#without pity

The banging of a gavel startled him from his thoughts, the growing chatter of the crowd as it dissipated, slowly but surely. He waited patiently for it to thin so that he wouldn't have to overly tax his ankle just because people couldn't stop talking as if they didn't all live within a five-block radius of each other. Unfortunately it wasn't much different over at the diner, so while he waited for his to-go order at a table within earshot, he pulled out his phone.

"Hey son."

"Hey, papa," came the bright reply. "How was the meeting?"

"As ordinary as one would expect. How's Emma?"

"Fine," came the quick reply. Ever since that abrupt interruption from the woman in question a week or so ago, she had become a regular yet increasingly brief talking point. It did nothing but lead Gold to think that perhaps things weren't going as well as Neal would have him believe, but until he said as much, he could only speculate. "She's been a bit under the weather, but it's that time of year. Summer colds and all that."

"Ah," Gold said rather dumbly, reclining in his seat to flex out his bum leg. "Well, best wishes to her recovery, then."

"Yeah, we were hoping on coming up to see you and the house here soon, but if she doesn't get to feeling better then it would be fruitless," Neal explained, a frown spreading across his father's mouth as he stared blankly at the plates on the counter.

"Wait a couple of weeks, then. Unless it's more than just a cold, pneumonia or something-"

"No no no! I just meant that we don't want to give it to you."

Still unconvinced, Gold let it go. He'd find out sooner or later what the great mystery was, of that he was absolutely certain. While not unskilled as a liar, his son also possessed an inconvenient honesty streak that won through almost every time. "Ill or not, I'll be ready whenever you give me the warning."

"Will do," Neal chuckled, and for that one quick moment he was a kid again, all traces of frustration and exhaustion gone. "I'm glad you called, Papa." Gold let out a soft noise of inquiry. "It's weird, not having you just a few blocks over."

"I'm a phone call away," he said gently.

"It isn't the same."

No, it wasn't, Gold silently agreed. But as depressing as that thought should have been, he couldn't help the small smile that settled on his lips; his son missed him too. It wasn't just him pining for the past.

Before he could attempt to reassure Neal that they'd see each other all in due time, Granny was calling his name and setting a brown paper bag on the counter. He quickly gathered it and left, only speaking once he was out of the bustle once more.

"What was that about?"

"I ordered some food to go at the local diner, I don't feel like cooking. How was work?"

The drive home was short and sweet, although the added presence of his son even if over the phone made it seem that much shorter. For a few moments, he forgot that he was alone. The back of his mind registered that technically he wasn't alone, that Belle was there, but that didn't seem to be the case when he walked in the main hall. He'd noticed early on that when she was there, even invisible, the air was thicker, similar to the feeling of walking into the room and just sensing that the television was on. It wasn't one specific reason why, he just knew that she was there.

But tonight she wasn't, and he wasn't certain if he was glad about that or disappointed. She was good about respecting boundaries for the most part, although considering that he didn't mind being around a ghost seemed to prove that she'd already pushed past boundaries.

All too soon Neal was letting him go eat, and although he'd always thought that it was rude to eat while on the phone, he'd been willing to do so. But his son had needed to go find some dinner for himself and Emma as well so it was for the best.

He finished off the now-cold fries, staring blankly at the countertop as he chewed. How exactly had he ended up here? They'd both been happy in the city, they could have remained as they were.

But no, the businessman in him had seen an opportunity in the pink house and he'd had to have it for himself.

The terrifying Mr. Gold lived in a pink house. He was grateful that his enemies didn't know where he'd moved off to, otherwise he would have definitely been seen as a fraud.

"You're deep in thought, is it still all right for me to come in?"

Three quick blinks cleared his vision, and when he looked up he saw Belle on the opposite side of the kitchen's island. She was barely visible and looked hesitant, something that he'd yet to see from her.

Respect and politeness for his boundaries, yes. Hesitant? No. If she'd been hesitant then he wouldn't have felt almost normal about nodding yes to welcome her into his home for the night. Or rather, into her home. Perhaps that was why he had trouble saying not; it was her home first.

"How was it?" She asked, tilting her head to the side as she leaned forward, leaning against the granite countertop. She looked so normal, so natural; exactly like she belonged.

"The meeting? Fine." He cast her a brief glance before limping over to the microwave with his burger in hand. Eating fries while on the phone was one thing; risking a messy stain on one of his suits? No.

For a moment all she did was hum softly in acknowledgement. Why did she even bother sticking around? Loneliness, certainly, but he was almost certain that she could have made better acquaintance with the toaster over him. The more important question was why he had so easily accepted having a ghost for a friend. Without a doubt a normal person would have considered visiting a therapist. Storybrooke had one, perhaps he should make use of it. But the thought of talking to a stranger was more unsettling than the thought of talking to a ghost was. She at least had seen him interact with his son over the phone, so she knew his demeanor and habits.

Of course, if he'd known that he was being watched then he probably wouldn't have acted normally. Keeping quiet had worked in her favour, and he couldn't help but give her credit for that.

"You're thinking," Belle commented. "About what?"

"Other than the fact that I'm discussing current events with a ghost? Nothing much."

She rolled her eyes in irritation, but he could see how the corner of her mouth twitched as she attempted to not look amused. Even dead people had trouble concealing the truth, he thought with an inward sigh. "You're not discussing current events," she pointed out. "You said three words. You know I meant your son."

"Actually, no, I didn't know that. But what good would come of informing you of the town's goings-on? Three words seems rather generous in hindsight."

"Which is why I meant how it was talking to your son," she repeated, sighing. "If you don't want to talk, that's fine. Truly. If you want to be left alone or to talk about how the paint in your bedroom is chipping instead, just say as much."

For a moment, all Gold could do was stare at her in disbelief. "Wait, I thought you were going to leave my bedroom alone."

"I haven't been there since we met," Belle promised with a smile, breaking the tension that her directness had seemed to cast across the room. "It was my father's room. It was beginning to chip before..."

He frowned, his brow furrowing. "Before?"

She shook her head, loose curls bouncing lightly. "Nevermind. The point is that you need to repaint, it's been quite some time. And before you argue, I can help. I reach the top half," she added with a sweet little smirk.

The thought of a floating person with a paint roller was more disconcerting to him than the thought of living with chipped and out-of-date paint.  "No thank you," he said dryly. "I think I'd rather have Neal and Emma deal with it."

"Suit yourself," Belle shrugged. "Are things not going well with him and Emma?"

"Things are fine," he grunted, opening the microwave before it had a chance to beep. Settling himself back down at the table with his food, he considered the subject dropped. That is, he did until he felt a pair of all-seeing eyes looking through him as though he was the translucent one. "Quit that," Gold called with his mouth half-full of burger.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"I said to quit, not leave."

She gave a quiet laugh, looking away with a roll of her eyes. "I don't mean to pry. I just figure that if you're going to keep letting me stick around then I might as well get to know you."

"Certainly you could find someone else to haunt," Gold retorted dryly, quirking a brow as he kept his own gaze focused on his dinner.

She followed, her lightly-glowing form appearing in the corner of his eye. Or was it the glow from the dim and needing-to-be-changed bulbs in the overhead lighting? She seemed more real than unreal at times, and he was quite certain that if he hadn't seen straight through her on their first meeting then he would have almost fully believed that she was alive.

"And why would I want to do that? You seem like you have a good story to tell."

"I hate to inform you, dearie, but you have a bad judge of character."

She gave a laugh that had him wanting to join in, but he stubbornly hid behind his dinner, taking another mouthful of burger so that he would have something to do other than giving in. It was a rather musical sound, echoing across the room, and somewhere in the back of his mind Gold realised that he could very easily become used to hearing it.

“I think I’ve been around long enough to know a good story when I see it. There are books with dusty covers that haven’t been touched because they’re unworthy and trash, and there are books whose pages haven’t been read for so long because the story is too real.”

“I’m sorry, are you calling me a dusty book?” He challenged, giving her a pointed look that she matched with the addition of a playful smirk.

“I’m a ghost, you can’t really do anything to me for it, so yes.” He snorted, rolling his eyes as he bit off more of the burger, faintly smiling as he chewed. She might have been a ghost, but she was more real than half of the people he had met since he had moved here. She got him, which he was loathe to admit, but it was the truth and he couldn’t deny that he liked having someone to talk to that wasn’t living in a fairytale. “Don’t you dare smile, I might start expecting it more often,” Belle teased, giving another of those musical laughs of hers.

"Books have feelings too, you know," came that voice, causing him to jerk back from the shelf, stumbling backwards and searching blindly, eyes wide. Nothing was there. No one was there.

"Too much alcohol again," he muttered, glancing out the dark window before turning to go through a box.

"I told you not to mix your medicine with it."

This time, when he turned around, a woman with dark hair and bright hair was standing in front of the door. Or floating, he discovered, glancing down in a panic and backing away.

"What kind of prank... a projector, yes? Trick mirrors, some kids broke in, or-"

"No, no no no!" She hurried to reassure him, taking a soundless step towards him as he stumbled backwards.

"Stay back!"

"I promise, I am no trick, and I am certainly no illusion."

"I can see the door behind you," he said, hands searching wildly behind him for a surface to grasp onto.

She stepped back, her expression softening. "And I can see that you're terrified. I didn't mean to startle you. I just didn't like seeing you so lonely."

Something in the way her accent rolled over the words coupled with the sincerity and gentleness in her tone caused him to just believe her when she said that she was real - or as real as she could be, as the case may be - and that it wasn't a cruel prank.

"You died," he whispered, finally finding a shelf to hold on to. "The plaque on the library, it said you were dead-"

"I am, but this was my home. I wasn't ready to say goodbye."

He blanched, letting the silence engulf them. For a minute all he could do was stare in continued disbelief, the news still sounding more like a bad hallucination than fact. And then she stuck a hazy hand out, a smile hinting at her features. Her pale, translucent features. "I'm Belle. Belle French."

He eyed her outreached hand in lieu of properly replying, receiving a sad smile as she pulled back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you this-"

"I'm not frightened."

"You look exactly like you have seen- well..."

"I have seen a ghost."

"The point is, I didn't mean to make you look that way."

A slow moment passed with him simply blinking at her. Of all the houses he could have bought, he'd chosen the one haunted by a pretty Australian woman's ghost. It was his luck in a nutshell.

"It's no matter," he finally muttered, moving to grab his cane once his heart had somewhat slowed its frantic pace. She smiled sweetly, and wide brown eyes watched as she slowly became less translucent and more believable, the door behind her fading as her opacity changed.

She shifted in a manner that appeared to be nervously, glancing down before looking up through long lashes to glance at the book that had started the conversation to begin with. "That book was my favourite. I put it there out of the hopes that you would use the room properly and realise the possibilities it holds."

"Why?"

"Books make the world less lonely," she explained, going towards the old book and picking it up. It was odd, to watch someone that on the surface appeared to be a projection interact with something so material. "A distraction."

"And what do I need a distraction from?"

"You miss your son."

He couldn't fairly deny that, and her expression was so earnest that he almost overlooked the fact that she had been spying on him; almost.

"You've been listening in on my phone calls, then?"

"You have photos all over the place, and for the past three days you've been glued to your phone, replying as soon as it buzzes. You never stay out past dusk, you're often home before then. You eat dinner at the same time, then down a painkiller and a glass of your finest scotch. You miss him, you're lonely."

"Apparently not," he grumbled, limping past her as quickly as possible.

"If you want me to leave, then I will. But I can only go so far, I'm bound to this place."

"So you're here, in my - your - home, forever?"

"Forever." It was supposed to be a confirmation, but it sounded more like a promise.

"You don't have to go anywhere," he said softly, glancing back at her over his shower. "I moved into your space, after all. I, however, can't just... disappear, so I'd appreciate you respecting my privacy."

"I've never been in your room when you're there," she swore.

Curious thing, wasn't she? Wait, she'd been in there, so that meant- "My suit after that first night."

She shrugged. "Guilty. I liked the colours." Brown eyes narrowed, and she caved with a huff. "All right, fine, I knew that you had to go out the next day and figured that your head would be hurting like hell and wouldn't want to make a decision."

"You were bored," he said flatly, clearly unamused. "And you tucked me in, went through the boxes- that's how you knew about Neal."

"You were cold."

"You're a dreadful liar."

"There are worst qualities to have."

Well, she wasn't wrong. Thus far, however, her only redeeming qualities were that she seemed to genuinely care and that she could vanish to leave him in peace. Stubbornness, bluntness, and curiosity all topped her personality traits list, and he couldn't say that he rightly appreciated any of them. Not now, not in the dark of night when he was as sure as anything hallucinating and going insane and would wake to find that he'd had this conversation with himself.

Then she reached out and pinched him.

He stepped backwards once more, staring at her with his brow furrowed in frustration and his eyes wide in disbelief. "See?" She countered knowingly, smirking sweetly. "You're not dreaming."

"How did you know-"

"You just met a ghost. You couldn't be thinking about much else."

Stubbornness, bluntness, curiosity, and a knack for being annoyingly observant. The list was quickly growing, it seemed, and 'almost aggressively open' seemed to be the most obvious trait that he needed to put at the top.

"Well," Belle began after another moment of stunned silence. "I'll leave you to unpacking."

"I'm done for the night," he said evenly, simply blinking at her. "But I do think I am going to call it a night, so if you'll excuse me..."

"Oh, right," she said, moving as though she were shifting her weight, but of course that was impossible. "It is quite late."

"Barely ten."

"Yes, well, being scared-"

"Startled," Gold corrected quickly, as though the opinion of a ghost mattered and held any value outside of this room.

"Fine. Being startled out of your mind wears one out."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't follow me."

Belle smiled, appearing to be nearly embarrassed. "I don't cross the threshold unless you aren't there, I promise."

"Thank you." He paused, thinking her words over. "On second thought, don't cross the threshold to my bedroom. I'd like a little bit of privacy."

"Ask and you shall receive," she replied before fading out, moving aside for him to get to the door.

He stood there dumbly, staring at where she had been before blinking heavily as if that would clear the incident from his memory. But there on the shelf was her favourite book where she had placed it.

Despite his unwillingness, proceeding with the day required unpacking yet another box once he’d cleaned the living room. Towels, a non-slip rubber mat and a bath mat were unpacked along with a small stool and other toiletries. He took his sweet time in arranging the bathroom counter exactly as he prefered it, and then made use of the stool in the glassed-in shower.

The pills had helped take the edge off, the pain having subsided slightly overnight, but sleeping slumped on the old sofa had not done the scarred ankle any favours. If anything, it was stiffer, but the steam and warm water worked wonders in easing it back to being somewhat bearable once more.

Hobbling into the adjoining bedroom, Gold was once again proven that prescription pills and scotch were a dangerous combination. There, lying somewhat wrinkled on the bed, was a burgundy dress shirt with a matching tie of a darker hue. Why had he set out this particular outfit. Other than the tie being an old Father’s Day gift from Neal, the outfit had no real value or meaning set to it.

“You really shouldn’t mix alcohol and medicine,” he quoted to himself as he dressed, wondering where he’d heard that phrase before. Probably from his worried son on more than one occasion.

It was when he’d made his way into town once more, this time to stock up on groceries, that he remembered the words with a more distinct voice. He had been forced to park further down the street near the old library when a photo on the plaque just to the right of the doors caught his eye. There, in lasered stone, was the owner of the voice, the woman who had taunted him the night before.

At least he’d finally solved that puzzle. He must’ve seen it when going to fetch his dinner the night before. But he couldn’t remember passing the library close enough to have noticed the sign, which read that Miss Belle French had once managed the library and that she had been the descendant of one of the founding families. Therefore, she was historic and important to the town, so it was likely that any number of other shops that he definitely had passed the night before could have had anything featuring her pretty face in their windows.

Curiously, Gold twisted one of the brass knobs, frowning slightly when it proved to be locked.

“Can I help you?” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the Irish voice of the sheriff. He could remember that voice, but not lying out his own shirt. Perhaps he was truly losing his mind. “Ah, Mr. Gold. I see that you’ve discovered the town’s landmark.”

“If it’s such a landmark, why is it bolted shut despite the sign clearly saying it’s to be opened an hour ago?” He countered easily.

The sheriff sighed, glancing at the plaque wistfully. “It is a shame, isn’t it? Town funding doesn’t allow for it currently, but since it’s a historic landmark that sign was put up.”

The older man nodded slowly, turning to look at the faded smiling face of Belle French once more. “I see.”

Silence spread between them as he failed to pick up the conversational ball. Finally, the Irishman spoke. “May I ask why you’re so concerned?”

“Curiosity,” Gold said simply, giving a tiny, wry smile.

“Rumour has it that it killed the cat.”

“A library is hardly a murder weapon,” Gold shrugged. “Curiosity is how we grow.”

“Valid point,” the sheriff laughed. “On that note, I need to head back to the station. Enjoy your first morning in Storybrooke, Mr. Gold.”

With a curt nod, Gold turned and made his way back towards the store as he’d intended. He would need to push a cart back and forth to his car, and his leg was already making him damn his judgement in moving to such a quaint town. He could have just as easily found a large home in upstate New York that allowed for larger supermarkets with equally as large parking lots, but no, he had chosen a little town that most people would dream of retiring to.

Not that moving here didn’t have its perks. Oh no - so far, it was more than worth it to not have to navigate his way through a sea of people, despite the amount of walking. Once this task was complete, then he could save playing tourist for when his ankle wasn’t crying mutiny with every step. If being a dealing businessman had taught him anything, it was that pacing was everything.

Despite that nugget of wisdom, he still did his shopping as quickly as possible. When loading his car with the bags, he turned down to offers to assist him before he accepted the third offer and let the overly friendly young man take his cart back to the store. Perhaps if he gave in, they would all be placated enough to leave him the hell alone.

Neal had always been the one to do the shopping back home, while Gold had much preferred to do the cooking. After dealing with clients and the myriad of issues that they always came with, he’d found that chopping, slicing, and mixing was rather comforting and therapeutic, and therefore had split the chore of having to eat with his too-eager-to-help son.

The fridge looked almost barren, even with the necessary items housed safely inside. He didn’t eat nearly enough, he supposed, but here no one would rag on him for it. Plus, with the takeout being as delicious as it was, there wasn’t much excuse to not make frequent use of it. The greasy food had easily held him over through the night, but then again he’d been drugged and out of his mind and been lectured by apparently dead women that he hadn’t seen before arriving in town.

With a sigh, he pulled out a wedge of parmesan and shut the door, deciding that spaghetti would at least be better than growing overweight from takeout. It was barely noon, but he could just eat the leftovers for dinner.

The afternoon found Gold trolling about the house, begrudgingly unpacking. The house really had too many rooms, the boxes destined to be piled endlessly in the corners until necessity required him to properly unpack. With the exception of Neal’s room, he had no intentions of taking the chore seriously. Spare sheets and a throw on the bed, three candlesticks and an antique clock was hardly decorating, but it was enough for now.

He was limping out of one of the back bedrooms when a soft thud from the locked backmost room caught his attention. At least, it had been locked. The man who had sold the house had told him that the key had been lost years ago, it was empty, but the lock would have to be changed. But now, the brass knob turned easily in his palm, revealing what appeared to have been an old study of some sort.

The source of the noise was quickly located, an old worn copy of Pride and Prejudice lying in the center of the room on an old dusty chair. It was nowhere near the antique desk that was set in the corner, but for all he knew, it had been lying there for years and a mouse had been what had fallen. After all, the cover of the book had a decent coat of dust on it and appeared undisturbed aside from its abandoned position.

“Just what I needed, another room to fill,” he grumbled under his breath.

He truly was pathetic, wasn’t he? Alone and lazy and tired of being retired already. It truly was ridiculous - he was a fully grown man, retired a few years earlier than most, and should be more than capable of being on his own. But he was lonely and afraid of that very fact, and instead of trying to remedy the issue by going out and socialising, he was instead moving boxes to this new empty room. The matter of the lock would still have to be addressed, but for now he simply kept the door from closing by propping that old book in the gap.

He was in the middle of hanging photos of his son and past along the upstairs hallway when his phone rang. As always, it was Neal, and for the first time that day he smiled an honest smile. “Hey, son.”

“Hey. I almost thought that you’d be asleep.”

“I’m not that old,” he countered, chuckling as he carried the hammer and supplies into his bedroom, setting them on the dresser before limping to the bed and sitting down.

“It’s nearly eight.” A quick glance at the clock showed him that time had in fact gotten away from him. “I was just wondering how the town was.”

“Quaint. Small. Quiet. Friendly.”

“So you hate it.”

Gold laughed. “You know me well.”

“You didn’t snarl at everyone, did you?” “I don’t snarl.”

A heavy sigh came from the other end of the line. “I don’t want you to be alone forever, dad.” I don’t either, he thought with a sigh.

“I won’t be. It’s still early in the game, I’ll try again later. How are things with Emma?”

“Good,” Neal laughed, thankfully letting him off the hook. "I showed her a photo of the house, she agreed to help repaint."

"Repaint what?"

"Your house. It's pink."

It was Gold's turn to sigh. In all honesty, he didn't very much care what the colour was as long as it kept him safely hidden from the goings on in the town, and so far it seemed as though it would be able to do just that. Though if Neal wanted to repaint, then he'd do it if only to spend time with him. If it got him under his roof for only a weekend, then maybe he could pretend that he wasn't so insecure about being on his own.

"Find a date and we'll make it happen," he finally replied. "I'll see what options there are."

"I'd suggest Googling it, but I don't have it in me to explain how to do that just now."

"I actually do know how to use the internet, thank you," Gold huffed. "Did you have a big day?"

Neal snorted. "Not hardly. Emma's been moving things in little by little, so most of the day was spent unpacking so that it doesn't pile up."

"Sounds familiar."

"I thought it would." The sound of a door shutting and a hushed female voice came through, the older man straining his ears to hear what she was saying. "Hey, dad, can I call you tomorrow? The devil herself just walked in and she says she has some news about something or other."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. Love you, pop."

"You too, son. Goodnight."

And with that, the line went dead, leaving him to his own devices once more. It was getting late, there was no doubt about that, but he still found himself picking up the hammer and nails once more. The sooner he got it done, the better. Then he could move on to that library and the spare rooms. The kitchen would unpack itself slowly but surely, and the downstairs would file out just as steadily. Then that would be that, and he could worry about the painting or whatever else it was that might catch his fancy.

“So, how’s the new place?”

Neal’s voice echoed across the still mostly-empty room from where the phone lie on the dresser. It had been arranged so that Gold could still talk to his son while he attempted to somewhat unpack. So far, his tie rack had found a proper spot in the spacious closet that would soon house his designer suits and dozens of dress shirts. The rest of his belongings were still nestled among bubble wrap and newspaper in the boxes scattered around the pink house, but his wardrobe wasn’t something that should wait.

In other words, he was doing what was easy first.

Maybe if he didn’t unpack the brass candelabras and antique clocks quite yet, it would just seem like a vacation. He would wake up in a few days to pack it all back up and go back to the flat in the city that he still owned just in case, and his son would still be there. He wouldn’t be nearing half-a-century in age and Neal would still be ten and fascinated by the fancy gadgets that the apartment had featured. The jaccuzzi tub would still need repair because the boy had pressed the buttons to test the different options with a little too much vigor. He wouldn’t be alone in a strange, small town in the middle of nowhere on the Maine coast, living like a typical retiree.

“It’s nice,” he finally said, shrugging despite the fact that no one could see him. “Old. Spacious. But nice.” Not home, he added silently.

“Sounds like just the place to fill with your junk.”

A snort escaped Gold at that. His son knew him well. He would leave out the part about his hesitancy to unpack said ‘junk’ and to officially make it his.

“By the way, did you apply a filter to the photo you sent before I called?”

The older man’s brow furrowed as he straightened a charcoal overcoat on its hanger. “I have no idea how one would even go about doing that.”

“Then why is the house pink?”

A heavy sigh was the initial response. “Because that’s the way it is. I didn’t have a colour selections when purchasing it.”

Neal laughed, and he couldn’t help but to allow his slight irritation to melt away. How he missed that sound. It would’ve filled the home as well as the clunky furniture and useless knick knacks did if he had been here.

But he wouldn’t think on that. Not for now, at least.

“I suppose I’ll be the one to repaint it when I visit?”

Gold’s heart contracted at those words. Visit. Neal was twenty-five now, and had a life of his own in New York. He had a small apartment that he funded himself, despite his father’s insistence to let him help out. He’d taken him up on that offer for exactly six months until his job became steady enough for him to pick up the slack and to eventually start paying Gold back. The checks had been outright refused until his clever son had watched him typing in his card pin while out shopping and had then swiped his card one evening to go deposit the checks himself.

He was independent and free from being tied down by his debts, his only strings being those that attached him to a certain blonde woman that Gold had run into only once before when leaving from visiting his son.

Neal had his own life, while Gold had too much money and too little family to share it with.

“Emma would probably be up for helping.”

He’d be lying if he said that his son’s girlfriend hadn’t been a contributing factor when considering how many bedrooms he’d want when weighing his options for a new home. What they did on their own time was nearing territory that he preferred to steer completely clear of, and while he considered himself to be rather flexible and modern in his ways and preferences, he liked to think that the world still operated on the old-fashioned principle of women and men not sharing a bed until marriage when it came to his son.

Before he could retort, a distant buzz sounded on Neal’s end of the line. “Speak of the devil, she’s here. Call me once you’re all settled and you can give me a FaceTime tour of the place.”

“Sure, right after I filter it,” Gold rolled his eyes. “Take care, son.”

“Love you, papa.” And just like that, with those three simple words, Neal was five years old again.

He quickly moved on from that train of thought and replied with a simple “you too” before hanging up and busying himself with finishing unpacking his closet.

For a loner, he sure did have quite the amount of belongings, he thought with a sigh before hanging up the last of his suits. At least that was done. Now he could unpack at his leisure until he tired of digging through the boxes, which could either be tomorrow or in a haste whenever Neal finally visited, it all depended on his moods.

There was one box, however, that he couldn’t bare the thought of leaving unpacked. Not unsurprisingly, it contained mementos from Neal’s childhood and old keepsakes that Gold was simply too superstitious to throw out.

He was halfway through arranging his nightstand when his stomach let out a rather obnoxious growl, forcing him to go unpack yet another box to find the pots and pans. Or, he thought as he grabbed his coat from its newly-hung hook and his cane that was lying forgotten on the half-made bed, he could be lazy and use takeout as an excuse to figure out what exactly this picturesque little town contained. He’d seen bits and pieces as he’d drove in to see the property when he’d considered buying it, but he’d yet to actually step foot into the businesses and learn if it was worth coming out often, or if he should simply keep to himself up in the house. But wouldn’t that be a lonely way to exist, only coming out for a stop at the grocery store when needs must?

“Storybrooke belongs in a fairytale,” he grumbled to himself when he returned a mere half-hour later, setting the bag of Chinese food on his sofa while he put his belongings up.

The town, as it turned out, was as sickeningly dull as it had seemed sweet upon first glance. There’d been a diner and a little Chinese place, thankfully, and several small locally-owned shops, but nothing of remote interest. Then again, he’d twisted his ankle on a crumbling curb getting out of the car before he’d even placed his order, and the pain that his painkillers would hopefully cure was to blame for at least half of his perpetually sarcastic and grim mood.

The sheriff had been leaving the quaint little diner and had rushed over to help him almost immediately, of course; it wouldn’t be a perfect tiny town without a friendly - if not a bit too wholesome and perfect - sheriff who remained unphased by his gruff attitude and introduced himself as if Gold had been the one to extend a friendly hand.

After pouring a small glass of scotch and using it to down his prescribed painkillers - he would have to check out the hospital as well, unfortunately, he realised with a soft growl - he moved to where he had unpacked the television that he’d used some of the gift money he’d received upon announcing his retirement from the firm back in the city. Well, it was probably more of peace offerings from his coworkers in the hopes that if they chipped in, karma would be kind in turn to them. He’d not known many of them outside of having to work cases with them and knew enough to swing company dinners and the occasional night out with “the guys” as Neal would label them, but Midas and Blanchard were successful family men who had often preferred family dinners than going out.

Not that Gold really liked going out in the first place. But he’d known them enough to get by, and now he was here and alone and while he’d thought that he would enjoy using Netflix and doing whatever he pleased in his spare time, his inability to hold a pleasant conversation with the sheriff had been enough to bring his spirits back down to the familiar levels of self-conscious anxiety.

Hell, the conversation should have practically written itself. He was new in town, tell the man a bit about who he used to be and move on.

But no, he’d resorted to hiding behind the mask that he so loved and it had led to this - drinking alone with an aching bum leg while eating Chinese food and watching old reruns on the television in a room that was barely lit due to his unwillingness to unpack and move on with his life.

This was what so many years as a top lawyer had bought him. Isolation in a pink house. Fortune was overrated if you asked Gold.

As he drifted off with the sound of an overrated sitcom laughing in the background, he barely registered a strange woman to his left. She seemed fleetingly familiar, but his drugged brain accredited it to her probably being the comical wife on the episode he’d passed out in the middle of.

“It doesn’t have to be lonely, you know,” she said almost sweetly, her soothing voice revealing her to be an Australian.

“Simpler,” he grumbled, turning his head to the opposite side and scooching down further against the cushions.

“Simpler doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily easier.” Groggy dark eyes opened to see her before him once more. Had she really shifted that quickly? Then again, it was simply a dream. Dream women, especially pretty ones with dark hair and bright eyes, could do whatever they pleased at whatever pace they wished. “You really shouldn’t mix alcohol with medicine.”

Gold huffed and shut his eyes once more. He’d gotten enough lectures from both doctors and his son about the exact same thing, he didn’t need a dream taunting him as well. But then again, he reasoned drowsily, it was probably just his conscience reminding him to take care of himself. But why bother?