A/N: ...Since I've actually gotten more feedback for Best Enemies here than anywhere else I've posted fic, I might as well transfer this fic over, too! :D Chapter one of three, slightly on hold until The Darkness Knows Your Name lets me go.

There were three driving forces in Storybrooke: death, taxes, and Mr Gold. In lieu of the broken town clock, one could reliably set their watch to the pawnbroker instead, who meticulously maintained business hours down to the minute as though fulfilling an unspoken contract between him and the town.

This is why, on an otherwise ordinary Monday in late winter, Mayor Regina Mills felt prickling unease as she drove past Mr Gold's pawnshop and spied the "CLOSED" sign still dangling behind the glass.

At first she presumed this a rare oversight on Gold's part as the "back in..." card indicated 10 AM and it was fast approaching 1 PM, but intense curiosity-nay, mayoral duty-compelled her to park her Mercedes.

When she grasped the knob and discovered the entry locked, she immediately thumped her gloved fist several times against the scarred wood, then shielded her eyes from the sun so she could peer through the darkened window. Mr Gold failed to emerge from the backroom. No movement at all, in fact.

How very odd. Perhaps he was at lunch.

Regina concluded it was probably nothing and retreated to the warmth of her car. She switched on the ignition and drove off to attend to other business, all the while ignoring the anxiety beginning to gnaw at her.

Within the hour, though, she felt compelled to drive past the shop again and found it as dark and uninhabited as she had before. Mistrust flared dangerously as her worst suspicions were confirmed: Gold had failed to open shop for the first time in fourteen years.

Something was not right.

Regina didn't fully understand the complicated daily minutiae of the Curse, but of one thing she was certain: citizens of Storybrooke never voluntarily altered their day-to-day schedule. They could never age, grow, develop, or understand how static their sad little lives were. They would never experience self-awareness, just as they would never leave Storybrooke. The Curse reduced them to oblivious, obedient cogs in a machine that only she could control; playthings to manipulate as she pleased.

If this situation had presented with anyone else but Gold, Regina would not feel so unsettled. The trouble with him was never being able to tell if that glint in his eye meant Rumplestiltskin's memories were rattling around his head, or Gold was simply a smug, unnerving bastard by nature. It always spiced their encounters with danger, which she couldn't decide if she liked or not. Ultimately, no evidence suggested that he-or anyone else for that matter-had evaded the Curse's effect... but if anyone could find a way to subvert the magical laws it established, it would be him.

Whatever Gold was up to, Regina didn't like it. She didn't like it one bit.

Without further thought, the Mayor resolutely turned her car in the direction of Mr Gold's home.

Regina parked her car on the quiet suburban street outside Mr Gold's two-story salmon-colored Victorian. Winter had reduced his protective barrier of mature trees to an ineffective row of black, spindly claws. Glancing over his dark windows, she attempted to spot any signs of life from within but that, of course, would have been too easy. She'd already spied his quaint black Cadillac parked around back, which eliminated the possibility of him skulking in the woods beyond the town proper, and last night's snow lay undisturbed on the walkway leading up to his front door.

He must be home.

Satisfied, she quit the warm confines of her car and made her way up to Gold's stoop, heeled boots crunching on the unplowed pavement.

Upon reaching the front door, she removed her glove long enough to rap her knuckles sharply against the cold, none-too-resonant wood of his front door. Her breath stilled as she listened hard for the distinctive thump-tap of the owner's gait. When it didn't come, she jabbed a leather-clad finger against the buzzer to ring the doorbell, which she heard sound through the house. Again, she waited longer than he deserved, and still nothing.

Of course Rumplestiltskin would not make things easy for her.

A flash of nervousness joined her annoyance.

What was he doing?

Her hand dropped into her purse and rummaged around for one of the silver skeleton keys she always kept sequestered in a discreet pocket. She casually slid it into the lock and with a slow twist of her wrist, coaxed the mechanism to disengage as quietly as possible. It did so and she carefully pushed the door open.

In spite of her attempts at stealth, the hinges creaked ominously, as though the castle was warning its master of an intruder. Undeterred, she stepped inside and cast a quick glance over the front sitting room and stairs leading to a darkened upper floor. She paused in the entryway, straining her ears, but still nothing.

Was he dead? Oh, perish the thought.

As she eyed the dusty possessions occupying most every available surface in sight, it occurred to her she'd never been inside Gold's house before and had only ever seen a few rooms of Rumplestiltskin's precious Dark Castle.

How many of these trinkets actually came from the Castle? How much of it had been furnished by the Curse for continuity?

By chance, she spied a suspiciously familiar box on the mantle above the fireplace. It was a small, brushed steel chest the color of faded gold, the sort that one might find in a vault. Her vault, actually. Placed conspicuously at eye level. As though he'd wanted her to come sneaking into his house and find it.

She stalked towards the casket, utterly disinterested in the possibility of an obvious trap. The instant it came into reach, she released the catch and opened it.

Empty.

What had been in it? Had it been empty from the start?

Discovering what else of hers she might find in his hoard became far more important than the idea of Gold breeding hellhounds in the basement or reminding the elementary school teachers how grossly underpaid they were.

Behind her was a glass display case filled with an indiscriminate assortment: a pair of jade elephants, an impossibly ornate Chinese ivory carving, a few porcelain plates, a large bottom-heavy goblet made of gold, an intriguing set of panpipes she was sure she'd seen before...

But just as Regina reached out to grab the cabinet's brass handle, a distant roar of canned audience approval nearly sent her from her skin. Her eyes shot up the hall in a flash of instinctive panic, reminded of her original objective: find Gold.

Another cheer followed the last, sounding from somewhere on the main floor. She collected herself and crept through the room to the dark and narrow hallway, following the noise around pokey corners and across creaking hardwood floors.

House as small as it was, it didn't take long to locate the source to a small sitting room in the back corner of the old Victorian. With confidence that did not befit the intruder she was, Regina stepped boldly into the open doorway only to view the last thing in the world she ever expected to see.

The most feared man in town reclined on an uncomfortable-looking sofa with as much dignity as he could muster while clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a cranberry red "University of Glasgow" hoodie. In the opposite corner of the room, an ancient television was playing a rerun of The Price is Right. Mr Gold shifted to his side and fixed her with a baleful glare, made all the more forceful by the dark circles under his eyes. Based on his unshaven face, Regina was confident he'd been lying there for at least a day. Enough balled up, used Kleenex to support her theory occupied the small black mesh wastebasket on the floor beside the couch.

"I know this sounds quaint, Mayor Mills, but I lock my door when I don't desire company," Gold growled-or tried to anyway-before choking on a wet cough he stifled with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Undeterred, he continued breathlessly. "Civilized societies call this breaking and entering; therefore, I am well within my rights to-"

Whatever threat he had planned degenerated into a series of urgent, hacking coughs that made him grip the edge of the sofa while his shoulders shook. It soon passed and Gold reached in defeat for a mostly-empty mug of tea from the coffee table beside him. He gulped down its contents miserably, eyes still watering.

Regina felt a vague twinge of pity in that moment. To her credit, she even experienced an iota of embarrassment for hastily leaping to the paranoid conclusion that he must be plotting to undermine her rule now that reality suggested this was clearly not the case. But even these redeeming human emotions could not prevent the smirk of suppressed laughter that curved her blood-red lips as she gazed upon his unhappy, congested plight.

The humiliating sight was balm to her soul.

"I would never abuse my keys to the city," she soothed and the smirk transitioned to a smile. "You weren't at your shop and when you didn't answer your door, I couldn't help but worry. It's a small town, Mister Gold, and we look after our own."

Gold remained unaffected by her assurances.

"Thank you for your concern, but as you can see there's nothing requiring your attention here," he rasped peevishly. He replaced a now empty mug on the table next to a well-thumbed copy of TV Guide Regina wouldn't touch for her life. "Do lock the door on your way out."

Then he shifted to his back and dropped an arm over his eyes, apparently terminating the conversation.

"You don't look well, dear. At least let me make you another mug of tea before I go," she insisted. "Spare you the trouble of getting up. I know that leg of yours isn't kind this time of year."

Her offer met with belligerent silence as if ignoring it would negate her existence. Undeterred, Regina leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, and focused her attention on Gold's ridiculous game show. They both knew he lacked the strength to chase her from the house. It was only a matter of time before he decided to sacrifice dignity or victory to maintain his privacy; either way, Regina would be entertained.

The voice of Bob Barker and the cheers of a televised audience filled the lull as seconds turned into minutes. Gold discreetly smothered a few coughs. Credits rolled on the screen and the theme music began for another episode by the time the pawnbroker relented.

"What's your price?" Gold's voice was weary.

"Unlike you, I don't need one beyond the pleasure of helping someone in need."

"The kettle's still on the stove," he grumbled and gestured vaguely with his free hand, face still hidden under the crook of his elbow.

Regina didn't bother to mask the smirk returning to her face. He truly was ill if she could best him in a battle of wills without any real effort on her part.

"Don't worry, dear. I'll be out of your hair before Antiques Roadshow is on."

Backtracking around the corner, Regina found an old-style kitchen reluctantly refurbished with modern conveniences like a coffee maker, a microwave, and small fridge. On the gas range stove sat a copper tea kettle, as promised.

She carried it to the sink and filled it with water, then returned it to the burner. She twisted the knob. The gas clicked a few times before the blue light ignited into a steady flame with a gentle hiss. After cranking the heat up to its highest setting, she cast her gaze around Gold's neglected kitchen with a kind of despair.

A small collection of matching mugs lived in a nearby cabinet, and a drawer of cutlery not far off. Beyond that, most of the cabinets were empty save for a small stack of bowls and plates, a few pots and pans, and an assortment of miscellaneous utensils and containers clearly acquired piecemeal as he required them. A couple boxes of cereal. Cans of soup. A half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker. His fridge faired little better, holding little more than some basic staples, lonely in the cold white space, and a freezer packed with ice cream and frozen dinners.

Typical bachelor.

Ever nosy, she quietly rummaged through drawers and cabinets for mail, bills, ex-enchanted crockery-anything of interest, really-but all too soon, the kettle sang and closed her window of sneaky opportunity. She grabbed a clean mug with a sigh.

Beside the stove was a green box of rather pricey Ceylon tea Regina was confident she wouldn't find at the local grocery store. A hint of spice met her nose as she dropped a tea bag into the mug and by the time it was steeping, it smelled absolutely divine. Without even tasting it, she could already tell this blend would require few additives and going by Gold's coffee habits, he wouldn't want any. Consequently, after disposing of the tea bag, she heaped two large spoonfuls of sugar into the mug and stirred vigorously. At least three packets of his expensive tea might have also found their way into her blazer pocket as well.

When she returned to Gold's sickbed, he was cycling listlessly through Storybrooke's dozen local television channels with the grim expression of one who realizes their life has been reduced to daytime talk shows, children's programming, and soap operas.

"Your status as the richest man in town would be more convincing if you had cable," she said and placed the fresh, steaming mug next to his old one.

"Thank you, you can go," Gold snapped. Without taking his eyes off Regina, he warily grabbed the mug, sniffed it, then finally took a sip. He grimaced almost immediately, which brought to Regina's face a sweet smile more cloying than the drink she had ruined.

"You feel better, Mister Gold," she soothed, collecting up her purse. "Storybrooke misses your sunny disposition and generous business ethics."

Before he could claim the last word or throw a mug at her, she quickly saw herself to the door wondering what she had done to deserve such good luck.