Mr Gold had never much liked adventures. The mystery of the unknown appealed little to him, perhaps because he'd spent his childhood, his teens and the better part of his twenties in absolute uncertainty about where his next meal would come from or where he would sleep the following night. Growing up with a swindler for a father had forced him to look at strangers like potential threats, since his papa managed to make enemies out of most people he came across. Every memory of his formative years seemed to be tainted with a vague feel of unease and even outright fear and so Royce Gold had worked hard to build a completely different life for himself. With the notion that money and power were the only guarantees of peace and stability he'd sought both with single-minded determination. He'd allowed very few distractions in the way, and most had turned into bitter regrets over time. Baden had been his one unplanned and yet welcomed surprise, in spite of the drama that had been his marriage to his ex-wife Milah. There had only been one other major affair after his failed marriage, which had served only to solidify his belief that romantic entanglements were undesirable, full of uncertainty, loss of control and more complications than they were worth.
Once he'd had amassed enough money through stock trading and real state dealings he'd looked for a place to settle. A quiet, sleepy town in the middle of nowhere, with a low crime rate, a good school system and all of the necessary creature comforts. Once he'd found the perfect place, a small hamlet in Maine, he'd proceeded to purchase all the local properties available for sale, and later on others whose owners could be persuaded to sell. It had taken a couple of years, and some very quiet dealings on his part, buy by the time he moved in to a fully restored Victorian the-story on the edge of town he'd been the owner of eighty seven per cent of Storybrooke's real state. He'd opened a pawn and antiques shop, more to indulge a hobby than to produce any sort of revenue, enrolled Bae into his new school and then settled happily to enjoy a life of comfortable predictability. It was easy enough to worm his way into the Town Council and become the key player in town, and though his manipulations didn't make him any friends for the first time Royce Gold felt at peace.
Though he'd planned for every aspect of his life in Storybrooke a small element of the unpredictable remained in his life. In spite of all attempts to the contrary his son could not be persuaded to go to college in Boston and later move back in town. Baden, who'd come to prefer his middle name Neal, chose instead to attend NYU and later stay in the city, working for some tech company that looked to be quite promising. He'd gotten married barely out of college too, and a son had followed a suspicious seven months later. Though it had worried Mr Gold that his son's marriage mirrored his own failed one in its inception- he too had wed Milah because she'd been with child, thinking it would all work out- ten years later Bae remained happily married and passionately in love. He visited plenty, and called at least once a week, and even if it wasn't what he'd carefully envisioned, it was good enough.
It was a life that most, he supposed, would consider boring. A waste, taking into account his vast resources, that Mr Gold never travelled, never bought anything exciting for himself, or went out to eat someplace new. His was a life of routine, of quiet familiarity and he liked it that way. He kept himself entertained enough with his deals and the management of his many properties. Collecting rent alone was almost a full-time occupation, with most of his tenants failing to grasp the notion of monthly payments, deadlines or contractual obligations. Perversely, he enjoyed the consistency of his tenants' attempts at dodging pay or getting a reprieve. Even the arguments were always the same, as were the angry reactions when he finally collected what was due. It was an existence as far away from his past as possible and he'd fought tooth and nail for it.
As a man so partial to the status quo, to the stability that came with the almost complete absence of change, he'd come to count on the fact that nothing in Storybrooke ever altered. No matter how much Ruby Lucas threatened to quit working at her grandmother's diner and go to Boston she was still there ever morning to pour him a cup of coffee and grimace as she served him eggs and toast. No matter how many times Marco's wayward son promised his father that he was coming to visit no one ever saw hide or hair of him. And no matter how many times the people of Storybrooke swore they were done with Mayor Mills and her stylish reign of terror come election year the made the familiar, safe choice of voting for her. Better the devil you know and all that.
Usually with Mayor Mills Gold could count on two things: weekly headaches and blissful monotony. Change was almost as unappealing to Madam Mayor as it was to him, which is why he was surprised to see workers on the old, boarded-up library. The building had succumbed to a fire that had done more structural damage than anything else years ago. Though most of the books had survived the ordeal they'd all been packed and the library shut down, the cost of repair of both the building and the clock above it not worth the hassle at the time. In the ten years that Regina Mills had been mayor she'd been content to leave things as they were, which was why he was surprised to attend a Town Council meeting only to find out that a new topic had been added to the agenda: the conditioning and re-opening of the Public Library.
He voted against it, of course. He didn't really believe that the people of Storybrooke were thirsty for literature- he doubted some of them were literate, in fact- and theorized this had more to do with Mayor Mills' newfound appreciation for children in the form of her new stepson, Roland Hood. The motion passed all the same, as he knew it would, but picking his battles was a necessary evil. Though he tried to tell himself that the re-opening of the library wouldn't cause him undue grief it soon proved wrong. The building itself was on Main Street, directly opposite to his shop and the noise of the remodels alone was enough to grate on his nerves.
After that came the even less appealing process of hiring a librarian. As there was no one in town even remotely qualified for the post ads were placed in newspapers in Boston, Portland and New York, and the few selected were called in for interviews. It meant seeing complete strangers walking right outside his shop every day, getting in the way of his routine and generally giving him a faint sense of unease. It had never quite gone away, that tendency to view strangers as potential enemies. He'd gotten better at covering his discomfort, lest the good people of Storybrooke discover a chink in his armour they could exploit.
He managed to skip the interview process himself, thankfully. Regina hadn't pushed for his participation, counting herself lucky he hadn't truly decided to oppose her little project, and so once the ordeal was over he expected it would be easy not to be further inconvenienced. After all he had no wish to set foot in the library, and since the new librarian would live in the apartment above it, one of the few not owned by him, there was likely little chance of them meeting. At most he might pass them on the street, and with time that would cease to be a novelty. Getting used to things wasn't something he enjoyed but wasn't impossible either, even as cantankerous as he'd become with age.
His calm, unlike what he'd predicted, lasted a bit over a week, when the new librarian decided to invade his territory. Granted his shop was open to the public but as a rule very few people actually visited, and most of the time he knew who would be coming and why. Only people strapped for cash went into his shop to pawn something, and as the main landlord and money lender in town he was very much aware of who was short on cash. Very few people came to purchase anything. The shop was both a place for people to come to make deals with him and a way to justify his slightly hoarding tendencies when it came to antique furniture in need of restoration. It was why he was not expecting to be disturbed while carefully peeling off a damaged piece of cow hide leather from a Victorian twin pedestal desk otherwise in great condition. He looked up at the sound of the bell, ready to tear into whoever had decided to bother him when he realized he didn't know the person in front of him. Unease creeped in almost immediately, more a discomfort than anything else. The stranger wasn't particularly threatening. She was smaller than him, for one, probably one of the smallest fully-grown people he'd ever met. Her hair seemed to be torn between being a rich brown and a very dark red, and though the blue silk blouse she was wearing was very appropriate the length of the skirt she'd paired it with- a lovely pecan shade, and of quality fabric- was a tad too short to be completely respectable. She was looking around with all the wonder of a child in a candy shop, a dreamy sort of smile fleeting about her lips. All in all Mr Gold found her faintly disturbing.
The situation escalated when he proceeded to attempt to glare her out of the shop. It worked well enough when he wanted a specific booth at Granny's or to dispose of a line at the bank but for some reason the tiny stranger in the inappropriate skirt seemed to be immune to his silent yet emphatic request to leave his presence. He cleared his throat next, a sound universally feared in Storybrooke. Once Mr Clark had been seized by some sort of sneezing fit, making him wait a little bit too long for a liniment for his ankle. His patience tested he'd cleared his throat and for a moment Mr Clark had looked like he was going to burst into hysterical tears right in front of him before Doc had decided to jump to the pharmacist's rescue. In the imagination of the townspeople Mr Gold clearing his throat was the sound that preceded drastic increases in rent, repossession of valuable goods, citations from the town council or other such unlucky events. But this ridiculously-small stranger, perched atop her equally-ludicrous high heels, did not even have the decency to flinch. Instead she let out a tiny little gasp, her lips curling in a smile as she rushed over to where two pairs of finely-restored Chesterfield chairs were on display, their dark brown leather looking almost new. She then proceeded to run her hands all over them, at first seeming to inspect the furniture. Soon enough, though, touching turned into what Royce Gold could only accurately described as fondling. Somewhere on the back of his mind the prickly feeling of unease intensified and he shifted his weight where he stood, fighting a nonsensical impulse to turn and run.
"Can I help you, dearie?"
No one did snide like Royce Gold. He layered it with an undercurrent of menace and a slight coating of amicability, his personal recipe. It seemed to roll off the stranger, who turned around and sat herself daintily on one of the chairs, wiggling around a bit.
"They feel lush. Perfect."
She had an accent, as if it wasn't enough that she was foreign to Storybrooke. It was another imaginary tally against her, however irrational that was. Then she turned to look at him directly, her eyes too blue to be real. Another mark.
"How much for the set?"
Smiles had no place in financial transactions, yet the stranger was smiling unabashedly at him. A hard life had ingrained in Gold a Pavlovian negative response to any show of happiness or cheer directed at him. After all his first wife, Millie, had been all smiles at first, as had that slippery Cora. Zoso, a former business associate, had treated him like a son in the early stages of their relationship only to stab him in the back years later. After that he'd felt more comfortable when people were overt in their dislike of him. Only his son could get away with showing any sort of affection for him without it making him uncomfortable and, therefore, snappish.
The price he barked in return was outrageous, a petty sort of attempt to put the stranger in her place. She wrinkled her nose, an expression a bit like a bunny, but there was something of the fox about her. Something cunning in the way her eyes narrowed slightly and her posture shifted to take a slightly predatory feel.
"I'll give you half of that for the entire set and that nice coffee table by the corner. The chairs themselves are well-restored but hardly unique. Their value is high enough to make them undesirable to most people around, but since Chesterfield chairs are not hard to come by no one outside town would think to bother buying them here. The shipment costs alone would make it a poor choice. You're entitled not to sell them to me, of course, but that'll likely mean not selling them at all." She cocked her head to the side, and there was the barest glimmer of something just behind her ear that caught his attention before it faded.
"The four Chesterfields and the Victorian square for half the price? You insult me, my dear."
He made it sound like it was a playful barb and not an actual admission of hurt. The hands resting leisurely atop his cane were clutching the handle with enough force to bruise. The chit, in response, shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm sorry to have wasted your time, then. Good day, Mr Gold."
She caressed the leather of one of the chairs one last time before gliding out of the pawnshop like her impressive heels never touched the ground in the first place. It felt a bit like a hollow victory, watching her go empty-handed, and he soon found out why when, a few days later, she came back. She wore a dress this time, a little bit too short and much too chic for the likes of Storybrooke, Maine, and a new pair of ridiculous shoes. She pretended to browse first before being inevitably drawn back to the damn chairs, which remained on the same spot, unsold.
And so it was for the following week. The woman would waltz in, smelling faintly of something smoky, and pretend to browse for a few minutes before directing her attention to the chairs. She'd idly caress one, looking wistful and slightly saddened, and attempt to engage him in conversation. She'd then repeat her initial offer for them and the coffee table, which he'd reject with a bit more gusto than was probably warranted. But over time the need to have her gone, to have her stop her daily interruptions to his routine, became more potent than his wish to keep his pride intact. She was right, of course, about the chairs. He was unlikely to ever sell them and now that they were restored they occupied space he could devote to new projects. It made sense to sell them, whoever much he disliked admitting.
It was why, around the tenth time she repeated her offer, he said yes. He made sure it was obvious he did so reluctantly, more to get her out of his hair than anything else. The vertigo-like sensation her full-on, happy smile gave him assured him he'd done the right thing. The sooner he got rid of her the better.
"I'm so, so glad you decided you could part with them, Mr Gold. The chairs will look lovely in the Library's reading room."
He did a double take at that.
"The library?"
He of course had deduced from the get-go that the stranger was the new librarian. It was only too obvious, really, though he'd wondered at the mayor hiring someone so young and so lively. Regina detested cheer and liked being the one person with fashion sense in Storybrooke. That wasn't what surprised him, but rather the fact that the Chesterfields and the coffee table, even at half his asking price, were still costing the librarian a pretty penny. He'd assumed, therefore, that they were meant to furnish her own apartment. The library budget, after all, did not stretch to allow for such luxuries, he knew.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I've never introduced myself, have I? Belle French, the new Librarian."
She'd misunderstood the source of his confusion, clearly, extending her hand in a friendly gesture of greeting he only reciprocated because otherwise he'd look like he was physically recoiling from her, a show of weakness. Her skin was oddly warm despite the fact that it was a chilly autumn morning and she hadn't been wearing gloves before entering his shop.
"I'm well aware of who you are, dearie. But I am in the dark as to how you're furnishing the Public Library with such luxurious pieces. After all, that's not the best use of public funds."
A little rattling would do her good, would knock down that obnoxious smile a peg or two. But the librarian simply shrugged, and said she was using her own money for it.
"The funds for the remodelling of the library barely covered a new coat of paint and new shelves to replace the old, broken ones. I'm stuck trying to repair what can be salvaged and dipping into my own pocket for the rest. That means, at least, that I can spend at my leisure without having to justify any of it. It gives me freedom to shape the library as I see fit. My very own castle."
The predatory feeling about her made its re-appearance, along with an almost tangible possessiveness when she spoke about the library. She clearly considered it her dominion, which he could relate to. Couldn't imagine the mayor being quite as understanding, though.
He arranged for the delivery of the furniture and was a bit miffed when she paid him the full amount in cash at once. Clearly she'd expected him to cave in sooner rather than later and he'd proved her right. But at least it meant she'd stop coming around every day, having gotten what she wanted. Few in Storybrooke could boast of having gotten the better of Mr Gold.
It did work for a while. She didn't come over the next day, or the next, or the one after that. He reasserted his routine with relish, making himself think as little as possible of the librarian with her impossible blue eyes and her cat-like smile. And he was the happier for it, really. The break in his routine had been more a nuisance than anything. That's why he told himself he was unhappy when she did return a week or so later, a stack of what looked like photographs in her hands. Despite the increasingly chilly weather she was wearing only a flimsy cardigan over what looked like a slightly sheer white blouse and a rather lovely rose-coloured pleated skirt of a rather more demure length he was used to with her.
"I need your help."
Denying her upfront came as easy as breathing to him, but it seemed to have no effect on her. She walked over to the counter, like it wasn't his personal space she was intruding upon, and lay the photographs over the glass.
"Tell me these aren't gorgeous."
He shouldn't have looked down. He should've thrown the photographs back in her face, made a snide comment about either buying something or getting the hell out of his shop, but he didn't. Instead he got distracted by that glimpse of something shiny right behind her right ear, partially obscured by her hair. Next thing he knew his eyes were being drawn down, where the pictures were. The two antique rolling ladders depicted there were, he had to admit, exquisite in spite of the advanced state of deterioration they were in. They were French Victorian, for sure, made out of what appeared to be rosewood. Truly a thing of beauty.
"To my knowledge the library is already equipped with perfectly serviceable rolling ladders, dearie."
The inventory presented to the town council had specified that, he was sure. The ones purchased a few years before the fire had not been damaged and that had been taken into account when budgeting the costs of the re-opening of the building. Miss French let out an annoyed huff, looking a bit like an upset kitten.
"I know. And though technically true those things are eyesores. They get stuck half of the time too. But going through some things down in the basement I came across these two antique rolling ladders. They must have been purchased for the original library opening, I imagine, and at some point replaced by the clunky ones that I'm supposed to use now. Money is already tight with the reno, even though I've dipped into my own pocket to be able to afford some things that weren't essential. Going to the mayor for the money to restore the ladders would be a waste of time so I was hoping you'd feel inclined towards setting a reasonable price for your services. My savings can only stretch so far, I'm afraid, but it would be a loss not to use these."
They were indeed beautiful ladders, that he couldn't deny. The wood looked like it had seen much better days, and on the whole they didn't look very sound, but it all could be easily repaired. It would be an exciting new project to work on, certainly, and denying the librarian was likely to result in repeated visits from her to try and cajole him into agreeing. Better to save himself the bother.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to do some public service by restoring those ladders at a lower-than-usual price. A once in a lifetime offer which would require your discretion. After all, I do have a reputation to uphold."
There he flashed one of his trademark wolf smiles, the kind that made people feel and act like scared little rabbits. It seemed to have the exact opposite effect on Miss French. She leaned closer, her dark red lips stretching into a smile just as dangerous-looking as his own, if not more so. Alarm bells sounded in his head once more, and a liquid sort of warmth pooled low in his belly. She looked about to eat him whole.
"I won't breathe a word of it, Mr Gold. I swear."
It took a couple of weeks to restore both ladders to their former glory. Mr Gold made sure to strengthen the joints as much as possible, to make sure the ladders wouldn't be a safety hazard. And, of course, that the librarian wouldn't have an excuse to bother him again. She got it into her head to come and check on his progress with the restoration every couple of days, pestering him with questions about it and enquiries regarding other antiques he had on display. He was forced to make it quite clear, once the ladders were finally finished, that her continued interruptions into his shop would not be welcomed unless she was planning to make a purchase.
"This is a shop, dearie, not a museum."
She seemed to take his words to heart, thankfully. After the ladders were delivered there were no more surprise visits to ruin his afternoons, no more interruptions or unwanted distractions. Or so it felt, at first. But his peace and quiet weren't as easy to find. He still saw her almost every day, the library being right across the street. He caught glimpses of her during the day, from afar, sometimes hauling out boxes or other garbage to dump on the huge bins placed outside the library for that specific purpose. It gave him pause to see her petit self taking out gigantic boxes filled to the brim with burned-out books and other rabble like they weighted nothing. She was certainly stronger than her appearance seemed to suggest, which once more set off a warning inside his head.
And the renovations seemed to be endless. He'd never quite appreciated how nice and quiet the abandoned library was until it stopped being abandoned. Though City Hall had allocated but a small budget with which to hire workers to repair the building Miss French, it appeared, had organised some sort of volunteer program to get extra hands to help with some of the less complicated jobs. As a result there was an obscene number of people milling about at any given hour of the day. Kids, specially, flocked into the building after school to help with small tasks, though he couldn't help but imagine their efforts did more harm than good.
It was all a bloody bother. Not objecting to the re-opening of the library had clearly been a mistake and he was now paying the piper for it. And though common sense and routine would have had him take out his frustrations with Regina his instinct had him lashing out at the Librarian.
"What do you have against books, Mr Gold?"
She was truly a sight in all her righteous anger. She must have been running her hands through her hair quite a bit because instead of looking sleek and artfully curled it framed her face in tousled waves, like a lion's mane. Her blue eyes were brilliant in her fury and if he didn't know it was humanly impossible he'd think she was about to breathe fire. It was incongruous how dangerous a 5'2 Aussie in heels could look.
"Good afternoon to you too, Miss French."
She snarled, a sound that was terrifying in ways that Gold hadn't anticipated. Terrifying and something else entirely.
"You vetoed the new auxiliary funds for the purchase of new books. Why?"
No one had been that forceful with Mr Gold in… Well, quite a long time. He'd stopped allowing people to make demands of him the moment he'd signed the papers of his divorce. Even years later, when he'd become entangled romantically with Cora, he'd been very careful to never put himself in such a vulnerable position, making it clear outbursts against his person would not be tolerated. And yet he was being as docile as a loyal dog while the librarian treated him like a misbehaving child.
"If you want the truth, Miss French, I found your reasons for requesting such emergency funds to be lacking."
He busied his hands carefully cleaning an antique tea-cup, trying to right the power balance, to intimidate her. She didn't seem to want to comply, eyes narrowing as she took a deep breath, a clear sign that she was reigning in her temper.
"The original inventory grossly miscalculated the amount of books that had suffered fire damage and would need to be replaced. What good is a library without books?"
He shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance as he focused with single-minded determination on the tea-cup he was cleaning like it was the Holy Grail.
"I'm sure it's not as dire as you say. A little glue and some dusting can go a long way."
"Really?"
He had half a second to process the utter incredulity in her voice before something was forcefully slammed on his counter. He startled, nerveless fingers dropping the cup and clenching into fists as he strove to keep his glacial facade. He did glance down, taking in the charred, charcoal-grey block of paper right in front of him. It took an embarrassing amount of time for him to realize it was a book. Or it had been, once. The silence stretched between them, tense and uncomfortable, and though the rational part of him knew the smart thing to do would be to respond in some way, deflecting with a cutting barb or even mocking the importance of the matter, he remained silent. And silence, they both knew, was an admittance of guilt.
When he finally looked away from the charred book and back at her the librarian seemed to have deflated. All of her righteous, beautiful fury was gone and in its place was something else, something dull and repelling.
"What now, dearie? Do you need me to move some things around? Make a bit space for your rage?"
"I'm not angry. I'm…"
The pawnbroker unconsciously leaned forward, eager for what she'd say. Taking into account how Miss French had turned his world upside down he craved to know, in turn, what impact he'd had in hers. Was she frustrated? Did he make her feel helpless or small or-
"… disappointed."
The last was said softly, almost reluctantly, and it cut all the more for it. And so he did what came natural. He sneered, lashing out like a wounded beast would.
"What a pity that you came all this way for nothing, Miss French. I suppose tomorrow I can look forward to going back to being annoyed by you from afar."
For a split second she froze, as if he'd said something she hadn't expected. A look of understanding passed over her face before she hid it away. The librarian might have appeared open and guileless but he could tell she hid more than most.
"I see."
He had the uncomfortable feeling she did see. That he was some sort of open book for her to peruse at her leisure. The vulnerability of it all made him feel stifled and uncomfortable in his own skin for a second.
"Do try to keep things quiet, Miss French. I despise being bothered."
An empty threat, the bark of an old, useless dog. She treated it as such, smiling instead of looking appropriately contrite. Anger surged in him, this time directed at himself. It was a familiar feeling, comforting in a way.
"I'm sorry you're not enjoying being neighbours as much as I am, Mr Gold."
After she left he bent down to pick the cup he'd been tending to, now irreversibly chipped. And though his antiquing instincts told him to trash it, aware that it had become unsellable, he stored it away instead, with a care that he tried not to think about.
It was around a week after that he found out Regina had used her executive power to forcefully approve auxiliary funds for the Library. Miss French, rather cleverly, had skilfully pointed out how many of the books that needed replacing were for children, as if she knew about the mayor's real reason to re-open the library. In the end, unable to justify replacing those books but not the others, she'd personally allocated the extra funds to replace them all, as well as extra money for more books for the children's section. "An investment in Storybrooke's future", she'd called it.
Gold had to admit he wasn't sure who had played that one better. He told her so when she waltzed into his shop a few days after, wearing stained overalls and flats and somehow looking no less intimidating than usual. She prowled inside his pawnshop, eyes bright with excitement when they set on the different hidden treasures he had on display. No one noticed the items inside Mr Gold's Pawnshop, not really. Most people avoided spending more time than strictly necessary inside in the first place. Few could actually buy any of his merchandise, truthfully, and the people that could were not much interested. Dr Whale was more into flashy cars and expensive alcohol than antiques, Mayor Mills abhorred anything old, more given to a sleeker, newer look, and crazy Jefferson Madden was only interested in things to do with millinery. Therefore he wasn't used to people actually taking the time to appreciate the things he had on display.
And the librarian didn't simply look. She touched. In the most reverent, most covetous manner possible. In a way that made it impossible to take his eyes off her as she ran her fingers over everything she could. Inevitably she found the section he dedicated to first editions and let out a long, wistful sigh. She perused the titles before picking up a heavy volume. Bram Stoker's Dracula, if he wasn't mistaken.
"Wouldn't have figured you for a cheap Gothic kind of thrill-seeker, Miss French."
She turned to look at him, cradling the book against her chest as if to protect it from his cutting tongue. Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring into that deliciously familiar anger. But it lacked the sadness it had been cloaked in the other day, the stench of… disappointment. It was a fury he could enjoy.
"Dracula's a classic and with good reason. The writing style alone makes it a masterpiece."
He snorted.
"Stoker's contemporaries certainly did not think it so. The novel only got popular because of Nosferatu."
"Critics loved it from the beginning. Sometimes… sometimes it takes time for people to appreciate something. Dracula's not an easy book to read, certainly. But those end up being the best stories."
It was his turn to narrow his eyes, sure he was not being paranoid about the subtext in the conversation.
"Books have addled your brain, Miss French."
She was adorable when she was self-righteous, eyes spitting fire and the tips of her ears turning red. There was raw power behind it, that silent aura of danger that seemed to have no explanation. She proceeded to launch into a tirade about Dracula and the value of Gothic literature in general, going from Mary Shelley to Ann Radcliffe, with the passion of someone defending her own personal friends. Whenever she seemed to be winding down he'd take a dig at The Mysteries of Udolpho or point out the ridiculously convoluted plot of The Monk, which would fill her with renewed vigour and a sense of affront that required that she set him to rights.
It worked, too. By the time she left he'd grudgingly changed his mind about the value of Gothic fiction, going as far as taking his first-edition copy of Melmoth the Wandererhome to read. He didn't tell her that, of course.
When she came back he stopped trying to lie to himself about how he enjoyed her visits, even if he dreaded them at the same time. He knew he could put a stop to them. He needed only to ignore her, let the heavy silence of the shop get to her, answer her inquisitive questions with one-word answers and she'd eventually lose interest. It would be the smart thing to do, the safe thing to do.
In the end he resolved that a few meetings in his shop could do no harm. It was refreshing to talk about antiques with someone so knowledgeable and appreciative of them, especially so in days when he didn't talk to another soul. During those days he couldn't help but rile her up all the more, slowly learning some of the buttons he could push to have her undivided, albeit angered, attention.
The library kept being a pain in the ass after it was completed and he didn't have to endure the noisy presence of workers in and out of it every working day. The mayor, however, wasted little time calling for a town assembly to basically pat herself on the back and turn her selfish use of public funding into a service for the community. By the time he arrived it was packed inside. Besides the fact that no one was stupid enough to get on the Mayor's bad side by missing an assembly there was little else to do in Storybrooke and meetings like that provided people with a chance to gossip and talk. The inside of the building was almost as cold as it was outside. He didn't know whether Regina did this because she liked it better that way, as a cost-cutting measure or because she knew that he absolutely hated the cold. He'd spent his childhood and his teenage years freezing more often than not, always lacking proper clothing and sometimes a roof over his head. It had left him with a patent dislike for low temperatures that he was almost sure Regina knew about. She'd more than once remarked upon the many layers of clothing he wore. Because it was not yet cold enough he hadn't donned one of his heavy overcoats, which meant that he was left having to deal with the unpleasant and still unseasonably-cold evening.
He was about to glare someone into giving him a seat, which was what he usually did, when he spotted the librarian waving at him from somewhere in the middle of the sea of occupied chairs. The seat to her right was unoccupied, a heavy book lying on top of it to save it and when their eyes met she waved at him, an unmistakable invitation. He thought about ignoring her and going to look for a chair elsewhere but if he did, he reasoned, it might look to others as if he was fleeing. It just wouldn't do. Instead he contented himself with glaring at every person between him and Miss French, prompting each to stand up in order to allow him to comfortably reach the empty seat.
"I thought the least I could do was save you a seat. I mean, you do let me come into your shop to bother you, after all."
Mr Gold, rather alarmingly, realised Miss French thought of him as some sort of… friendly acquaintance. That level of easy-going familiarity was just not acceptable and frankly more than a little bit insulting, taking into account the great pains he'd gone through to make his dislike of her clear. But refusing her seat would look to others like he was fleeing from the librarian, which was never an option. With the customary grace, made incongruous by the heavy use of his cane, he made his way to the empty spot and sat down with as much dignity as he could possibly muster. Thankfully Miss French didn't seem to be of a mind to engage him in conversation, throwing a greeting and a wide smile his way before settling her attention on the stage, where Madam Mayor was preparing to speak. The meeting was, as he'd assumed, not so much to announce the re-opening of the library- the mayor mentioned its new librarian only once, and Miss French barely had enough time to stand and wave before Regina resumed speaking- but to serve as a reminder of how hard Madam Mayor worked for the town and how they all should remember that come election year.
"Wow, she really likes talking about herself."
She was leaning in, of course, invading his personal space like it was non-existent. Unlike everyone else the librarian was not wearing layers upon layers of clothing but rather an open pea coat over a flimsy cardigan, blouse and skirt, with a pair of tights as the only other concession to the weather. And yet the woman was a fucking furnace. Heat seemed to radiate off her as if she was the sun. Shamefully Mr Gold found himself leaning back against her, his warmth-starved body seeking out as much contact with Miss French's as it was physically possible. A few people turned to look at him oddly, seeing the dreaded pawnbroker all but curling on the librarian's side like a pampered cat but a quick glare and the silent promise of sky-high rent increases to whoever even raised an eyebrow in his general direction took care of the curious ones.
Grudgingly he had to admit that with Belle French the Human Furnace right next to him the town meeting became almost bearable. Boring as hell, of course, as an hour and a half of Regina Mills pretending to talk about the town business but really talking about herself was bound to be, but not the infernal ice prison he'd envisioned before. The unexpected heat and the droning of Mayor Mill's voice eventually lulled him into a state of almost drowsiness. He relaxed like he seldom allowed himself, enjoying the smell of burnt caramel that seemed to surround Miss French like a cloud. His grip grew slack on his cane, which slipped from his fingers. He was rather surprised when the librarian's hand reached out, fast as lightning, to catch the walking stick before he ever realized he'd let go of it. Unease prickled at the back of his head again, the absolute certainty that there was something monumentally off about the girl hitting him once more.
He watched her take a closer look at the handle of his cane. The object as a whole was a work of art, done in the style of Henry Howell walking sticks, made with hardy Indian Rosewood and a gold carved handle, enough to be decorative without being uncomfortable. It was the handle that seemed to pique Miss French's attention, and it did so absolutely, her eyes zeroing in on the fine metal. Almost reverently she turned the handle in her hands, her fingers tracing the faint lines carved into the metal as if trying to memorize them. After a while Royce began to unconsciously fidget, even more ill-at-ease than before. There was something… almost sexual about the way the librarian's fingers caressed the metal, lingering here and there, cupping the handle every now and then, and gently scratching the surface with her long nails. He looked around, trying to see if someone else had noticed, but everyone was either lulled into a glazed state of sleep by the droning of Mayor Mills or well-versed in the "do not look at Mr Gold ever" number one rule of survival in Storybrooke. No one else was even aware that Belle French was effectively fingering his cane in the middle of a Town Hall meeting. It was insane. It was surreal. It was…
Hot. It was fucking hot.
He barely dared to move a muscle as he sat there, leaning slightly on Miss French, trying to look sideways at her without it being noticeable. It was the best and the worst thirty minutes of his entire life and by the time the meeting was over he was pretty sure standing up was not an option. He played it up as if his bad ankle was acting up and when Miss French offered to help her he snarled at her until she got the hint, handed him back his cane- he couldn't help but notice her reluctance to do so- and left. The metal was hot from her tantalizing, relentless touch and as the chill of the room seeped back into his bones he pressed the handle against his cheek, sighing at its warmth and the faint smell of burned caramel under the metallic scent of gold.