Prompt: Glasgow Kiss AU. He tries to teach her how to defend herself.
Lacey can already throw one hell of a punch - not to mention the fact that she also bartended in New York for a spell, and she’s taken self-defence classes at the local community college - and so the only bit of impromptu wisdom Gold can pass onto his Aussie firecracker is something a little more…creative.
He’s gotten good at making a Millwall brick by practise - attending football matches back in Glasgow while it was pissing it down to cheer on The Bhoys and get some business done in the stands afterwards - and it can be more than handy in a pinch, when fists just aren’t enough.
Lacey watches him as they sit side-by-side at her rescued dining table, the one that had been left broken behind Granny’s diner and repaired for use by her own hands, and she is quiet, unusually intent to learn.
She watches as Gold wets the first few sheets of the Storybrooke Daily Mirror with the last of a bottle of Bud, leftover from last night’s movie marathon - he’s discovered she’s got a sweet tooth for black and whites and film noir, something he doesn’t mind abusing if it means they can lie on her sofa together - before he twists the paper together, making a tight, weighted roll.
“You don’t have to use coins,” he tells her. “Gives it more punch though.”
Gold puts a small stack of copper cents in one end of the roll of newspaper, before curling it against the main body, making a head. He tapes it up, securing the knot.
“What if I don’t have tape?” Lacey asks, and he gives a grim smile.
“We used bootlaces. Easier to sneak into places. Who’s gonna stop a bastard in jacks with a newspaper and some spare coin?”
To show her what he means, he pushes his chair from the table and leans underneath to grab one of his discarded Docs. He pulls out the black, threadbare lace and pierces the end of the brick with it, pushing it through the handle-end of the newspaper roll.
He ties it in a scrappy bow - a bit of whimsy - and then leaves it on the table between him and Lacey, completed.
“That was quick,” she murmurs, reaching out to take hold of the weighty homemade shillelagh, her fingers a little tentative touching the damp paper.
“It’s high-end, this one. Could just fold up a tabloid and make more of a rock, or put in your pennies and have a knuckleduster, easy.”
She’s still wearing his t-shirt as a nightie, her legs bare, and it’s strange to see her with her hair tangled from their mid-morning fuck and smelling so good - like lotion and the pancakes they’d made earlier - while holding a piece of his past, a bloody relic.
He’d like her to touch his old man’s knocked-about Madness records rather than this, but the brick seems just as important, just as…deserving of her time. Especially if she wants to know more about his past, like she says she does.
She picks the rolled paper up, holds it by the end, and gives it a swing. It seems heavy in her hand, but she hefts it well, his Frenchie.
“You can swing it by the lace,” Gold says, and she does, making it fly in a circle at a good clip, high force.
She puts it down. “Thanks, Jamie, but I…kind of hope I don’t need it.”
He thinks of broken teeth, bruises, a bleeding eye, and he tugs her close with a scrape of her chair, arm about her waist. He hopes she doesn’t either.
She runs her hand across his scalp, feeling the cropped dark hair that’s starting to grow in, glancing at him and his scar with those big blue eyes of hers, and still she finds a grin for him, even with his past on the table and forever marking his face, his bloody girl.