#group yellow

Usually when people were apprehensive around him, it meant they wanted something and not that they were trying to be nice, but somehow there was something different about Belle, he had known it from the first time he laid eyes on her. Maybe it was the way her watery eyes blinked at him when they met, or the way she worried at her lower lip when she was unsure of what to say. It could be both, or it could be just the fact that she dared to show her heart to him even though she had been clearly warned to stay as far away from the dark, lonely, snarky, pawnbroker and landlord, as possible.

“May I ask you why are you doing this, Miss French?” Gold inquired, in a curious, polite and very unlike of him, tone of voice.

“I…” Belle swallowed hard. “I don’t think you’re ready for this yet.”

Those words called for his attention. So, he was right, she wasn’t just a kind-hearted soul that happened to cross paths with him, she did want something, Belle just didn’t want to speak out so soon. He bet she would want something big, maybe another two or three book restorations or maybe she was in need of money and had no one else to run to. Honestly, he had no idea, but he wanted to know immediately what it was.

“Ready for what?”

Taking a deep breath, Belle dropped her hands to the sides of her body, shaking them a bit as she looked down to the floor. Gold couldn’t quite understand her attitude, but he knew that she certainly looked way more anxious than any of his tenants ever did when they didn’t have enough cash to pay for the rent.

“Ok, I will speak up, but please don’t freak out,” Belle begged. He nodded and she run her tongue over her lower lip, soaking it before she could continue. “I’m a lonely woman, most people think I like to be, but the truth is I don’t.”

“I don’t get your point, Belle,” Gold answered, quite confused with the way she had decided to start that discourse.

The young woman blinked her eyes a few times, eyelids fluttering rapidly, causing him to notice that she was trying to avoid tears to start falling down her perfectly pale face. She seemed to breath in slowly as she took a shaken step towards him, the sound of her high heels moving in the woodened floor echoing through the shop.

“I don’t want to be lonely,” Belle confessed in a whisper.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you will find nice company at the Rabbit Hole,” he said, apologetically, still not understanding what she was trying to say.

This time, however, Belle shook her head at him.

“No, Mr. Gold, that’s the company I want,” the young woman replied. “I have always dreamed to become a mother, but my past relationships were a failure so I went to a clinic and I got inseminated.”

His eyes narrowed at the information, his breath got caught on his throat and Gold swallowed hard, holding the book she gave him, tighter, as he dropped his eyes to her middle-section, following her hands as they folded above her belly. The dress hided it perfectly, but now that she was touching her stomach so affectionally, he could clearly see the little bump that should be underneath it.

“Oh, congratulations,” was all he dumbly could manage to mumble. “But I don’t comprehend why are you telling me this.”

Belle sighed deeply. She was now caressing the bump unstoppably, as if somehow it calmed her to do so. Gold thought she was definitely too young for all this motherhood thing, however it had been her choice and if she followed the words written in that book of hers, then he bet no one could have ever even influenced in her decision.

He analysed her face as she lifted her eyes to him again and this time he saw something in then that truly terrified him. Hope.

“I wanted to get to know my donor and it happens to be… Well, it happens to be you,” Belle spoke all too fast. “That’s the reason why I came to Storybrooke in first place.”

Her words didn’t quite made sense to him, although a small part of his brain gave signs that he should start to freak out because the word “insemination” followed by the word “donor” led him to the past and a very stupid decision including his semen followed by the lost of his one and only beloved child.

“Because of me?” Gold inquired like the fool he had never been.

“I wasn’t going to move here, but then I found out that the mayor needed a librarian and I thought it could be a good idea,” Belle continued in only one gush of air, before she appeared to realise that he was frozen in front of her, still trying to cope with everything she was staying and she stopped, taking a few seconds to think before she shook her head and murmured: “God, I hope I’m not scaring you.”

“No,” the pawnbroker guaranteed.

“I usually don’t speak so much or so fast as you may have noticed before, I’m just nervous,” Belle confessed, mindlessly toying with the edges of her long, curled hair. “I truly want you to know that the unexpected way we happened to meet made things more special to me, I’m grateful that you accepted to fix my beloved book, which also explains the gift. I beg your pardon for all the tears that day and my rude last words… I’ve been feeling really sensible ever since the insemination.”

She was talking about this in a natural way, because that was something that she wanted, that she had wished for, but Gold hadn’t. If he had some kind of one-night stand with some random woman maybe it would be easier to take, because the pregnancy would be his fault, however he wasn’t ready for it. He had forgot he had gone to that clinic or ever donated anything, but now this woman came to town with this news and he couldn’t just cope with it.

“I think I need a moment, Ms. French,” Gold said, turning his back to her and moving to the corner of the shop, where a small working stool was place.

He let himself fall heavily on it, breathing out slowly as he laid his new book on his good knee. The pawnbroker was pretty aware of the woman watching him, but he really needed to just breath and allow himself to adjust to the fact that even though he had promised to himself to never have another child after Bae was gone, Belle was growing one inside of herself and wanting it or not, that child was a part of him.

“Are you alright?” The soft, feminine voice asked. “You look a bit pale.”

“It’s just that… I happened to have forgotten about that donation I’ve made.”

“Do you regret it?”

A simple question with a simple answer, but for Gold it didn’t sound anything simple. It ignited something inside of him, a burning flame of anger. It was anger for what happened to his son, for the decisions he made and for this moment now, a moment he truly didn’t need to live.

“The reason why I did that and everything that came before it is something I don’t want to talk about,” Gold made very clear to the librarian.

“Ah, alright, I think I can understand it,” Belle nodded. “I’m sorry, I just really came here because I thought you could want to know, that maybe you should know the name I chose and the gender of the baby… Well, maybe I even hoped you would want to see them from time to time.”

It was too much for him. Gold stood up all of the sudden. The book fell to the floor with a loud bang that startled the beautiful brunette that was just speaking so full of joy that he truly hated himself for ever bringing a scared expression to her previously radiant face. He would like to be a better person, to meet her expectations but he wasn’t and he could never be what Belle seemed to expect him too.

Once he had been a caring father and once he had lost a darling son. It had destroyed him and as the coward he would always be, Gold couldn’t allow himself to go through that pain a second time. He could imagine, even now how the child would be like. It would have nothing of him, he hoped, he or she would be totally like their young mother and if he ever laid eyes on them it would be a one-way road, he would fell in love and there would be no going back.

“You’re wrong,” the pawnbroker said. “I’m glad you got what you wanted, Ms. French, but I’d like to make it clear that I don’t want to have anything to do with this child.”

Belle’s mouth fell open. She stared at him for long seconds before she managed to collect herself and nod.

“Ok,” the librarian whispered. “Please don’t mind me, I think it was just the hormones speaking, but I’m twenty weeks long by the way.”

Gold shook his head. He couldn’t have anything more of it.

“Have a lovely night, Belle.”

“Yeah, you too.”

She turned around on her heels, making her way to the door. It banged when she left and he fell to the stool again. Gold sighed looking down at the book and thinking about how much of a bastard he was, how much of a liar he was. If, Gold was being truthful to her, he would have said that he wanted nothing more than a second chance at fatherhood again, that he had loved a son very much and that he would love her baby to the moon and back, but he couldn’t do it.

The pain, the grief, was there again and it made him feel empty and numb. His poor Bae was lost forever and so was Belle’s child or any chance of having a friendship with her.

She had never cared about what people thought of her, never listened to gossip – not even the most vicious kind. You didn’t enter a fertility clinic at only twenty-one years of age and left with a complete stranger’s child growing inside you, if you valued other people’s opinions of you that highly or feared their judgement.

Belle was no stranger to hostile glances and harsh judgement. It came with the territory of being who she was, but her fate was hers, and hers alone to decide, and she had had a long five weeks to make up her mind.

He cleared his throat and yanked her back to the present reality of his dimly lit shop full of curious knickknacks and wondrous treasure.

Belle raised her chin defiantly.

“So...” He avoided her gaze, his fingers drumming out a fast rhythm against the expensive pink bakery box before he set it down on the counter.

He had motioned her toward the curtain, toward the back of the shop, but she had declined the invitation with a firm shake of her head. He already had home-turf advantage and she didn’t need the reminder. She never wanted to think of that morning again; her silly tears, his stupid arms around her, the weight of his warm hand on her lower back–

“So ... the book?” Belle felt her eyes prickle dangerously, but there was no hint of it in her voice just yet, and she was glad for it. She would not cry. Not in front of him. Not again.

He drew a sharp breath and let it out.

“Miss French–“

She pursed her lips.

Her eyes trained anywhere but on his face, she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. A vein pulsed in his neck, just above the purple tie. It seemed to be bothering him, but he didn’t loosen it.

“Please, wait here.”

She couldn’t risk looking at him, couldn’t blink, so she just watched the blurry pine stripes move away from her and vanish behind the curtain.

Ever since the disastrous reveal and the radio silence that followed, she had fought so hard to keep him out of her thoughts; to erase the foolish fantasies from her mind. If she went back there with him now, it would only remind her of how delusional, how naive, she had been to dream it all up in the first place. A sperm bank was hardly the place to start a fairy tale; it wasn’t what Happily Ever Afters were made of. It was barely the place to start a family. The word burned in the back of her throat as she thought it.

Looking down, in the general direction of where her shoes would have been, Belle listened to the sound of his walking stick on the floor – tap, tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, tap, long pause – and closed her eyes, breathing long steadying breaths in and out through her nose.

“Oh!”

Far stronger than the early butterflies and popping bubbles, she felt the baby move and turn around then, her belly popping out and stretching to make room. Her hand flew to the movement and she smiled, running the other across her eyes quickly.

“Sorry about this,” she whispered. The little one was starting up a racket in there. He hadn’t been this active in days. Perhaps it was all the white sugar they were having, Belle thought, wetting her lips and worrying them. “Mama will just get her book back and then–“

A hard downward kick shut her right up. If Mr. Gold didn’t hurry up, she would have to go in after him – or risk peeing her pants. “Excuse me, now is not a good time–“ She took an involuntary step deeper into the shop and her son aimed another good kick at her bladder. Maybe he’d grow up to be a famous footy player. “Hey, you!”

***

She was smiling when she looked up. Her smile wasn’t meant for him, Gold knew that. Still, it made him go weak at the knees so fast and so unexpectedly, he had to clutch his cane painfully hard to keep his balance.

Sure, you had to be a blind man not to notice that her name fit Belle French like a kidskin glove, but he hadn’t truly appreciated just how radiant she was before; the bright sun of her very own universe.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he approached slowly, watching her face cloud over as if in slow motion. He had that effect on women.

“Miss French?”

He held out her book in front of him; a peace offering for a white-tailed deer, and she frowned; then stared down at it in wide-eyed awe. He was a master of his craft and had outdone himself without meaning to.

“As promised,” he rasped, his stomach in knots and heart in his mouth, muffling his words. “I am a man of my word, Miss French.”

Lips parted slightly, she gazed at him, her face open and full of unspoken questions. “It’s...” She blinked rapidly, color rising to her cheeks. “Beautiful.”

Her book changed hands at last, skin brushing skin. He watched her cradle it in her arms, rocking it ever so gently, running a finger along the spine and tracing the gold lettering with the lightest touch, like a feather; her smile warm and genuine, and full of love for the precious heirloom. It warmed his heart.

“I, erm, I–“

With the force of a tidal wave, emotions washed over him, leaving him soaked to the skin and disoriented.

“I assume that our... agreement has been executed to your satisfaction?” He blurted, his eyes darting from her face to her mother’s book to her belly and back again. Had it just... moved?

She gaped at him, mouthing something he didn’t catch, then sucked in a breath. Her mouth a white line, she clutched the book tighter to her chest and spun on her heels, nearly knocking over the fine china tea set on display.

It wouldn’t have mattered. One of the cups was already chipped.

Her hand on the doorknob, she turned, and Gold felt a jolt go right through him. Her beautiful face had crumpled, tears glistening on her cheeks.

“Thank you for the book,” she sniffed. “We won’t be bothering you again.”

“Miss French!” He took a few hurried steps towards her. The little bell above the door jingled. “Belle–– Wait!”

She whirled back around then, framed by the door like a precious photograph; a memento, a memory he’d keep with the others for the rest of his life.

“Why?!” Her voice broke, an accent he wouldn’t soon forget seeping through the cracks and coloring her words as she hurled them across the shop at him. “You have made yourself perfectly clear, Mr. Gold. I am very sorry to have wasted your time and, if you’ll excuse me–“

“No!” He reached her in a few long strides (that he’d pay dearly for later) and threw out an arm to stop the door from closing in his face.

“Oh, come on! What now?!” Exasperated, she rolled her eyes at the ceiling. He stood so close, he could see fresh tears glistening in them.

“Open it,” he said.

“What?”

“The book. Open it.” His words came in breathless pants, which might have been the reason they took an unbearable eternity to register with her.

When they finally did, she threw him one last, very long, dark look – he already half feared she wouldn’t do as he had asked and leave him standing there like the idiot that he was, to eat his words like he deserved – and, after a deep, damp sigh, carefully cracked the covers.

Gold closed his eyes and held his breath.

There it was. His deepest, darkest secret. Proof that all the rumors were true and people were right. The reason she would want to leave no matter what came out of his mouth next.

“Who... who is that?” He barely heard her over the rushing in his ears. His head felt light and hot, his knees threatened to buckle. “He... he looks like you?”

Her voice came from so far away, his eyes flew open at the shock of her touch, her warm hand on his arm nearly enough to make his heart stop for good before it stuttered back to life. It took him a second to focus for near, to tell her concerned face from the overall blur and airless noise, and even then, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

With a careful glance at his face, Miss French turned the book so it was no longer upside down for him, and pointed to the photograph he’d slipped in with the dedication.

It was old, the colors slightly faded, but there they were: a younger version of himself holding Bae at about age six. They were both laughing. Bae had his eyes wide open in surprise, his were scrunched shut (the flash?). He was squeezing the boy into him, his short scrawny legs dangling over his knees. He couldn’t remember why the picture had been taken or who took it, or what they were laughing about. Over the years it had become a happy mystery. He preferred not knowing.

Gold sighed deeply.

“Baelfire. His name is Baelfire.”

She gave him a soft smile and squeezed his arm encouragingly, but he couldn’t go on; couldn’t get the words around the heavy weight on his chest.

“You love him very much,” she supplied. Her voice was a gentle caress, so full of compassion, it both hurt and soothed his aching heart.

“Yes.”

“And you miss him.” She swallowed and looked back at the picture. “Every day.”

Something inside him snapped. Coarse and pulled taut for too long, it finally gave way and snapped clean in two, but Gold found he didn’t mind.

“Every day,” he echoed, feeling her press herself to his side for support and allowing her to carry part of the weight.

***

“I’m sorry.” It was no excuse but certainly an explanation; and Belle felt like she owed him one too. “I didn’t know.”

The loss and the grief, she could read it between the lines on his face like a book. It felt like looking in a mirror.

“How–?”

“My fault.” Clipped, but not hostile. Painful honesty.

She nodded. Even if that was true – which she doubted – it didn’t make him the monster he pretended to be.

“I know what that feels like.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see it in his eyes; the way they darted back and forth between hers, trying to catch one of them lying. It was in his knitted brows and twitching mouth; in the way his face hardened as he looked down his slightly crooked nose at her.

Mr. Gold looked at her like men had looked at her her entire life – and it made Belle furious.

“No! No! I do!” She had to put some space between them not to do something spectacularly stupid. “Don’t look at me like I don’t! You don’t get to look at me like that!”

Pacing felt good; and yelling with her whole body – hands, arms, shoulders – so she did. “It was MY FAULT, OKAY?! MINE!”

Steamed up, she gestured at the book and he followed her accusatory finger to the open page in front of him; right to her mother’s last words, set in paper that might as well have been stone.

The black ink stung her eyes and she sniffed, tossing her hair back.

“WHAT?! Do you think you’re the only one with a... a...” Her breath and her words came fast; too fast, making her dizzy.

“Miss–”

He reached for her, but she stepped back, her damp back colliding with cool glass. Waiting for the crash, Belle shuddered. Something behind her hit the ground with a soft thud.

“You’re not the only one with a past, Rum– Rumford Gold!” The name caught on her tongue, tangled up with all the abuse and accusations she wanted to throw at him, but knew weren’t meant for him.

“Belle.” He raised one hand, as if in surprise or surrender, the gesture pulling her skin taut. Her dress clung to her like a layer of milk skin on warm milk with honey.

“It’s alright. I didn’t mean to–“ His voice wavered, betraying his uncertainty. It only made everything so much worse.

“My mother is dead because of me! And, and–“ Belle’s eyes burned. She was tired, she was angry, she should have accepted that cake, and she really, really needed to pee.

All it took was for him to close the book and open his arms for her. Without thinking, Belle flew into them, seeking comfort and shelter once again, burying her face against his neck.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, the confession sluggish and sticky like molasses between her teeth. She had never said those words out loud before. What if – What if she died too? Like her mum? What would happen to her baby then? What would become of her Gideon?

If he was close enough he would sometimes glean a snippet of information. At the pharmacy he overheard her espousing the wonders of the rose scented lotion for keeping her expanding skin suple. In the grocery store he heard her laughing at the amount of pickles she was consuming these days. An apparently idle enquiry to one of the nurses at the hospital while he was undergoing his regular check-up revealed that mother and baby were doing well.

His nights were haunted by dreams of domestic scenes involving Belle and their child. In sleep he was happy, a proud father, and sometimes a loving husband. The frustrated tears that wet his checks when he woke irritated and shamed him more than the idealistic fantasies his subconscious wove. He’d already driven one child away, what did he have to offer a second?

No matter how much he snarled at himself that he’d done the right thing in rejecting Belle’s offer to know their child, he couldn’t help but remember that odd sense of hope that had filled him when he’d made his donation.

It that hazy painful time after Bae had walked away for good, he’d somehow found a spark of hope inside him that propelled him to the fertility clinic. As awkward and embarrassing as that appointment had been he’d felt a sense of contentment that now there was a chance of a second child of his coming into the world.

In those peaceful days he’d envisioned his donation going to a happy couple, one that may allow him some small part in the life of the child he had helped to give them. Once bitten twice shy in romance, he would never allow himself the foolish pain of that sort of entanglement again, but in his nebulous day dreams he saw himself taking the role of uncle to the child. His money was the only thing anybody had ever wanted from him and he would be willing to provide plenty for the child’s well being if, once in a while, he was allowed to spend time with them. It would be the sort of relationship his withered heart could manage, with little danger to himself he thought.

The guilty and shame had not taken long to consume him. How dare he try and replace Bae? What sort of monster was he to dare to dream of a second-chance? If a miracle occurred and Bae returned home how would he feel to see his papa holding the hand of a replacement child? He forced himself to forget all about his moment of madness at the fertility clinic and pushed his traitorous fantasy deep into the recesses of his mind.

Belle had dragged that fantasy sharply into the light, and with it so much more. He couldn’t deny that he had felt something for her the moment she stepped into his shop. He told himself that it was the possibility she offered of a friendship, however fleeting, untainted by his reputation and nothing more. As long as he didn’t think about holding her in his arms or wiping away her tears he almost believed himself.

Faced with the offer of everything he had wanted he had shoved it away, too scared to risk the happiness that could come from it. Happiness never lasted, he knew this, knew only to well how bitter the dashed hopes and disappointment would make him. There was so little left of him he’d be turned to dust when everything broke and was torn away from him again.

He’d done the right thing; pushed her away before he could become attached; showed her what a beast he was before she grew to resent him and walked away.

It was the no nonsense Mrs Lucas who inadvertently gave him the metaphorical kick up the backside he needed to see what a fool he had been.

Almost a month after he’d driven Belle out of his shop he was seated in the diner at eleven in the morning, long before Belle would enter for her lunch. He’d been indulging his sweet tooth recently, a sure sign that he was more depressed than he was admitting to himself. Today he was trying to soothe himself with strawberry cheesecake.

Granny Lucas huffed at his order and shook her head; “Nope, that’s the last slice and it’s reserved.”

Gold arched his eyebrows; “How can a slice of cheesecake be reserved?”

She peered at him over her half-moon spectacles; “Because Belle is craving it and her little babe’s sweet tooth is more important than yours.”

He blinked and nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. The proud words of how much the baby was like him already could not be permitted to bubble out of his mouth. Granny’s eyes narrowed at his lack of argument, but she nodded curtly; “I’ll give you a minute of two to think about want you want.”

She was talking about dessert, but his mind was on Belle and their child. They were more important; more important than his sweet tooth; more important than his fears and cowardice; important enough to risk his heart for?

Yes.

It was so simple. Belle and their baby were the most important thing in his life. And he could share their lives, if he could make amends.

The breath caught in his throat as he gasped at his epiphany. He couldn’t change the mistakes of his past, but he could damn well make sure he didn’t repeat them. He rose from the table and left the diner at a calm and measured pace, which didn’t explain why the door slammed behind him, or why he was out of breath by the time he reached the corner.

Panting he leaned against the wall and caught his breath for a moment before starting off towards his shop. He needed to talk to Belle, but how to go about it? Belle’s book! The precious book her mother had read to her. He still had it. It was repaired now and looked rather good if he said so himself. He would return it to her and ask if they could talk. He dithered on the sidewalk. After his behaviour it might be wise to offer an apology gift. A slight smile tugged the corner of his mouth as he turned on his heel and began to walk with purpose to the bakery.

“Good luck with the meal.”

Belle waved her last patron out of the library and leaned against the circulation desk with a sigh. The mere thought of the lamb dish that Archie was determined to perfect turned her stomach. She adored lamb before she conceived. She idly rubbed her belly and wondered if she’d enjoy it again once baby was born.

“All you want is cake and sweets isn’t little one?”

And cake they would be enjoying very soon, but right now Belle had an important errand to run. Once the library was locked up she turned left instead of right and marched with as much determination as she could muster towards the pawnshop.

She was fuming with herself when she realised she’d walked out of the pawnshop without her book, but the rejection had been hard to swallow. There had been some hopeless romantic part of her soul that clung to the idea that Gold would come around once he’d had time to process the news. She had rather dropped it on him after all. She wasn’t so much of a romantic to expect love at first sight, but she’d hoped that he’d show an interest in the child he’d helped create.

As disappointing as he reaction had been, it had been a relief to have finally told him. She’d gotten herself so worked up over the idea, imagining countless scenarios, both good and bad. To finally know his opinion on the matter cleared her mind and allowed her to focus on planning for the baby’s arrival. To do that she wanted her beloved book back.

The door rattled as she tried to open it. She growled under her breath at the closed sign. How dare he shut up shop on the very day she had decided to be brave and face him again? Insufferable man! She rattled the doorknob again and huffed.

“Miss French?”

She tensed at the sound of his voice. Her damn hormones had her craving more than cake recently, and a Scottish brogue had fuelled more than one fantasy. She turned around slowly, mindful of her bump, and fixed him with what she hoped was an aloof glare.

“Mr Gold. I have come for my book. I don’t care if you have restored it or not. I want it back.”

“Of course. I was about to bring it across to the library. I had an errand to run first.”

With a smirk he held up a box from the very expensive bakery. Belle willed her stomach not to rumble audibly. She’d treated herself to a single slice of cake from that bakery. It had been the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, but it had been a mistake. There was no way she could afford to spend that sort of money every time she had a craving. She kept her face composed, not willing to rise to his showing off.

The smirk slid off his face and he gestured towards the door of his shop.

“If you’ll allow me?”

Belle stepped to one side, so he could unlock the door. Gold fumbled the keys, odd he’d not struck her as the clumsy sort.

“I’m, erm, I’m glad you came by. I was erm, was hoping we could talk.”

He’d also not struck her as the stammering sort.

“You made your position very clear. I can’t imagine what you feel we have to talk about.”

Her sharp tone surprised her and caused him to flinch. Good; serves him right. She defiantly held her chin up as he raised his hard eyes to her face. If he thought he could snark and snap at her then he better be ready for a taste of his own medicine, because she’d had almost a month to think of all the things she wanted to say to him.

“I was hoping you’d let me apologise for being a cowardly fool,” – he gave the box a little shake, - “I bought you cake.”

Belle stomped her foot and refused to feel childish for doing so; “You really think some cake will make me listen to you? You were horrible to me!”

Gold’s eyes flared, and he snarled through gritted teeth; “Yes I was, but that’s our child you are carrying, and I’d like to be a father to it!”

His voice may have started as a low snarl, but it had raised to a shout. A shout that was clearly heard down the quiet street if the shocked gasp from Mrs Nolan was anything to judge by. Gold and Belle both gave her tight lipped smiles as Mr Nolan hurried her by them before she could begin prying and nosing into their business.

Gold took a deep breath; “Might we continue this inside away from the eyes and ears of the town?”

Gold harumphed, and narrowed his stare, autumn sunlight glinting in through the window panes to fall upon the leatherbound tome, mocking and altogether far too annoying.

It would be better to get the job done. After all, he'd promised her, and no matter what sort she thought he was, at the end of the day, Gold kept his promises. With a sigh and a careful maneuver, he eased himself from one side of his workbench to the other.

It had been a long four days since Miss French has so greiviously and erroneously misread his intent, and he would be happy to finish the book as quickly as he could.

Clearly old, the great thing cracked and splintered, as though bound in nothing but bark. The leather had been damaged through the years of wear and love, though not overly so. A small inscription near the bottom told Gold that the book was nearly one hundred and fifty years old.

In remarkable shape for it's age, Gold wondered at the yellowing of the pages, at the golden droplets of what he supposed had been tea that stained the fragile paper. Miss French was right, she'd loved it near to death. But he was a master at his craft, and he enjoyed the odd challenge.

His restoring business was booming, and people came from as far as Portland to see to it that he repair their heirlooms and treasured goods, but even still, between shattered lamps and broken desks and warped frames, he'd lost appreciation of the art in his work, lost the beauty that his hands could produce.

Gold had been a lonely man for a long while, his house too large and too empty for him alone, so he worked and worked, and snarled and snapped at those who chose to extend even the kindest gesture; so malcontent was he in his everyday life that he would rather drive everyone away. Of course, the townspeople, shallow and hollowed out as they were, saw his cleverly disguised loneliness as naught but cruelty. Though, up until now, he hadn't quite minded.

Whatever kept others' noses out of his business had been preferable to whatever rumors might begin. He'd had a son, once, but he was far flung to the corners of the earth, far more content to explore sights unseen than remain idle in a small town with his father. No, Bae was far more adventurous than Gold had ever been. And so it was that his home stood empty, the grand house like a manse with too many room and not enough sunlight, creaking and groaning in the daylight, as though light itself threatened it's weak and weathered foundation. Gold was a lonely man, both personally and professionally, here in Storybrooke.

On some days, the bad ones, the ones where he missed Bae more than he thought he could, on the days where he wished the house was filled with warmth, as though the thought alone might bring him comfort, he wished to leave. He'd stood at the sign indicating that he would be leaving Storybrooke more times than he could count.

He simply couldn't, he reasoned, and every time, he found an excuse to stay, from one last project to complete for a customer, to supposedly forgetting to pack his favorite book.

Gold would like nothing more than to leave, to flee from his lonliness, from the house that groaned, from the stares and suppositions of the townsfolk. But he dare not.

So he stayed.

Mon cherie,

Let this take remind you of all of the ways to slay a monster, and that above all, no one decides your fate but you.

1987

Gold blinked. He hadn't realized that he'd been turning the pages, and something welled up within him, thick and hot against the back of his throat, and he knew then that Miss French's mother had loved her dearly, and he pictured her then, curled up in bed with a small girl next to her, reading tales of heroes and dragon slayers and darkness defeated to a soon slumbering little girl.

Clearing his throat, Gold shook himself, blinking away the sleep that threatened him, and grating beneath his eyelids. It would not do to sleep, not now. His fingers, gentle and light, stroked the spine of the book, a single digit pressing gently to the neat stitch work at the binding.

Ah, there. One stitch had snapped, threatening the binding of the book altogether.

It would take skilled hands indeed to rebind and fix what was broken, but he had little else to do, besides going home to his empty house, so he worked for some time in the silence, rarely allowing himself breaks, and craning his neck for so long he thought it might snap in two.

But, alas, the sun had long since left and the single lamp provided far too little light to finish his work by. Discontent at having to stop his work flooded him, but he rose anyway, his cane just within reach.

Hobbling out to the floor of the shop, he was surprised to see that almost all of the shops that lined the street were closed, the skittering scrape of dead leaves the only thing to fill the quiet night. He rounded the counter, then, intent upon locking the door, keys jangling in the cacophonous silence, when he saw her. Her neat hand was raised, poised at the shop door to open it.

Mumbling under his breath, Gold shuffled forward and wrenched the door open, the bell above clamoring in protest of his altogether entirely unnecessary force.

"Yes?"

It was late and his mood had considerably soured at the thought of being told what he was and what he was not, of the townsfolk expectations being foisted upon him by a woman who looked at him like he might be kind, her blue eyes sincere and soft in all of the right places. The quiet stretched out before him, pregnant with words unsaid, and he desperately and suddenly needed her to say something.

"Please, I'd like to--"

Gold is not a kind man, at least according to most, but he cannot help the way his chest squeezes when her lips are rose petal pink, turned down in a frown that furrows her brow and sets his heart slipping for some odd reason.

"Come in." Please, he nearly adds, but he's been far too kind already, entertaining her company past business hours, and really, he is exhausted by the notion of simply speaking to her, of letting her invade this small private space that has always been his own after dark.

She stands there, small in the cavernous space and looks for all the world like a china doll, pristine and innocent, but for the blush that rises on her cheeks and the way her lips part, a half-apology springing forward.

"Please," he remarks stiffly, eager to dispel her of any moral obligation to apology she might hold, "don't apologize on my account."

Miss French claps her mouth shut then, her eyes sad and knowing and mournful, though whatever for, he does not know, and so he simply spares himself the ache of knowing and says, "What can I do for you?"

It's clipped and polished, his standard greeting falling into this space that yawns between them. Her blue dress is sleeveless, and her pale skin is raised with goosepimples, and if he looks too closely, he thinks he might see her shudder with a chill.

"I--" the woman stops, and beneath her arm she holds a book, and it's old and ragged, worn and well-loved, though the paper smells musty with rot and dust, "it's far from perfect, I know, but... it's a second edition Poe. I found it in the storage space. I thought perhaps you might like to have it."

Edgar Allen Poe was far from his favorite author, but her trembling hand held out the book, a supplication of sorts, a peace treaty in of itself, and he searching her from an ulterior motive.

"It will take some time, and considerable cost, but I can repair it for you if that's what you'd like, but--"

"No!" the woman huffed out, "I meant..."

She stepped closer to him, and he was well aware of how much space there was and wasn't in between them. The book was inches away, her neat, little hand clutching at it with firm fingers.

"As a gift. For you."

She sighed then, and nearly retracted her outstretched hand, tome and all, but was interrupted by the way his hand tugged at the other side.

"The other day, I was out of line. Not afraid, never afraid, but nervous and well aware I'd spoken far too much, and I just, I needed to be sure that you thought more of me than that. Because I am more. And you are more than what they say. Perhaps we both need to look past the surface."

Her eyes, blue and wide and beautiful, blink up at him, and Gold would do anything to appease her then, and perhaps he is weak, but his heart warms at the way she smiles at him, tentative and small but there.

Each layer of his dissection sat precisely in order to ensure accurate reassembly when he had finished. He had dusted meticulously before beginning and freshly cleaned tools gleamed in the soft and soothing sun-glow. With his mind truly settled into the task, Gold had felt as close to what passed for contentment in his life as he ever did.

But, inevitably, the shop door had rung, startling him into dropping the tiny gear so delicately clasped in his repurposed medical forceps. It bounced gracefully off the edge of the table to the abyss of the floor.

“Hello?” The source of his ire, the cause of a placement of a new order to the jeweler, and destroyer of his perfect morning was apparently female, and by the sniffing sounds, crying.

Just what he didn’t need. Another literal sob story over how someone couldn’t pay her rent and would he make an exception just this once?

“Yes, yes! Just a moment!” Gold snapped irritably as he searched the floor for the minuscule part. Miracle of miracles, he found it, but now he had to get down to the floor to retrieve it, if he should even bother. Undoubtedly the fall to the floor would have distorted it beyond use, but, he reasoned, he would need to send it to the jeweler for exact replication if he had any hope of salvaging the beautiful watch. Old things needed care, patience and precision, but the reward was always worth the trouble.

Precious, rare, valuable and in working order, this watch would be a prize for a worthy collector.

Even Gold had succumbed to hosting an online mercantile. And like everything else he tended with care and diligence, it returned his investments. His world would run so smoothly if not for the messy throng of humanity gumming up the works constantly.

Getting down to the floor wasn’t so bad, he even retrieved the tiny errant part with little difficulty, placing it securely on the table, but getting back up was never other than painful.

No matter how he tried to prevent it, rebalancing always required him to put too much weight on his warped foot and the pain always lasted too long.

He put on a face to match before going out to greet the customer. He settled his jacket back into place.

“How can I help you?” he snarled before he even made it through the curtain separating the shop from his work room.

On the other side of the fabric, a blotchy and damp face looked up at him with brilliant tear-filled blue eyes, clearly taken aback by his rudeness.

The new librarian.

And this had been her first impression of him. How typical. The only non-land owning resident of this small town not his tenant and he had begun by snipping at her. It shouldn’t matter of course, she would already know all there was to know about his reputation by now and confirming everything could hardly make matters worse. Since nothing could make it better, this shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t.

And yet, he mellowed his expression, his tone as well, and stepped toward her extending his hand, “I’m Mr. Gold, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Her rather rumpled face didn’t smooth at all, but she did put her unfortunately damp hand in his to squeeze it briefly, “I’m Belle French, the new librarian. Your sign did say open.”

“Ah, yes, please excuse me, I was concentrating and normally when someone comes in here, well, as you are, it is one of my tenants. You can well imagine the kind of conversation that follows. I hope you will forgive my short temper. Is there something I can help you with?” Completely against his better judgement, and before he realized fully what was happening, he removed his pocket square and held it out to her.

The royal purple, his favorite. Now it would be ruined by tears and worse.

She eyed it and then darted a look at his face before gingerly accepting. He saw her slide it’s softness between her fingers several times, caressing it, before her hand dropped awkwardly to her side, fiddling in apparent indecision. Eventually she brought it up to dab at her eyes ineffectually, perhaps trying to spare the silk?

“Thank you, uh, if that is your existence, maybe you need this more than I do, though.” She gestured half-heartedly with the purple fabric.

“It’s quite alright, Miss French, I have plenty more.” It was his favorite, so why was having it in her hand making him practically giddy? Still waiting for her reply as to why she was standing in his shop crying, he shut his mouth and stood there, for once without a witticism to demean his conversation partner just behind his teeth.

“I was told you deal in antiques?” She said at last.

He did not retort that a librarian should be able to read the sign above the door, and the urge to do so only reached the level of a vague irritation at the delay in solving the mystery of her presence in his shop. Instead he replied almost affectionately, “I do indeed.”

Where was this going?

“Repairs, I mean, do you fix things?” She was nervous. Why?

“That is how I spend the majority of my business hours in this shop, yes. But I should warn you, not everything can be mended. Some things are beyond even my ability to repair.” His insides felt strangely warmer and he found himself peering into her eyes, leaning ever so slightly toward her over his cane. “Have you broken something, something precious to you? Is that what this is about?”

His voice was soft and gentle, a tone he hadn’t heard issuing from his throat in years.

And it had the desired effect, her lower lip protruded a little and her eyes filled again. She took a little step toward him, imploring him with her body language to help her before she said, “Very precious to me. I mean, I knew it would happen eventually, but it’s more than I can bear.”

She sniffed and blinked back her unshed tears as she looked up at him.

“Will you step into my workroom, Miss French?” Why had he just invited her into his lair with all his treasures? His precisely arranged clutter, tuned to only him? No one was allowed back there. Consultations were all done in the front of the shop.

But he had already parted the curtain for her to step through. It was too late.

His heart started thudding in his chest at her look of wonder as she took in the spectacle of what mostly amounted to a room full of broken and useless junk. Until he got around to repairing it and selling it, anyway.

She set her bag down gingerly in a clear space on his work bench and went immediately to the jig supporting the watch he had been working on. The golden light of the morning flared her face into brilliant illumination and she stared at the beautiful old watch. Her eyes roamed the line of parts on the work bench below it before fixing back on his, huge and luminous in the sunlight.

“I’m so sorry to have bothered you! Such delicate work! And so beautiful, I’d be so afraid to even attempt something like this.” The awe in her voice made him shiver.

“You like it?” he murmured, approaching the bench to stand beside her.

“Very much,” she said softly.

He pointed to the now scuffed and bent gear he had been working with, “I dropped it, you see, when you came in, and I was frustrated. Nothing to do with you and I apologize for letting it show. Did you bring the item with you?”

Why hadn’t he dealt with her in the front, like everyone else? Why, instead, was he showing her one of his treasures and murmuring soothingly to her like he cared for her? Why did he now want to get the watch working again so he could give it to her? Where on Earth had that thought come from?

Still his heart carried on beating wildly in his chest.

She said, “Yes, yes I did. If you’ll excuse me?”

He had stepped between her and her purse and was standing closer than he should have been. Embarrassment did nothing for his racing heart, but he stepped back hastily. “Yes, of course.”

He waited, all but holding his breath while she opened the purse and carefully withdrew a battered antique book in a zip-lock bag. Her lip wobbled again and a tear hit his workbench.

Before any conscious decision had been made, and without any consult with his higher brain function, he reached for the pocket square she had set aside and so gently wiped a second tear from her cheek. He wiped a third tear and his hand, through the silk, lingered against her face just a moment longer as surprised blue eyes met his.

He blinked first and looked down at the book retracting his hand. There was an aching in his chest for her pain, he couldn’t stand it. He leaned his cane against the table and reached for her book, “May I?”

“Yes, of course. Last night the spine broke in two while I was reading it and the pages are falling out-” a strangled sob cut her off for a moment, “and I can’t bear it to be in this condition. I love this book so much that I can’t just leave it on a shelf even though it’s an antique. I know I should have been more careful, read it less, but I just needed a friend last night and now I’ve broken the only true friend I have in this town. Can you fix it, Mr. Gold?”

He set the book back down on the table gently. Gold swallowed hard and his eyelids fluttered, but then he opened his arms and pulled her slowly into them. It only took a moment of uncertainty before she was holding him around the waist with her face pressed into his collar. He leaned his cheekbone against the crown of her head and whispered, “I can fix this.”

The unaccustomed shuttering of his heart and heat in his chest gave him a heady rush as did the feeling of another person in his arms. He was never the person who held others in distress, earnestly wanting to comfort them, to sooth their ills. He caused their ills, even if only by enforcing a contract. He wasn’t excessively harsh or callus in the way he went about his business, but he was consistent and since his business was that of a landlord, no friends did his evenhandedness earn him.

And while his heart skittered wildly against his rib cage, he wondered what he had just promised to fix, the book, or the sad young woman snuggled against him. Or both.

And he wanted to fix both. Inexplicably, he wanted her happiness, to see what would happen to those eyes if she were to smile at him. He could not account for what had come over him: hugging a stranger, a strange young woman, in the back of his shop and wanting to make her happy. He’d never aspired to creepy old man status and he wasn’t about to start now, so why was he still holding her?

Why was she letting him? Could she hear his frantic heart?

He had to let her go though, before he very decidedly crossed the line. Rather than stepping away, he only loosened his arms and picked his head up from where it had rested, just briefly, atop hers. She was slow to pull away, to his relief. Had she darted from him, he would have known he had gone too far.

His hands were trembling slightly, so he quickly set them one to either side of the still plastic encased book. “Clearly this book means a great deal to you, may I ask after its provenance?”

“A family heirloom. My mother gave it to me. She’s gone now and I read it just to hear her voice in my head.” She sniffled a little and reclaimed his pocket square from where he’d abandoned it in favor of holding her. She wiped at her nose delicately, peering at him.

“Ah. I am sorry for your loss, Miss French. I will do what I can. Let’s have a look, shall we?” At her nod, he gingerly removed the old book from its plastic sheath. Her assessment had been correct, the old leather spine had split having lost any trace of suppleness to age. Pages clung by the barest threads and hardened globs of paste and even as he held it gently together, the spine cracked alarmingly in another place. The book had lost all cohesion.

Beside him the young librarian sniffled her misery. “I loved it to death.”

That took him aback and he set the book down again, “It isn’t dead, Miss French, only in need of some tender care which I will provide. I can fashion a new spine and restitch it. If you want me to approximate the original, I can, gold embossing and all, but that will take time. The green leather dye will take a little effort and it won’t truly match, but I can get close, I believe. But if you need it back sooner, I can just replace the spine and ensure many more years of good service for you. Miss French?”

She was crying openly, an uninhibited stream of fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just that it feels like you’re offering to give her back to me. I know it’s just a book, but I never imagined you’d care so much. I thought maybe you’d glue it and tell me to put it on a shelf forever, not that you’d restore it for me. Not that you’d put love into it. No one said anything about you loving your work, Mr. Gold. But-” here she cut off choking on her tears.

“But what, Miss French?” He inched closer to her and extended his hand toward her again before he let it drop back to the bench. It would be inappropriate to touch her again, as if it hadn’t been the first time.

His pocket square disappeared into the pocket of her skirt with her clenching hands and she looked so heart broken when she met his eyes again, “But I am a librarian and I can not afford the beautiful restoration you’re offering. I didn’t think I could afford even the time it would take you to apply a little glue and send me on my way. Coming here was an act of desperation, me trying to tell myself I could do something when really I can’t. She’s gone and this is just a book. A broken one at that.”

Miss French reached for the book and the plastic but his hands intercepted hers, holding them firmly. He could not question his brazenness now. “It won’t be a problem, Miss French.”

Startled, she looked back up at him, hands limp in his grasp. He squeezed them softly and held on, waiting.

“I can’t owe you, Mr. Gold. I know better than that.” She made a move to pull her hands away but her comment stabbed him through the heart and for a second he held on in a quiet desperation of his own before jerking his hands back as he let go in a surrendering gesture.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. Of course she knew. For a few minutes, he had indulged in the fantasy that he could establish even the barest of human connections with her, person to person, without all that. Without the censure of the town to taint it, like the rainbow on an oil slick, something beautiful inextricably bound up with something foul.

“Mr. Gold, I’m sorry! That was the wrong thing to say. I, that was inexcusable. Please look at me.” He did. “I shouldn’t have said that, not like that. I’m not the kind of person to act on rumors, at least I thought I wasn’t. That must have hurt and I really am sorry.”

He couldn’t hear another word of it though, “Enough of that, Miss French. I will restore your book as I’ve indicated. It’s not a rumor if it’s true and there’s nothing to apologize for. I know who I am, so please don’t trouble yourself on my account. I will let you know when I’ve finished.”

He turned away to hold the curtain for her to depart. It had been nice while it lasted. And it would be nice to think on while he worked on her book.

Her impossibly blue eyes blinked rapidly at him and her mouth worked, but she brushed past him and out. He let the curtain drop and stared at the floor.

Her heels stopped clicking on the floor after only a few steps though.

“You may know who you are, Mr. Gold, but I don’t think that I do.”