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Scrooge stands just out of reach of the cabin, his arms tucked together, the door left open.
He needs the air. He needs space.
Tonight, the woodbin is too small for him and everything racing through his mind. Too crowded for him and a certain metal box, so he lets the box have the bin, and he stretches his legs.
His eyes wander up to the sky, searching.
It seems the spring thaw is allowing for one more show of the aurora borealis right above them before the endless days of the Klondike summer take over. The valley around him glows with colors of shimmering green against treetops and sparkling patches of melting snow, and the creek dances in time with the lights above.
It’s a spectacular sight, like all the splendors of nature have gathered just for him, but it’s not what catches his eye.
Instead, his gaze travels the arc of the sky down to the horizon, where a lone full moon awaits. She’s beautiful, so beautiful and stunning and bright. And golden.
Scrooge can’t believe how golden the moon looks. It’s as if all the power of the sun is shining through her, so that she’s brighter than any gold nugget lying below his feet, or in his lockbox. He can’t stop staring at her, can’t help wanting to brush his fingers over those delicate golden locks again—
Scrooge freezes, and not from the cool night air.
Even out here, his mind keeps automatically wandering back to all the treasures in the cabin behind him, and he turns towards it, sighing. The light of the moon pours through the open doorway, allowing him to see the edge of his woodbin, his table, his chair, the silhouette on his bed...
Deep down, he knows what he has here inside is precious, something to cherish.
But years of life experience insist that it’s a trap. A trap different from any other he’s encountered, what with her feminine wiles and sultry voice, but one ready to ensnare him nevertheless. It’s what she does for a living, just to con men out of their gold, and he curses himself for ever falling for it.
...At least, that’s what he tells his heart. He’s just another snake being lured to the charmer. That must be why his heart keeps fluttering the more he mines gold side by side with her on his claim. Why every comeback from her draws him closer. Why every slip-up about his lockbox makes him turn red.
It must be.
Because there’s no way on Earth that Goldie O’Gilt could ever love—
“Scrooge?”
The duck in question nearly jumps out of his feathers, and he snaps his gaze to the figure leaning against the doorframe of the cabin, arms crossed and her hip jutting out.
He must have zoned out—his face is on fire, he’s sure of it.
When she gets no answer, Goldie continues, a restless night—many of them—thick on her voice, “I know there’s a full moon, but if you think I’m starting work this early, you can just forget about it!”
Scrooge looks between her and over his shoulder at the moon, then shakes his head. “I—no. No...” He can’t bear to look at her now, not yet. “I was jes’ stretching my legs.”
“That’s what you get for sleeping in a woodbin, miner.”
There’s a challenge hidden in her reply, one that he can’t quite make out, but he senses it nevertheless.
So he rises to it.
“Look who’s talking, Miss O’Give-Me-a-Mattress.” He smirks, gaining confidence. “Stiff back keeping you up?”
Goldie grumbles, not in full retreat, but enough for Scrooge to know he’s hit a sore spot, literally. If it wasn’t for him dragging her up to his claim, she’d probably be back in her own warm, comfy bed in Dawson, not facing the onset of early back pain.
But before he can offer any remorse, or answer with some quip about how that’s what she gets for stealing his nugget in the first place, Goldie mutters something akin to “I’ll show you a stiff back,” leans down, and gathers a handful of snow from the patch closest to the cabin. When she stands up straight again, there’s a dangerous glint in her eyes and before he knows what’s happening, Scrooge gets a snowball to the chest that sends him staggering back a few feet.
“And for the record,” Goldie adds, pleased with her shot, but frustrated still. “It wasn’t my back keeping me up, it was someone forgetting to close the door again and letting all the cold in!”
This—this kind of fire, he can deal with. He can fight it.
“Bah! The cold air is good for ye, keeps your mind sharp!” he yells, running to gather up his own snowball from an opposing—and safely-distant—patch. From this angle, he can see more aurorae looming over his cabin. The two sourdoughs, the sky—everything seems to have come out to play tonight.
His snowball grazes the skirt of her dress (he’ll blame the shadows near the cabin for the poor aim later), just as another of hers sails past his ear and a third hits his shoulder.
Goldie’s laughing now, and it’s a sound that Scrooge could listen to forever, were it not for her reason for doing so. “Oh yeah? If that’s the case, then what’s your excuse, Sharpie?” she taunts, already tossing another snowball in her hand.
Yep, the fight is definitely on.
There’s not much in the way of cover except for the sluice and mine shaft, neither of which have enough snow near them, so the impromptu fight morphs into a game of chase around the cabin as time goes on. Insults are thrown just as much as snowballs, but beneath it all, that fire, that longing, burns ever brighter, and Scrooge catches himself smiling more than he’d like to admit.
Yet with a move just as deceitful as the moon can be in how fast she moves, the game comes crashing down.
At some point, Scrooge thinks he’s earned the upper hand and finds himself perched on a low-lying rock a few feet out from a corner of the cabin, giving him a perfect view of both adjacent corners. His arm is poised, snowball ready to strike, and he’s already reveling in the fact that there’s no way Goldie can show herself now without him seeing her first.
Victory is in his grasp, but a piercing whistle from behind him snatches it away.
Goldie doesn’t bother with words.
Scrooge turns, completely perplexed at her levels of stealth, but before he can get out even a baffled “But how?!”, a snowball as hard as his nugget (he briefly considers that this is it, this is the moment she’s decided to steal it again) nails him in his solar plexus, and he goes flying to the ground.
The blow isn’t as bad as he expected it to feel, once the initial shock wears off, but his eyes stay clenched shut for a good few seconds longer than necessary. He can hear Goldie drawing closer, can practically already hear her gloating. But it’s the sensation of her leaning down over him, her legs on either side of his hips and her hands pinning him in place just above his shoulders, that makes him finally open his eyes.
And when he does, he gasps.
If he thought the moon was beautiful before, it has nothing on the sight above him now.
Goldie towers above him, silhouetted by curtains of the glittering green and fiery red spirits of the aurorae dancing against an endless night of stars. The light bounces off her hair as it gently waves in the breeze, highlighting each strand of golden silk thread as they press against her blossoming cheeks. Her dress dazzles and her feathers glow in a halo, and his every breath leaves him.
He’s beholding beauty in its purest form, a glimpse into the heavens, the heart of the universe, he’s certain of it.
There’s a hint of concern hidden in her smirk, but Goldie doesn’t express anything more than a simple, teasing, “I win, Sourdough,” before moving to get back up.
“Don’t,” Scrooge whispers softly, automatically, bringing his hands up to rest on her forearms to stop her.
Goldie takes on a look of confusion even as her blushing deepens, but he can’t help it. He can’t let her go, not now. Not yet. Not until he’s mesmerized every defining curve, every flame of light filling his view.
And her eyes. Her eyes seem to hold every answer he’s ever searched for. He can see reflections of snow, of the lights, even of himself (and how red his face is), alongside a realization that hits him hard, bringing time to a standstill for him.
He’s in love. With Goldie O’Gilt.
Scrooge audibly gulps, quickly becoming aware of the electricity between them and how close she truly is.
“Scrooge?”
He’s not sure what she wants to ask, only that the tension in her arms has relaxed under his grip. He takes that as invitation enough to lift a slow, trembling hand up to caress her cheek, letting his fingers weave into her hair. For all the time he spent looking at the lock of hair in his strongbox, admiring its softness, nothing can compare to the real thing.
“You... I...” he begins, his pulse racing. There’s no way he can tell her, not what’s really on his mind, in his heart.
So he shows her instead, tugging her closer to him to meet in a kiss that causes the lights above to roar with energy, a month’s worth of suspense melting into every second. She answers the call of his heart, and to his delight, he finds hers waiting for him to claim it.
And thus, under the flickering gaze of the aurora and moon, of power and beauty, their dance begins.
