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The cactus was dying. Over the past week, its bulbous green flesh had taken on a grayish hue, needles becoming brittle enough to break if Emma bumped them. The sunset colored flowers on top were starting to shrivel, and no amount of water brought them back.
It was only two weeks old.
Emma had known that this would happen, known that she wasn’t nurturing enough to care for a plant, but Henry had believed in her. When he’d presented her with this Valentine’s day plant, he’d told her that it was prickly, but beautiful, just like her, and so she’d had to accept it with the knowledge that it was going to die.
With Mary Margaret around, it had thrived, because living things flocked to her like she was the only water source for miles, but now that her roommate was in jail, Emma was facing the horrifying realization that she was even less nurturing than a desert.
No matter how much she stared, no matter how many fingers of cheap whiskey she poured herself, the cactus refused to revive. It sat and sat, shriveling before her eyes, bleaching itself of color. Even when she tipped a libation of Black Velvet onto the cactus itself, it seemed to do nothing but wheeze at her.
Emma Swan was not a woman who cried, but she was starting to feel the tears in the back of her eyes. Maybe that’s what the cactus wanted—a vial of her tears poured onto its skin, or maybe a blood sacrifice. Wasn’t the plant in Little Shop of Horrors a cactus? She wasn’t sure, but it was green and prickly, so it seemed accurate enough.
Even if blood sacrifice wasn’t the answer, it wouldn’t hurt. Reaching forward, face and hands numbed by the alcohol, she attempted to prick her index finger on a spine. Instead of working, the needle broke, taking some other needles with it. Emma cursed.
She considered bringing the plant to the station. Maybe the sight of Mary Margaret’s face would rejuvenate it. Even drunk, Emma knew this was a terrible idea—Mary Margaret would think she was crazy if she stumbled in at midnight, carrying a dead cactus. Anyone would have thought she was crazy. She thought she was crazy.
Perhaps a walk would do the cactus good, though. Maybe it just wanted a change of scenery, some fresh air. Ignoring the fact that it was close to midnight, Emma bundled up in her coat and hat, then, as an afterthought, wrapped the cactus in her scarf. Cacti were desert plants—it wouldn’t have been used to the cold.
The whiskey kept Emma warm without all of her winter gear, and her coat kept her safe from the cactus needles as she held it to her side, gloved hand wrapped around the pot to keep it safe. She wasn’t sure where she was walking, but she did know that driving was a bad idea, so she let her feet do the wandering. The first place they stopped was Granny’s, which was empty and closed. Even if it hadn’t been, Emma would have had the presence of mind not to go in—Granny may have liked her, but that didn’t mean she would be keen on having a drunk woman with a dangerous plant wandering around her restaurant.
Everywhere she went, doors were locked and lights were out, and the cold wind was doing more to sober her than she would have liked. She wandered downtown, missing, for the moment, Boston, and the way that it was a real city, inhabited by people who weren’t in bed by ten. When she made it to the edge of downtown, she turned and crossed the street, prepared for the same blackness through the windows in all the shops.
At first, she thought the dim light creeping through the door of Gold’s pawn shop was a figment of her imagination. When she realized that it was real, she thought it a security feature—a light kept on to make the casual passerby assume that the shop wasn’t empty. She stopped, though, to inspect it, and once she looked, it was easy to see that the light came from the back room, where she was certain was an actual person. Though Gold was the last person she wanted to talk to, she found herself banging on the door, right next to the ‘CLOSED’ sign.
“Gold?” she called, though it was foolish to assume he could hear her voice. When nothing happened, she tried the door. It slid open with ease—he had either been expecting someone, or gotten careless. Emma tried not to feel like he’d been expecting her.
She crept in, clutching the cactus like a safety blanket, and looking all around as though she’d never seen the place before. She heard noises coming from the back, and Gold’s annoyed voice floated out to inform her that they were closed, but she just continued to meander.
When he appeared seconds later, forehead creased in agitation, shirtsleeves rolled up to his arm garters, Emma whirled around as though she had a gun to point at him. Instead, she had a scarf-wrapped cactus and the beginnings of an urge to vomit into a bush. Still, he raised his arms to show they were empty.
“Miss Swan.” His voice sounded choked, like he was trying his hardest not to let any anger or surprise show. Some of the creases in his forehead smoothed, and he lowered his arms.
“Gold.” She knew she had no right to barge into his shop at this ridiculous hour and still act as petulant as she always did, but old habits were hard to break.
He stepped toward her, but was careful to leave the counter between them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She toyed with the idea of telling him that he was under arrest, because it seemed that she only ever came with bad news, but instead found herself thrusting the cactus toward him.
“This cactus is dead.”
“So it is,” he agreed, resting his hands on the top of the counter. “I’m sorry, but I don’t sell plants here, if you were looking for a replacement.”
“Why bother? Its replacement would die, too.” She clutched the cactus to her chest, trying not to despair when more needles broke off, crunching under the protective scarf. What was once a frightening beast was now a de-clawed house cat.
He studied her, and for once, his stare didn’t disconcert her. It wasn’t his usual look, which she knew was meant to unnerve, but more of a look that suggested he was actually looking at her. He usually seemed as though he already knew the information he was looking for—now, it was as if he wanted to find it.
“I’ve just made some tea. Would you care to join me?” He gestured to the back room. Emma felt like this should have sent up warning flags—he was probably going to poison her or drug her or something. She could muster up no ill-will, however, and so she started forward.
“Got anything stronger?”
He chuckled, skirting around his counter. “I think we both know that’s not a good idea, Miss Swan.”
She grunted, agreeing but unwilling to admit it out loud, and followed him. The back room was as cluttered as it always was, but there was a space on his desk cleared for a tray of tea. Had she been sober, she might have wondered how he had managed to boil water, but in her current state, she just took it as a product of his Mr. Gold-ness. He had brown hair, a cane, and a full tea set—complete with cream, sugar, and lemons—ready and waiting on his desk. That was just how it was.
He had a chair pulled out for her by the time she and her cactus arrived behind him, and then, with another look at her, he cleared a space on his desk for the plant. She set it down carefully, almost reverently, and then lowered herself into the chair.
“How do you take your tea?” He settled into his own chair, pouring some of the amber liquid into two delicate china cups.
She shrugged, peeling off her hat and coat before draping them across the back of the chair. “Uh, sugar, I guess. How do you take yours?” She felt like his way was probably better—he was Scottish, and the Scottish knew how to drink tea, right?
“A bit of lemon. Cream?” He held the tiny pitcher up for her inspection and she nodded. If it was good enough for coffee, it couldn’t be bad in tea. Once he had stirred it with a tiny spoon, he took tiny tongs and dropped in a sugar cube.
“Why are your spoons so small?” she asked, tucking one knee against her chest and leaning against it.
“It is called a ‘demitasse’ spoon, Miss Swan, and it is the easiest way to stir tea in a properly sized teacup.”
“Oh.”
“Would your cactus like a cup as well? To warm up?”
The corners of his eyes were crinkled in amusement, and they both turned toward the scarf-wrapped plant.
“He’s already had whiskey,” she said, accepting the cup he handed her. “I don’t think he’s thirsty anymore.”
Gold chuckled, a chuckle unlike the one she was used to hearing because it seemed real. Taking his own cup, he leaned back in his chair, and regarded her over the rim.
“You don’t think he’s a bit warm now?” He pointed his chin toward the cactus.
“Oh.” She set her cup down and straightened her legs, leaning forward to unwrap the scarf. When she started to wrap it around her own neck, she found a hand stopping her, and then Gold was gently drawing the fabric out of her grasp.
“Probably not the best idea to wear that at this time,” he said, folding it up and tucking it into a desk drawer.
“Are you stealing my scarf?” she asked, determined to find something wrong with this situation.
He raised an eyebrow. “Did you want a neck full of cactus burrs, dearie?”
Her lips pursed and her nostrils flared, but she settled back in her chair and recovered her tea, knowing he was right. She waited for him to say more, but he just sipped his tea and watched her, like he had all the time in the world for her and her dying cactus.
“Why did you have tea for two ready?” she asked.
“I find it’s always best to be prepared.”
His calm was infuriating. It was also soothing. She had the nagging thought that she had come to the right place. As much as she loved Mary Margaret, going to her because she was drunk and sad was not a good plan.
“Your cup.” She had just noticed it, and she tilted her head. “It’s broken.”
Almost as if he didn’t realize it, his fingers strayed to caress the jagged edge. “It’s just a chip.”
“Henry gave me the cactus,” she blurted, bringing her tea up to her mouth as though she could hide behind it.
Gold’s eyes flicked downward, as though he were sharing a private moment with himself, and the corners of his mouth turned up. “Ah. Valentine’s Day?”
She nodded, gaze straying toward the dead plant. “It died as soon as Mary Margaret left.”
“And you’re worried that young Henry will be upset?”
She started to nod, but then considered her answer. Slowly, her head started back and forth. He watched her for a few seconds, and then set his tea down so that he could tent his fingers above it.
“No, I wouldn’t think so, either. So tell me, Miss Swan. What’s wrong?”
She took a large gulp of her tea, trying to will it to be liquor. When it didn’t work, she set her cup down, and stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets.
“I killed a cactus in less than a week. Cacti are supposed to be the easiest plants to keep alive—they thrive in the desert, for god’s sake. I am less good at keeping things alive than the desert is.” She had been focusing on the corner of the desk, but now she flicked her gaze to him. His face was impassive, watching her as though he had nothing better to do than listen to her talk about plants. She looked back at the desk. “If I can’t take care of a cactus, how can I take care of a kid?”
He nodded his understanding, reaching for his tea in one slow, deliberate motion. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have one more question.”
She was a little taken aback that he had nothing to say, but she nodded anyway. She was already in too deep to deny.
“Why was the cactus wearing your scarf?”
For a fleeting second, Emma felt annoyance bubble up inside of her. Then, she looked at Gold’s face, which was no less calm than it had been seconds before. She calmed.
“I thought it might be cold.”
“And so you traded your own warmth to protect this cactus, on the night of its death.”
It wasn’t a question, and when Emma looked up to answer it, Gold’s lips were curved into a half-smile.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” She wished she understood where he was going with this—the knowing glint in his eyes was bringing back the familiar unease that went along with his presence.
“You put this cactus’s needs above your own.” He pointed, as if she wasn’t sure which cactus he meant. When she remained silent, he continued. “You wanted to make sure it was safe and comfortable, even if this meant giving up the scarf from your own neck.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. It was hard to tell whether or not he was making fun of her, but she wasn’t going to take any chances by defending her actions.
He sighed, as though he were talking to a slow child. “That, Miss Swan, is what parenting is.”
It was like he had flicked a light switch on in her brain, and she sucked in a breath, turning to look at him, eyes huge. “Shit, you’re right! I totally parented that cactus.”
He smiled, the proud parent who had just led his child to the answer to a complicated riddle—except, he was Mr. Gold, so it was much smaller. “Not understanding what it takes to care for a cactus does not mean that you are not fit to be a parent. It means that you did not use the internet when you should have.”
“Do you think the internet will tell me how to fix it?” She looked over at the cactus and felt a new twinge of guilt. First, she had parented it, and then she had killed it. She was the worst.
“No, I think it’s quite dead.”
“Can’t you fix it? You fix things, right?” She tore her gaze away from the cactus, and focused on him.
“There are a lot of things I can do, Miss Swan, but unfortunately, I can’t raise the dead.” His eyes flicked toward his chipped cup, and it would have been imperceptible had Emma not been staring at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
She sighed, leaning back in the chair. She supposed that, at some point, she would have to break the news to Henry that she had murdered his brother.
“Well, thanks for the tea, and the, uh—” She cleared her throat. “Thanks for the tea.”
“It was my pleasure, Miss Swan.” He nodded, and she had the feeling that it was his pleasure, that he actually didn’t mind her company—and not just because he wanted something from her.
He was, however, Mr. Gold. There was no way he didn’t want something from her.
“So what do I owe you? Another favor?”
He chuckled, gaze straying toward his tea, and after he had quieted, he shook his head. “No, Miss Swan. This one’s on me.”