Work Text:
The fabric ripped with a nasty sound when Milah tried to put it on. Her poor sewing skills hadn’t paid off, after all.
“Bloody Americans!” she cursed. “Bloody clumsy Americans!”
Say what you want of the British, at least they know better than to hold on to a lady’s skirt when they’re too drunk to see straight.
Then again, she should know better than to go to bars with her uniform on. But she had nothing better to wear in her closet. That dress had gotten her more than a few free drinks, and no one bothered to ask for her ID when her cleavage looked that good.
But now there was no way the old bat would allow her to work in that. Madame Medusa had sent her away last week for daring to wear flat shoes. Damaging her uniform that much would surely get her the boot. And not only was that cheesy boutique the only half-decent place to work in town, it was also the only place that paid above minimum wage. Barely. But even so.
“For all I pay you, the very least you should do is show up looking like a proper lady,” Madame Medusa had said, in that pretentious accent of hers, while pushing her off her shop.
I am English, Milah thought in that occasion. Do you really think that accent is fooling me?
If her dress was anything short of perfect, she’d have to go back to serving tables, or cleaning houses, or any of those jobs that reminded her on a daily basis of the horrible life her mother had sentenced her to the moment she moved them to America. At least in that pompous boutique she felt like someone with a future.
Someone with a future who doesn’t know how to use a needle.
Milah put on a flower dress she wasn’t particularly fond of. It made her feel like a 1950s housewife. But at least she’d look respectful if plan B failed and she had to beg for her job.
The only seamstress she knew of in town had married a pawnshop owner and quit the practice for good. But today, she’d have to make an exception.
Milah entered Gold’s Pawnshop and Antique Dealer with long, exigent steps, as it was her usual way. She thought it made people know right away she wasn’t a little girl they could easily cheat.
“Is Mrs. Gold around?” she demanded, over the sound of the bell and the clack of her heels.
Only by the time she reached the counter that she realized there was only one other person in the shop, who was most definitely not Mrs. Gold. Just a kid she had never seen before, in a rumpled suit too big for himself. His head snapped up from examining his own fingernails and locked on her face.
She waited, but he didn’t say a word.
“Hello? Is Mrs. Gold here or not?”
The kid hesitated, then said, “Not, uhn, no, Miss. No, she had to go out.”
Milah didn’t stop to take another breath. “Well, when is she coming back?”
He thought for a second. “I’m not sure, Miss.”
She threw her dress on the counter, frustrated. “That is just wonderful.”
The kid eyed the dress on the counter. Then raised his eyes. “What do you need, Miss?”
“Is Mrs. Gold the only seamstress in town?”
“Her wife is.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
He cleared his throat. “But she’s not here either. Do you need to fix your dress?”
Milah sighed. “Yes. Just my luck.”
“Are you in a hurry, Miss?”
“My shift starts in half an hour. I need this fixed, and then I need to run as fast as I can to Madame Medusa’s Boutique. Or not bother to run at all, because she won’t let me in wearing this.”
She indicated her flower dress with broad gesture. He looked at her quickly, then lowered his eyes as if he didn’t want her getting the wrong idea. His fingers tapped the counter, then reached for the dress. Stopped. “Would you mind if I looked at it, miss?”
She shrugged.
He took the dress in his skinny hands. A simple black skirt and white blouse stitched together – except for the big rip the drunken idiot had caused the night before. But the fabric was good and the cut was perfect for her body. Milah loved that dress. It made her feel like someone else. Someone older and elegant. Someone who didn’t have to struggle to pay the rent at the end of the month.
“I can fix it.”
His announcement was so casual and soft-spoken Milah almost missed it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said I can fix it, Miss.”
She gave him skeptical eyes. “I need it to be perfect.”
“It will be, Miss.”
Despite all the hesitation she had heard in his voice up until that moment, now it was strangely confident. As if he knew what he was talking about.
“Are you sure?” she stressed. “Because if I have to go to work wearing rags, I might as well just show up wear nothing.”
His face turned bright red and he had to clear his throat before saying, “I’ll go get-I’ll be right back.”
He made it for the curtain that probably led to the backroom. Then he realized he was still holding her dress and stumbled back to leave it on the counter. Then vanished as fast as he could.
For the first time since getting up that morning, Milah smiled to herself. She spent so much time surrounded by older men trying to get her drunk that she often forgot the effect she could have on the opposite gender. It was refreshing.
He came back as quickly and quietly as he left, carrying needle and thread.
He flipped her dress inside out and started working. The night before, Milah had struggled to get the thread into the needle alone, but his hands were as fast as they were careful. Sewing her dress seemed to be of no trouble for him.
Milah leaned over the counter and watched him.
“You have nice hands,” she said, curious to see if she could make him blush.
He merely glimpsed up, then focused on the dress again. “Thank you, Miss.”
“Stop calling me Miss. How old are you?”
He glimpsed up again, but then his gaze was gone. “Seventeen.”
“I’m seventeen too. So. Not miss.”
He didn’t agree, nor disagree. Just continued to sew.
“What is your name?”
“Rumple, M-” He bit his bottom lip. “Rumple.”
“What is it short for?”
“Nothing. It’s just a nickname.”
She snickered. “Who thought that was a good idea?”
The red that had started to fade away came back to his cheeks.
“My father did.”
“Scottish, right?”
His cheek twitched when he tried not to smile. “Was it the accent?”
“And the twisted sense of humor.”
She reached to smooth the lapel of his rumpled suit.
He stopped working immediately, frozen on the spot.
Milah retrieved with a certain feeling of satisfaction and watched him fumble with the needle for a second. Then, probably to cover his discomfort, he started rambling, “He used to say I was a rumpled little thing when I was a child. My aunt said that there was nothing wrong with being a little rumpled and started calling me that, just to drive him crazy. It did. I guess the name stuck.” He put the needle down. Cut the thread with his teeth. “And I suppose him naming me after himself had something to do with her never calling me Malcolm. Is this acceptable, M-.” Again, he stopped. Cleared his throat. “Is this acceptable?”
Milah took the dress from his hands and held it in front of her body. Hurried to the closest mirror. “Oh, Rumple, it is perfect!”
When she looked for his eyes in the mirror, he had already lowered his gaze to stare at the counter. Silly kid. As if she wouldn’t know he hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
He’s funny, she thought, affectionately.
“Was that all?” he asked.
“Would you mind if I changed now?”
Rumple’s eyes doubled in size for a second.
Then his brain probably started working again and he realized she meant “change now, as soon as I get to the back of the shop”.
He indicated the curtain right behind her and Milah vanished on the other side.
When she came back, she couldn’t help but prance to the counter and then give it a little twirl.
Now he couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t looking.
She teased, “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.”
She winked. “Me, or the dress?”
“You.”
The answer was so clear and honest it caught her off guard. She had expected a blush, a mumbling answer. In fact, if she had given him a heart attack or an erection she wouldn’t have been surprised. Instead, he dared to smile and held her gaze for a few seconds, before the need to look down became too much.
“Why, thank you, Rumple. You’re a real gentleman.”
He was still smiling, even though his head was low. “You’re welcome, Mi-You’re just welcome.”
Milah said, “Well, I suppose I should go.”
His head snapped up. “My Aunt will be back at any moment. If you’d like to wait.”
There was no reason for saying that other than wanting her to stay longer.
But that wasn’t the part that caught her attention.
“Your Aunt is Mrs. Gold,” she stated.
He realized his mistake immediately. Whatever confidence he had found crumbled.
She didn’t acknowledge his discomfort. “But she’s not related to-”
“She’s his sister,” he said, in a tiny voice.
Milah did the math. “I didn’t think the son of Malcolm Gold would work behind the counter of a little pawnshop.”
Rumple looked away. “Yes, well.” And said nothing more.
“Family business?”
He shrugged.
“I rent one of your father’s apartments.”
He sighed, sorrowful. “I am really sorry, Miss.”
That made her smile. “Not your fault he’s cheap.”
His eyebrows twitched, indicating that he agreed with her, but didn’t want to elaborate on the subject of his father. Or his opinions on his father.
Milah raised her hands. “Alright. No more personal questions. How much do I owe you?”
“Leave it.”
She knew exactly what he meant by it, but she still asked, “Hm?” Just to hear him say it.
He cleared his throat and tried to meet her eyes again. “It was nothing.”
She sustained his stare until he gave up and looked down. Her smile doubled in size. “You’re sweet.”
“Thank you, Miss-I mean-” He closed his eyes, cursing himself. Tried again. “Thank you.”
“Milah.”
He looked up.
“You can call me Milah.”
And that got that little smile back on his face. “Thank you, Milah.”
She folded her flower dress over one arm. “I’ll see you around, Rumple.”
“Yes,” he stammered. “Yes, see you. Milah.”
Milah turned and could feel his eyes on her back until she walked out the door. Not in that hungry way men usually looked at her with. It was more mild. More needy. More expecting her to turn around and come back to him and keep chatting.
He’s not really a man, though, she thought to herself. More like a sweet boy.
A sweet boy.
That was what she needed.
A sweet boy who’d take care of her.