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It had been two hours. Two hours, and not one bounce. Mr. Gold, fearsome pawnbroker, loan shark, biting lawyer, and dark sorcerer, had never waited on anyone in his entire life until he found himself sitting, perched on the edge of the stolen dining room chair that he’d brought into the day room, and hovering over a grinning, gurgling little girl.
Near the far wall that overlooked the backyard with tall, wide bay windows, where once beheld an antique Georgian fainting couch, there was a small haven of childish whimsy. A thick, beautiful cotton blanket of the softest blue had been spread out to accommodate the little corner. In the center was a large quilt featuring a tree with woodland creatures patch-worked onto it with sloping arches from which hung a stuffed squirrel, owl, bird, and apple that all made babbling musical diddies. There was all manner of toys that bedecked the corner-a bright, plastic pink tea set that sung, a soft, cuddling giraffe, keys that rattled merrily when shook, gently crackling fabric books with animals, numbers, and shapes, and one particular crochet elephant named Bo with lopsided ears, a mournfully swaying trunk, and over-sized feet.
But Mr. Gold found himself sitting before the purple and red confection, a yellow and green accented plastic contraption that Emma Swan had gifted them. For some reason she had found it ironic that, around the holstered seat of the play set, the toys were all kings, queens, knights, and castles. They were filled with loud, rattling beads; all of the toys bent, sprang, or knocked about in entertainment for any young child and conveniently made obnoxiously cheerful sounds. Sheriff Swan had insisted the purpose was for a young child to experience finding stability in their own legs, learning how to bounce and move and turn all while safely cradled and helpfully distracted.
However, after two hours-two long, long hours-Mr. Gold concluded that it was obviously defective. He sat forward, hands cupped atop his cane’s handle where he leaned his chin, sighing as he looked at his seven month old daughter. Rosy cheeked with a soft wisps of golden brown hair, she grinned up at him, her warm eyes twinkling as she chewed on her own fingers.
Amelia hadn’t bounced, not once, and seemed content to wait for everyone to turn to dust before she would.
Baelfire had never had that problem, of course. The boy was nearly running before he’d learned to crawl, so quickly Rumpelstiltskin could hardly recall it. Amelia, however, seemed more than happy to be held, carried, snuggled, and toted, and showed no interest in crawling, much less walking. But Rumpelstiltskin was more than certain it wasn’t because she couldn’t, it was just simply the toy itself was damaged in some way.
“I’d think you’d prefer this,” Mr. Gold told the child, pursing his lips and huffing. “At least I’m not making you lay on your front like Mummy does. She says it’s to make you strong and build your muscles. What do you need muscles for? I got by without them.”
The baby gurgled, grinning around a mouthful of her own fingers, wet with drool. She kicked one foot up, out from under her, giving her father hope that she might humor him, but instead she suddenly let out a delighted squeal, pulling on the plush frog with a crown atop its head, gnawing on its leg.
“Now none of that,” Rumpelstiltskin muttered. “You don’t need to go kissing any beasts.”
Amelia made a contradictory sound against the plush frog, turning in the holster to bat at the magic mirror filled with multicolored beads.
“It’s probably better you don’t gain your feet, in the end,” Rumpelstiltskin muttered, sitting back in the chair with a dull thud, his thumb rubbing the side of the cane’s handle. “That means you’ll walk and run and jump, and it’ll all be away from here. Away from home. It always happens, don’t try to tell me you won’t,” he said quickly as his daughter continued to chew away at the stuffed frog, her eyes watching the sunlight of the later afternoon catch the gold of his cane’s handle. “Bae did. Out running around with the Madden girl- what’s her name?”
The baby slapped at the knight on horseback, grinning triumphantly when she made him topple over.
“Grace, you’re right. Yes, the hatter’s daughter,” Gold sighed despondently, looking down at his cane. He hardly ever saw hide or hair of Baelfire lately, which he supposed shouldn’t have bothered him so. He was, of course, hoping that Baelfire would adjust to this world, to this life, and after nearly a year he finally seemed to be able to. But of course that took him away from Rumpelstiltskin’s side, and a year was so short compared to the lifetime’s he’d seen. “Having his own adventures, I suppose. Always running where I can’t.”
Suddenly, as if he’d said something awe-inspiring, the little girl tilted her head up, her mouth open for a long moment before a grin broke out across her face and she sprang up in the seat. Bouncing with enthusiastic glee, the little girl gurgled, patting her hands against the plastic frame of the toy and continued to bounce in earnest and delight.
Mr. Gold sat in stunned silence for a long moment before he laughed, deep and warming all the way to his old heart, clapping his hands in pleasure. Though perhaps it would mean she was growing, her success meant that he was doing something right. “I’d think you devious, taking joy in my pain, my girl, but I’m too proud to truly be concerned,” he winked. “So we’ll let it slide this time.”
“What’s all this noise?”
A gentle hand slid across his shoulders until Belle came around the chair to his side. She slipped up onto the armrest, tossing her heels from her feet after a day at the library and clapping her hands at Amelia bouncing. “What a good girl!”
“Brilliant girl,” Mr. Gold scoffed, offended in the shortchanging of his little one.
Belle smirked, rubbing her husband’s back as he continued to chatter animatedly at the little girl, laughing and gurgling at him. She wouldn’t dare break the fragile joy constructed before her, the hope and happiness that could only be felt by a child’s success. Who was she to break such a truth that Amelia had only bounced when Belle walked into the room? It was, of course, part of a universal truth so many understood that a father’s encouragement built a child’s heart, but it was the mother who set the fire to the spirit.
Instead, Belle rubbed her husband’s back with a smile and reveled in his delicate and tender hearted happiness.