Well, in that case."

"But it's a little, I don't know, antiquated, don't you think?" She takes him in, along with a peek around him, into his house (yes, yes, step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly—Mary Howitt whispers in his mind). "But then again, you deal in the antiquated, so I guess it fits." She smiles, handing him the dry cleaning, and he thinks he'll shatter right then and there. "Here you are, Mr. Gold." She pauses, counting the money he hands her, "Now, this doesn't seem like a fair trade to me."

They never are dearie, haven't you learned?

"What? Did I short change you?" He didn't.

"No," she laughs, "you know my name, but I've never heard yours."

Names, names; I've watched you washing window panes…

"It's Mr. Gold."

"Your first name," she raises her eyebrows in censure.

"Oh dearie, I don't give out my name lightly."

"Then I'll just have to call you John Proctor, won't I?"

"Ah, The Crucible. Our town is rather puritanical."

She narrows her eyes, adding, "And prone to witch hunts."

"Let's just hope not this afternoon."

She smiles, and it feels like before, except, just maybe, a little better. "Well, I've got to get going. I'm already late."

He turns around hanging the dry cleaning up on the coat rack and steps out into the light. "Yes, we'd better get going."

She eyes him, "Mr. Gold?"

"Well, someone's got to teach you how to properly drive a stick shift," he says, as he locks his front door. It's been centuries since he's offered assistance without strings—but some things can still surprise him, even himself.

Nor has he driven a stick in years, but it's like riding a bike, or catching falling damsels, or the sealing of a deal: it all comes back. His knee will be hell tomorrow; the shop would keep for two day's time.

He slips easily enough into the driver's seat. Getting a feel for the truck, as they drive along, he explains the details of the clutch. "This truck's a bit testy, as they say, engage the clutch just a moment before you want to change gears, and no sooner." He takes a quick peak to make sure she's listening. She is, intently. Grand. "Then, hold it just a second longer than is comfortable. Trust me." This time.

"Right. Got it."

They drive to the next stop. "Ok, pull over here." As they stop, she leans into the back to grab the next set of clothing, her own shirt coming un-tucked, and not all the magic in the world could stop him from staring, because she's alive and flesh and blood and he can't see any scars on her perfect, perfect, body.

"Oh god. Fifteen minutes late; they won't want to pay." She's speaking more to herself than him, but he's listening all the same.

"Tell them there's a new rule."

"What?"

"A new rule—I'm the creditor and the terror of the town. Mention you don't do the deliveries by noon bit anymore, on my orders."

She eyes him, skeptical, because twice now in less than twenty minutes the man who has the town by the unmentionables has offered to help her for nothing in return. What is going on with this world? Then, she shrugs, because for some unknown reason, she does trust him.

Gold watches as she scurries up to the resident's front door. He watches her speaking and gesturing with her arms—some things never change. The two look back, and he obliges them with his most frightening of smiles. He sees money exchange hands, thankfully. His knee is already howling and he doesn't know if he can manage a walk to the front door and drive to the next stop.

She slips into the seat, ecstatic. "I can't believe they paid. It worked."

As she buckles her seatbelt, he says the word quietly, "Rex."

"What?" she asks, as the curse spins around them sewing in this new detail from its maker's mouth. Yes, he can see it. There it is on paperwork and a birth certificate in a back room somewhere.

"My name. Rex."

"Rex," she rolls it over her tongue. "Good name."

"Glad you like it, dearie." They watch each other, then he moves forward. "Now, what's our next stop, Belle?"

As she directs him, he thinks over the fact that he really ought to repossess the thing. It's overdue, and French is letting uninsured drivers (two now) operate it, in addition, he's noticed it has more than one new dent, but then what would they use for tomorrow's lesson?