pennysheets | Deals [For Rumplestiltskin]

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Deals [For Rumplestiltskin]

It took the Soldier two weeks to find his rescuer. The only reason it took two weeks instead of four days was HYDRA agents kept getting in the way, and then he kept having to detour to clean out whole bases of them, because he certainly wasn't going to just leave them there, to come after him again. It feels good, leaving behind nothing but fire and death, but it doesn't feel right.

So finally, somewhere in Eastern Europe, he walks into the little shop of curios and crap where the shaggy-haired little man, the one he remembers from his first moments after the Chair, is standing behind the counter.

He's got a hat-- he fucking hates hats, but he's got one-- and two layers of shirt over one of the Soldier-specific kevlar vests. Plus a jacket. The boots are the same, because finding decent combat boots with protective toes and completely waterproof soles is hard, and these are comfortably broken in. His hair is still loose, because he hasn't had the thought to tie it up. But he hasn't shaved, so there's some beard, and he's been steadily losing weight since the escape, but he thinks the man will still recognize him.

He hopes the man will still recognize him. The Soldier is not that great at explanations. He's not that great at anything except hunting and shooting.

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Indeed, the same shaggy-haired man -- mostly -- that only really glimpsed the soldier because the last person in the base he hadn't killed had been trying frantically to wake him to protect him, however vain that hope had been. He still wasn't certain how they had identified him, much less managed to capture him, but they had interrupted what had been a long journey in trying to leave this world and return to his own.

Whatever they had used to hold him didn't last as long as they had hoped, clearly, because much to their detriment, the dagger did not come with him.

The man the soldier had seen had been someone who was quite finished with it all, whatever they had tried to subject him to. Not quite the same, though. Features smoothed, clothing far more modern, straight knit and put together. The sound of a tinkling bell when the shop door opened, and he lifted his head gently from the ledger he had been examining.

He didn't expect to recognize that face again, just as he had back at the base. Twice over.

The Soldier only recognizes the man who pulled him from the Chair, but he's never going to forget the man who pulled him from the Chair. He has very little else, and he can only hope whoever this person is, he has some kind of direction. Some kind of distraction from the headaches and the strange, distracting pictures he gets now and then.

"Reporting for duty," he offers first. "Sir." He doesn't know the man's name.

Gold certainly didn't make any plans to indebt anyone to him. Things like that tended to be very binding and distracting, after all, but as before, if the soldier does speak it's words Jefferson would never say. (It was ridiculous mistaking them, honestly. You could fit all of Jefferson comfortably into one of the soldier's biceps, after all, but the eyes were rather unmistakable.)

He glanced around to be assured that yes, this was indeed the collection he'd amassed, hidden under the guise of an antique shop. Most certainly not a military outpost; the idea that he himself would run one was laughable.

"It's quite possible that either one or both of us is very confused right now," he said.

"You released me from the Chair," the Soldier says in what explanation he can actually offer, the only reasoning he'd been able to work out, himself. "You were the only one left alive." He looks fixedly at the counter in front of Gold. This man isn't a typical handler or operator or even commanding officer, but.... "I don't have anything else. But I can follow orders. Whatever you need."

Oh dear. Well, if he had been wholly correct, especially if Gold had used magic to do it, he would owe him something, certainly. But this is approached less on the this-is-how-magic-adds-up, which the Dark One could read and understand cover to cover, and more on an interpersonal one, something that despite his age he did not do so well with.

"...Correction. The man that released you died before your eyes were even open; I merely did not interfere."

His memories before the chair are nothing, they don't exist (shut up, brain, they don't; those images are-- something else), but he pretty clearly remembers that the one who interrupted the Words and opened the clasps on the Chair holding him down was not the dead man.

"I would still be there if you hadn't been," he says. Arguing is not his forte, but he can't back down entirely. He can't. He has nowhere else to go, and no idea of what he should be doing. He needs guidance. Orders. A handler. A fucking babysitter, maybe.

For a brief moment, he considers asking the man how much of a fight he intends to put up if told to leave. But whatever stops him, perhaps something so benevolent as seeing there is truth in his plight a little too far off the beaten path for him, but it's more likely still that he knows those eyes a little too well, and while the soldier was not as persuasive as the person he was remembering (who would be a damn sight rather useful right now), Gold did not see himself saying no to the other.

He sighs heavily. "What is your name?"

His brows come together in confusion. He doesn't remember a name. It feels like there should be something... he's pretty sure Soldier isn't actually a name. But he winds up saying: "Winter Soldier."

It's still not a name. But he has the feeling like he's been called that by someone. One of the techs, maybe. With a nasty little laugh.

"Oh you have many things buried deep, don't you?" He surmises that is the only answer he is getting; he saw some of what those people were doing. Memory erasure is not the purview of magic alone -- but it is less likely actual erasure, so much as many doors, once open, that were closed and locked and boarded over.

"You will call me Mister Gold, if you are to stay around," he mutters, closing the ledger he was updating.

He doesn't show relief even though it floods through him, but he does straighten his shoulders, squaring up for duty. "Yes, sir. Mister Gold." And Gold can, of course, call him whatever the hell he wants, so long as there's something he can do.

"I am designed primarily for combat," he offers. "But I can learn anything you wish me to do." He's sure of that, at least. The Soldier is quick to learn and never makes the same mistake twice.

"Mister Gold will do fine," he assures, waving off that initial agreement. "I left the military a long, long time ago."

So what was he going to do with him? Even he saw the absurdity in being approached by a super solider (apparently) and having him push a shop broom, but he was anything if equal-opportunity in menial labor.

He saw shadows against the door window, and anticipated he was about to see a familiar face -- business wise. Where that would go was anyone's guess, but he waved the soldier aside. "Pretend to be browsing," he said firmly.

Browsing. Right. Okay. The Soldier is not actually sure how to do that, but if this is a test, he's determined to do it right, so he gives Gold a wary sidelong look in an attempt to gauge his expression, then turns away to walk slowly along the side of the shop.

Since he is supposed to be only pretending, he keeps most of his attention on Gold and the person opening the shop door. He is very good at paying attention to things without looking at them directly.

The man, though dressed as smartly as Gold, outsized him considerably. Whatever veneer of respectability the man had earned in his years came at the end of the calloused fists of a professional blunt object. He was also still very much accustomed to that size and reputation doing much if the heavy lifting for him. His words were all business, but probably loomed over people much as he physically did.

"Where can we speak in private?" the man asked in Romanian. A subtle cocked nod in the direction of the other man in there browsing.

Gold waved it off, and in the same tongue, "An American tourist; he speaks the language about as well as a tongueless cow. Carry on."

He should have expected the shine of a pistol to issue in the dim light, cept close to the man's side to conceal it from other prying eyes. "We talk in the back or you get rid of him."

Gold glanced up, suddenly pleasant in bearing. "Yes, I believe we have just the thing, sir. If you'll follow me." He leaned a little to be seen around the man to address the soldier, in English, with not the same accent he had spoken with before, something to affect local color a bit better. "I will be with you in a moment."

He led the thug into the back room; it would leave him less room to observe, but if he decided to start trouble, the soldier would either intervene or stay right where he'd be left, and that would tell him something.

His fingers dragged over the needle of an older-style phonograph, the weeping sounds of some World War II-era standard to muffle quiet conversation, though he expected this man didn't have much of an inside voice.

"My employer's got an answer for you about your contract. You are going to revise it to include a fairer price."

He heard the veiled threat but was very good at either not showing it or broadcasting that he didn't have the sense to fear it. "And what would he consider a fairer price?"

"You're going to donate it."

The Soldier happens to know Romanian. How? Who knows. But he can understand all of that (and part of him decides to remember that insult, it's great), and he drifts closer to the back room when Gold leads the threatening thug. The music is distracting-- it wants to tickle at something in the back of his brain-- but he has a job to do. Keep his new handler safe.

He recognizes the threat. He recognizes a lot of threats. And he recognizes that unless Mister Gold is better at hiding his emotions than even the Soldier is, he's not remotely afraid of this man.

Is that because he has a guard dog now? Maybe it's because he has a guard dog now. But maybe it's because he escaped a HYDRA facility all on his own without even a weapon. He shifts so he can see through the hangings protecting the back room, stepping silently closer. He doesn't know what additional orders he should be following besides "pretend to browse", but the protection of the handler is paramount to all orders.

He shifts again so he has a clear view of the thug in question, looking for sources of weapons, looking for the signs that he's going to use force to get what he wants. Looking for the right time to intervene, if there even is one.

"And why would I do that?" Though Gold could easily cut a quick glance to the eyes peering through the curtain, he holds back for now, lest he give too premature a signal.

"First because I might knock a few things over on my way out," the man hinted. "You with them." He didn't hesitate to remind him that he was armed.

More the former part of the threat hit a nerve than the latter. While there were a few pointless odds and ends that had found there way in here, virtually everything is an object with some potential, usable power. The idiot has no idea.

His response is tighter than any that's come before it. At least some of it isn't for show. "If you lay a hand on any of my inventory without expressed permission to touch it, there will be consequences."

"Now, nothing must be touched," the thug placated. "Help me make this easy for you."

Gold's answer slipped out fast, like a reflex, or something forced. Like tearing off a band aid. "You will tell your employer that the price remains the same. The artifact won't work otherwise."

"That a fact, or are you just making it up to stall?" The man stepped up closer to him, using his ful height and weight to tower even more.

Even with all the magic he still maintained, there would always be part of him that shrank from similar acts of intimidation, that felt small, weak, left him inwardly disgusted with himself. "The question is whether your employer will be happy with you coming back with an ordinary painting rather than one that does what was promised."

"Are you threatening me?" The man, probably accustomed to getting a much larger reaction out of such small prey, swept a heavy arm across the surface of the nearby worktable, sending all its contents crashing to the floor. The sound alone would have been enough to startle. "That's not such a good idea, you know."

That was when Gold's eyes very briefly cut to the side, toward the door. "We're well past that, I think."

The signal isn't even necessary. The Soldier is already through the curtains when the mook sweeps Gold's table clear, and a flesh hand on the man's neck, lifting him clear off the floor and snatching his gun away in the same motion, with the metal hand.

The Soldier is stronger than he looks, and even the flesh hand feels like metal around his neck. His expression is blankly determined. No one is going to threaten his new handler.

Gold straightens his tie fastidiously, watching the quick work of his new...well. Assistant. He is inwardly impressed but will not give away the idea that he didn't know exactly how this would be handled.

"That will do."

A simple gesture of the hand to wave him off. Don't kill him, that body language says.

"Let your employer know my price stands firm, and the next man he sends through my door to waste my time will not come back. Show him the door, won't you?"

The Soldier sets the big guy down. Not necessarily gently, but not in a way that will break anything of Gold's, or (less importantly) of the goon's. Then he backs up a step, leaning to avoid the expected retaliation of a nearly panicked swung fist, and to put him more solidly between Gold and his attacker.

The goon looks between the two, mouth agape with mixed belief and outrage. It might even be funny if he weren't a threat. (A pathetic threat, but still.)

Without a word, he points with the butt of the pistol towards the door. After you, asshole. If he has to grab an arm and haul, he will.

There is less struggle, though maybe an uttered threat of "this isn't over" or some similar flavor, and Gold remains in the back room to attempt to clean up the mess that was left.

The truth is, he spent a lot to make it through that base and he slept for days after trying to replenish energy. He can't just undo all the damage with a flourish right now, so he replaces each item on the table to assess any small damages, find and gather broken pieces. Thankfully it is nothing immediately valuable.

Whatever his nonchalance in the face of their visitor, his concern is solely on taking care of the mess left behind once the soldier returns.

The Soldier marches the asshole out, grip hard enough on his arm to leave more bruises, then heads right back to check on Gold. Looks him over critically. "Did he hurt you." He's pretty sure he would have caught it if the goon actually laid a hand on him, but he's not on top of his game lately. It's possible he missed something.

Gold straightens the cuffs of his shirt. He glances at the soldier askance. "You saw what I did in that base, and you're concerned?" he asks.

"I didn't actually see most of that. And if you were going to make a mess to protect yourself, you would have earlier," the Soldier answers, following the only logic he really can in this situation. He frankly doesn't know what Gold did in there to leave all those agents dead.

It does occur to him that it was nothing more than a test of his own skills, but the other logic still stands. For whatever reason, Gold didn't want to do whatever he did in the base, in his shop. Which means making sure he's unharmed is important.

Whatever confusion mars his face, he wipes away in an instant. The man is right, of course. His attention returns to tidying for the moment. "For the most part, you are correct. Though I suppose tonight I may not have been at my best if pressed that far, I did need to see what you would do sooner or later."

Some broken things. Little piece of cracked glass and such, seem to mend neatly with no more than direction from his hand. Sealed up like a zipper drawn upward. But it is slow and deliberate. Much slower than he would like. He only manages a couple before stopping.

"I suppose I ought to have something to call you."

"Okay." He has his title, he supposes. Otherwise he really doesn't care. He's busy watching one of those things mending itself back together, fascinated and trying hard not to be too distracted by it. That's kind of amazing. How is he even doing that. Or is it a property of the things themselves?

Belatedly, he adds, "I only have the code name. But I will answer to whatever you chose for me."

"Mister Winter, when we're in the open then," Gold muses. It's on the nose but not quite so sharply as the code name he gave him. "Any other names we will have to figure out in the future. I suspect you weren't grown in their labs, so there may yet be others you simply do not know." He doubts the man lies when he says he only knows this much.

He looks him over, debating whether he should leave him here to watch the shop, but there is little reason.

...He supposes somebody will have to use the bed in the flat upstairs, after all.

"It will not take me long to finish, but you can lock the front door while you wait." He supposes he will have to feed him as well. "Are you hungry?"

That is... surprisingly okay. Actually. Better than Soldier, by a long shot. Something in him relaxes that he hadn't really recognized as being tense. (He ignores the bit about there perhaps being other names. He doesn't want to think about that.)

Moving obediently out to the front door to flip the sign over to "closed" and lock it up-- it really could stand a better lock, he thinks; he could pick this one in under thirty seconds; and stronger glass in the window to protect it from being broken-- he considers "hungry". He knows he needs fuel at regular intervals, but he's not great at recognizing actual hunger yet. Possibly because he's literally never eaten enough for it to go away, so it's just a part of the whole mess of discomfort that makes up his body.

"I should eat," he decides.

Gold sighs and with a flourish he points toward the door behind him at the back. "Follow me up the flat, then." He leaves the last broken items for the morning; after some time re-centering himself he should have enough in him to mend them.

The door leads into a small corridor for stairs, a deadbolted, nondescript door that would lead out, allowing one to take out garbage without being in view of the street. A single but strong lightbulb burns above, leading to a landing one floor up and an additional locked door. The smaller man fishes a key from his coat pocket and let's them in, the flat beyond is simple and elegantly, if modestly decorated, the main room mostly living area and study, with a small sofa and chair, then a small, lit desk, a couple tasteful lamps, a modest television, a record player, and what looks like an old wooden spinning wheel. The smallest portion of the main room is kitchen -- a stove and oven, a sink, very little counter space, an icebox, a few cupboards, and a small table with two chairs -- one of which has probably never been sat in. The two areas are separated by doorways leading to a bath and a cozy bedroom on either side.

Gold retires his coat to the rack by the entrance for the moment, replacing it with a simple apron, pulled over his vest and shirt, at ease with setting right to work.

He doesn't cook often. If he could have heard thoughts, he would have identified a great deal with how he rarely got to the point of being hungry. Usually sometime after overtaxing himself. He woke after storming that base absolutely ravenous, for instance. But it's not like he forgets how to.

And if he is going to have a ... guest, he imagines it will need to be done more often until he is certain how well the soldier can fend for himself.

"Bathroom is through there if you need to wash up," he indicates the way.

"Okay." The Soldier starts by prowling the whole space, securing exits, examining windows for proper locks, looking for bugs. Gold has enemies. It stands to reason his personal space could be in danger and should be kept secure.

Only once that's complete does he consider any need of his own. He glances between his hands and Gold's shoulder, or thereabouts, trying to discern if that was a hint that he stinks or looks messy, or if it was... human-type-person being polite. He decides to err on the side of caution and slips into the bathroom without another word to at least wash his hands and face, and splash some water on his hair, just in case. At least he knows he's not got blood anywhere. He'd been careful to be at least outwardly presentable before approaching his new handler.

He doesn't linger at the mirror. He's not fond of mirrors. Looking at his own face is uncomfortable. He just comes back out, following the smell of food to the kitchen on the far side of the room.

While it wasn't meant to imply anything olfactory in nature, Gold did not know how long the soldier had been looking for him before finding him. Either way he is not gone long, so Gold is still in the process of cooking something simple on the stove. In a time where most people tended to live out of cans he tended to stubbornly keep to fresh foods when he needed to eat at all. The trouble was the last time he bought food, he had been fresh from spending most of his reserves in that base. So he just had a few little things left, but less than healthy or tasty things that he just hadn't whittled down to nothing yet. So soup from a can with some toast would the best he could offer.

"I will have to obtain more supplies in the morning," he explains, "but this should tide you over for now."

He busies himself with tidying after the small mess he made preparing so he has an excuse to give his back to him and think. Namely what he is going to do with him. This setup may suffice for the time being; it's not as though he hasn't kept a servant close by before. But a small flat is not a castle.

Edited 2021-05-09 01:00 (UTC)

The Soldier (should he start calling himself Winter?) digs in readily. He watches Gold out of the corner of his eye the whole time, without ever really watching him. Taking in body language, the chore he's doing, what little he can glean about mood and intent from the speed and direction of his work.

Finally, halfway through the soup-- which takes a lot less time than you'd think, because the Soldier is inhaling it-- he speaks up. Frankly, he shouldn't be speaking out of turn, but he needs to learn about his new handler. The man clearly has some kind of power, but he also seems to have a settled life. That had to come from somewhere. "Did you have this place before HYDRA had you?"

Gold is not hasty in anything he does, not to suggest he is slow, but that each action feels deliberately like he only ever takes exactly as much time as one should -- not needs to, but should. There is time to complete each action as thoroughly as a good job calls for, tie to reflect, time to simple sink into the momentary simplicity of an action.

He glances up at the question, not so much snapping out of a reverie as briefly detouring. "Yes." So much of his energy went into taking back any of his inventory that had been seized, or destroyed. "About a year now."

Which...given the number of things in the store, is saying a good deal. It looked like he had been settled there a lifetime.

Either the store had been there with most of its inventory before Gold took possession of it... or Gold has been a very busy man. The Soldier (Winter?) supposes it doesn't really matter when and how he amassed all his collection, so long as he can hep keep it safe.

And keep Gold safe. He debates (through the rest of the soup) whether to ask, but so long as he gets an answer, he'll accept the punishment for asking after a handler's weakness. "How did HYDRA catch you."

Gold HAS been a very busy man. Some items in the shop are regular antiques, pawned things, the special ones tucked into little corners, some hidden in plain sight. Only one, in particular, was locked away and hidden completely. The rest? Hundreds of possible keys to returning to his own world, and not one had yielded a solution yet.

That question throws him, and he glances back, briefly. Because if they had other bases (and he is sure they did), other operatives who knew what he had done, or wanted him recaptured, this would have been an interesting way to spring a trap.

"An ace in the hole I hadn't anticipated."

Gold had no idea how they had managed to pull the dagger into this world after him, or if it followed him, because the agents he tortured for information would not or could not tell him before they died. But the holder got careless, or did not fully understand the power he held.

That's not an answer. It tells him nothing that can help him prevent it from happening again. But it's also clearly an intentional attempt at not actually answering. The Soldier debates saying anything further, not wanting to anger Gold.

Finally he offers, "If there's anything I can do to prevent it happening again. Just tell me. And I will do it." He's got no desire to go back there, either, after all.

Edited (html fail) 2021-06-25 06:28 (UTC)

Gold watches him, and for a minute the familiar eyes and the sincerity do penetrate; if he knew the man better, he would think he was being clever. But either way, they were not there yet. "I will take that under advisement," he offers. "But for now, you not knowing is safer, and with all hope, I shall be gone before it becomes a necessity to change that."

Where that placed this young man, he did not think to care. He would be free, surely. His debts, however imaginary, paid.

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Deals [For Rumplestiltskin]

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god, so sorry for the slow, I've had this tab open for a WEEK

it was my turn to take forever to tag back!

no worries at all :3

Re: no worries at all :3

I blame DW eating notifs for this one, never even saw it...

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