Constant Stranger | Rumplestiltskin x Reader

Chapter Five

Really back to crushing on Robert Carlyle oh god

Storybrooke:

His car hummed, dry warmth—he glanced at you, hands easy at the steering wheel—something lonely in the way you watched. "Are you alright, dearie?"

"I don't remember moving to this town." Keys jingled slow with the small dips in the road, light soft-glinted on his ring. "I don't remember meeting you."

He frowned, tapped the wheel with his palm, hesitated. "Time is tricky—I find it helpful to focus on what I do know, who I know now."

"I know you're strangely nice to me." Flustered smile, off-balance. "What are you hoping to grow?"

"Whatever you'd like, my dear." Car pulled in front of a small clearing, dipped off the road—trail to the bridge.

You shifted to face his flickered smile. "No, really, Mr. Gold—"

He let the air curl, pretended to consider, tripped fingers down the shoulder of your seat—wanting to touch you instead—"I was thinking strawberries. Maybe mint."

"Did you read my mind?"

"Perhaps."

Enchanted Forest:

You settled on your back, put a hand over your aorta—deep quelled pulse—focused on the ebb and flow of breath, the scuffed ceiling, the reverberation of Rumplestiltskin's lilting voice in your head.

Absence, absence, that man in your house—waiting for you, counting on you—fuzzy; your trapezius muscle throbbed, ankles flamed. Quiet flutter across the cell—the ribbon dripped off your wrists, a book appeared on the ground, and you stretched over to it: green-covered, well loved, gold script milled on the spine: Songbirds of the Enchanted Forest.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, held it steady, delicate, felt its weight. Why would he give you anything?

Tender notes scattered in the margins, dark underlines—you brushed fingertips over them—next to the Aquatic Warbler, a tiny, streaked bird: wet sedge beds; seen in Longbourn; delightful, chattering song.

Chestnut-collared Longspur, he'd written: seen in the Frontlands drinking from a pond; was with Bae, who said he liked the yellow neck; sweet and tumbling song.

You lost track of time. Another breeze and Rumple stared down at you. "You seem rather at home."

"It's peaceful." You stood, set the book on the bench, and smiled at him. "Thank you."

He strolled in a circle, held your gaze—curious. "You are aware you're locked in the Dark One's castle, aren't you, dearie? You've said 'thank you' an awful lot."

"Perceived monsters aren't always monsters." You daubed below your jaw, throat, painful swallow.

"Is that why you make yourself small?"

"I—"

Soles skimmed to a stop, flat, shiver-close to you. "Do you have a favorite bird?"

"No favorites—they're all wonderful—the Indigo Bunting." You looked at his plender-gap, well of heat between you. "You saw one in Sherwood Forest."

"Size of a sparrow; eats berries and beetles; learn songs from nearby males, but not their fathers." He wicked a fingertip over your cheekbone, to your carotid, and you finally saw his eyes, their wintered flare.

"What's yours?" You blinked, hazy, voice weaker than you expected.

"I'm somewhat partial to the Rose-bellied Bunting, their blurry warble—visit my garden often." He tilted his head, grinned. "Are you prepared to give me a name?"

"I'm sorry."

"Suit yourself." He turned, made a quick, flourished gesture with his hand—dissolved the dirt from your skin, clothes, hair—walked to the cell door. "Stay comfortable—you'll be here awhile." 

"Rumplestiltskin—"

He hummed.

"Can I see? The garden?"

"You—a prisoner—" He laughed, whirled around. "Are asking to go outside?" Then he noticed you: searching, a certain wanderlust, interest in him—sudden, sharp, thrummed in his ribcage.

"Yes—please." You pinched the hem of your shirt, tamped the urge to look away, felt delirious—why was everything you said wrong today? Why had you accepted anyone's love? Why couldn't you just offer his name? "With you, of course."

"Of course." He echoed, blinked, lost in thought. "Hm. I suppose so."

Before he teleported, you reached, touched his shoulder, retracted quick. "Wait—could we walk?"

"Walk? How pedestrian—but—sure."