Summary: Gabriella French needs a job, and Mr. Gold needs a new assistant.
Alright, so yeah. Basically, this fic surrounds the lives of our favorite beast and his beauty, taking place in a sort of "world" before Emma comes to town. It's a world fabricated from their fake memories, sort of snapshots into their lives. I hope you like it, and I hope the explanation wasn't too confusing.
Also, HAPPY SEPTEMBER 30, EVERYONE! I can't wait for the finale xD
Disclaimer: I don't own anything!
Most of our lives are a series of images, they pass us by like towns on a highway. But sometimes a moment stuns us as it happens and we know that this instant is more than a fleeting image. We know that this moment, every part of it, will live on forever.
[Lucas Scott, OTH]
Choices
The pawnshop was an old, brown building that stood still and lonely on the corner of Rosewood and Henderson. Everyone in town knew you didn't go into that pawnshop unless you were stupid, brave, or desperate. You didn't go into that shop unless you wanted to make a deal with the devil himself.
Gabriella French stood outside the shop in question, drawing in the snow with the toe of her boot. She was trying to muster her courage, trying not to back out of this, trying not to blow it off like she'd been blowing it off all day.
This was her last hope.
She'd been turned down by King's Dry-Cleaners, Modern Fashions, Granny's, and even the local grocery store.
The twenty-one year old shivered as a gust of wind blew past her. If she stayed out there any longer she was going to freeze. Wrapping her arms around herself, Gabbe huffed and made her way to the shop door. The bell above the door rattled a little when she came in, but it didn't jingle, only making her presence feel more unwelcome than it already did.
The owner of the shop—Mr. Gold—stood behind the counter, pouring over a ledger. He didn't look up when she entered.
Who knew the devil walked with a limp and had a penchant for Armani? Gabbe thought humorlessly, catching sight of the familiar gold-handled cane she'd seen with him whenever they passed on the street. "Mr. Gold," she said slowly, unused to talking to the shark of the town. Gabbe liked to think of herself as brave, but even she had her limits. And that limit was currently ignoring her.
"Hm?" his voice was terse, uninterested, annoyed, like she was a pesky fly that had just gotten too close to him. She could see why nobody bought his merchandise. Couldn't he be a little cordial? For all he knew, she was a potential paying customer.
Gabbe steeled her resolve and got right down to it—the worst he could do was say no, right? Right. It wasn't like he was going to rip out her heart for walking into his domain or something. "I saw your help wanted sign. Was wondering if it's still open."
Gold's shoulders tensed, and his eyes lifted to meet hers. "Does it look like it's not?" he asked dryly, gesturing around. Gabbe took a second to stare at the shelves aligning the walls. Dusty, unsold knickknacks lined them—foggy snow-globes, dirty glass figurines, dusty baubles. She'd never actually been in the pawnshop for an extended period of time. Never really had a reason to, but now that she did, she could see the place needed some sprucing. Sprucing she could definitely help with.
He pushed away the sarcasm in his next statement, and she was so caught up in her little inspection she almost didn't catch it. "You want to be my assistant?" he asked her curiously. She found herself locked in place by his eyes, incapable of looking away. They were brown, flecked with his namesake, and seemed to stare straight into her soul. "Why?" his voice was suspicious, those gold-flecked eyes narrowing as he assessed her.
Gabbe shrugged. "Other than the fact I need cash and I have issues with every other job in town?"
He looked at her with surprised eyes, obviously not used to anyone speaking to him so… bluntly. He eyes her for a few more moments before nodding. "Alright," he said, going back to the ledger, "You start on Monday."
She blinked—she'd gotten the job? "I—I got the job?" She knew she must sound like a complete moron, but she had to say it. It seemed so unlikely that he'd just give her the job like that, without references or anything—
"Well, it's not like anyone else would've done it," he said, and she relaxed.
Glad to know he was hiring her because he didn't have a choice.
Trades
He gave her the job because he knew for a fact she needed the money. That, and the fact no one else would probably take the job. Being the town menace had some downsides.
He recognized her the second she stepped foot in his shop. Gabriella French, the daughter of the man who owed him a lot of money. She'd come home from college, her only goal to get her father back on his feet after her mother's death, only to get stuck in this backwoods Maine town, pinned down by guilt.
She needed money to keep the food on the table, and he needed an assistant. It was the perfect trade.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Firsts
Her first day on the job, she showed up at the pawnshop in a huff, fresh from a fight with her father. The judgmental old man's voice was still ringing, raw and angry in her ears.
I forbid you from working there! That man is the reason we're in debt!
No, Gabbe thought furiously, you are the reason we're in debt. Her father had his head so far up his own ass he couldn't even see that much. He'd place the blame with anyone so long as it wasn't himself.
She slammed the door to the pawnshop shut, barely taking the time to remember who it was she worked for. She looked up to face him, her eyes angry and full of fire. She knew she should probably be feeling a little bad for showing up in such a foul mood, but at the moment she could barely care. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something about leaving her tantrums at home, but she beat him to the punch.
"I'll fix that bell," she mumbled, jerking a finger up at the tiny silver thing that still made no noise, other than the disheartening rattle when it bounced against the doorframe.
He blinked once, assessing her, looking her over, before nodding. "After you get done sweeping." He pointed to the broom, propped up in one of the corners of the shop.
She raised an eyebrow at it. "Sweeping?"
He shrugged. "The place is filthy."
The words stuck with her for a moment, like something from a long-lost dream. She paused on her way to get the broom, turning the words over in her head for a moment before shrugging and getting to work.
Chipped
As she began the initial cleaning of the pawnshop, which was coated in a fairly thick layer of dust, she came across a tea-set by the front counter. It had everything a seven-year-old would need for a tea-party; sterling silver tray, porcelain cups and saucers, and a teapot that reminded her of the talking one from Beauty and the Beast.
She was dusting around it when she noticed the chip.
She tilted her head at the imperfection, the jagged little crack running down the rim of the cup. Without thinking, she grabbed it and headed for the trash bin.
He grabbed it before she could toss it away. He didn't know why, but that'd always been a piece he'd never been able get rid of. Even the cup with the crack in the rim has always held its rightful place beside its teacup brothers and saucer sisters and teapot mother.
"It's chipped," she tried to explain, blinking in surprise when he set it back on the sterling silver tray.
He smiled. "Chipped, but not broken, my dear. And the set's just not complete without it."
Friends
Three weeks passed.
They'd grown more comfortable around each other—he was less tense and she was a bit less guarded from her first few days working for him. He could see the resentful young woman slip away, morph into something happier, more optimistic. More natural.
She opened the drapes that were usually all but nailed shut in the corner, claiming he needed to let some light in. The words struck a chord in him, and he wasn't really sure why.
Business began to bloom too, now that people knew there was more than just the beastly pawnbroker to look forward to when they came in the shop—there was his pretty new assistant, too. It made him more approachable, better for business. Many people weren't afraid to come into the shop, and he wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing yet.
Many people, but not everyone.
Around the third week of her employment there, he noticed two figures waiting awkwardly on the sidewalk outside his shop, refusing to come in. It was early spring and the snow was still in the process of melting, but he could still see Ruby's signature red miniskirt from his spot at the counter. He recognized Mary Margaret, too, her short tendrils of hair sticking up every which way due to the wind. The schoolteacher looked particularly jittery at standing just outside the beast's lair, while the waitress just looked impatient.
He smirked and gave the girls a wave; just the flutter of fingers. Ruby scowled; trying to seem brave a layer of glass away, and Mary Margaret didn't meet his gaze.
"Gabriella," he said, turning to his assistant, who was busy cataloguing a fake gold pocket watch. At her constant insistence, he'd graduated from the formal and uncomfortable "Miss French" to the slightly warmer, friends territory "Gabriella".
"Yeah?" she didn't look up from her work. Gabbe was nothing if not diligent.
He pointed to the window. "Why don't you take your lunch break?" he suggested, and she lifted her eyes to look where he was pointing, flushing when she saw Ruby and Mary flail their arms in signals telling her to "get the hell out". The three girls had been friends forever, from when Ruby and Gabbe were in high school and Mary Margaret acted as their tutor/mentor/older-sister-type-figure. After high school, they'd still been inseparable. Storybrooke was a small town, and the friends you made you usually knew from birth till death.
She sighed and set the watch down. "Want anything?" she asked as she grabbed her jacket and her purse, looking at him expectantly. It was a simple enough question, from an eager young assistant to her stern old employer, but she asked it like they're old friends and she's treating.
He shook his head and gave her a small smile—the smiles he ended up only reserving for her. Gabbe was brave and could be guarded and even borderline bitter about things sometimes, but if there was one thing Mr. Gold knew it was that she loved it when he smiled. Like it was a prize she'd won for working so hard. Gabriella grinned back, blue eyes dancing, and she bounced towards the door.
"Half an hour," he reminded her on impulse, even though she knew the drill by now.
"Half an hour," she repeated, before opening the door and letting the crisp early spring air in. Her boots clacked against the hardwood before stepping outside, and then Mr. Gold was alone yet again.
Sugar and Cream
She brought him lunch, even when he told her not to.
A grilled cheese and a coffee—black, just the way he liked it. When he saw her set the paper bag and the cup down, he raised an eyebrow, regarding her curiously. She scoffed. "You'd be nothing but a finely-dressed sack of bones and skin if I didn't bring you food every once in a while," she quipped, giving him a sly smile and a wink before returning to her cataloguing.
He chuckled—again, a luxury only reserved for her—before taking a sip of the coffee.
"How did you know I liked my coffee black?" he asked. He couldn't remember ever telling her that. Their conversations were usually work-related or they involved a debate on a book or an article of some form or another.
She shrugged. "No offense or anything, Mr. Gold, but you don't exactly seem like the sugar and cream type."
Connected
She realized it six months after she began working for him. Exactly six months.
I'm falling for him.
He was the only person who she could have an intelligent, ongoing conversation with. He was the only person she could give her honest opinion to without looking like she'd grown a second head. He was the only person who'd give her the straight-up truth and not sugarcoat anything. She hated it when people sugarcoated things because they thought she'd burst out crying or throw a tantrum or something.
He was the only one in that whole damned town who treated her like an adult. She didn't care if it was wrong, or weird, or that everyone in town would think she was insane for liking the "cranky old miser". She didn't care that he was her boss, didn't care that he was probably twenty years older than her.
She felt connected.
Like maybe they'd known each other before. In a past life or something equally ridiculous.
Beauty and the Tragedy
It took him a while to figure it out, but when he did, he made sure not to get too close to her.
I'm falling for her.
Or maybe not falling. Maybe he was just what everyone in town had thought from the beginning, since she began working here. That he was a dirty old miser just trying to get into the pants of an unsuspecting twenty-one-year-old.
He felt guilty every time he looked at her, when she was dusting or doing inventory or some other mundane task. Guilty because she was brilliant and beautiful and she deserved much more than this provincial life. She deserved more than a father who took her for granted and a petty salary and the love of a disgusting old man.
She deserved a big house and a charming husband and three or four little kids. She deserved a dream.
Wanting; Needing
He was tempted to ask her what was wrong when she came to work one day, near-tears. She was a good employee, and took her cue from the very first day, when she showed up in a huff, and didn't bring her problems to work.
Exactly ten and a half minutes passed before he was close to bursting. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"
She didn't look at him, but her shoulders tensed. She was surprised. "I thought you didn't want me bringing my personal problems to work." And he didn't, but the image of her crying pulled at his heartstrings. He was afraid and worried and concerned for this girl, and he wasn't sure why.
"You seem pretty upset. I'll make an exception."
She chuckled; a wet, pathetic sound that rang in his ears. "My father," she said, "He's just being difficult, is all." She didn't elaborate, didn't say anything about the nightmares, the dreams revolving around a world that was not their own. She didn't talk about the dark lady who looked like the mayor or the bearded man with a bow and arrow that looked like Graham or the golden-skinned beast she called her true love. She didn't talk about how her father not-so-subtly liked to mention hospitals and psychiatric wards and mental facilities.
She wasn't crazy. She was just lonely.
"Oh," Mr. Gold said, shifting uncomfortably. This was the first they'd talked about her home life, the first time the topic of her father has ever been really breached. "I'm sorry." He left just enough room to let her continue if she wanted to. He could spare a few minutes to listen, however uncomfortable it may be—she looked like she needed someone besides her overworked best friends and a therapist who was paid to nod his head and ask "so how does that make you feel?"
Gabbe swallowed. "Sometimes I think he's being selfish, for keeping me here. For pulling me down with the flower shop and family obligations when I would give anything to be out on my own, y'know?"
He watched her for a moment. She was taking inventory across the counter, so focused, trying not to cry. He wasn't good at the comforting thing, so he just said what came to mind. It was the truth, after all. Mr. Gold may have been a manipulative jackass, but he was nothing if not truthful. He was momentarily thankful she was so close; he reached across the counter and took her hand. He squeezed.
"Wanting a good future for yourself doesn't make you a bad person, Gabbe."
The Beginning of the End
She was dusting some of his wares when she blacked out. It was a little dizzy spell, something she brushed off as minor vertigo whenever she got up too fast. But she hadn't been sitting down this time. She had been standing, ghosting a rag over a miniaturized spinning wheel when her head began to spin.
And then her world was shrouded in black and gilded in gold.
"Why do you spin so much?"
"It helps me forget."
"Forget what?"
"I guess it worked."
When she opened her eyes again, he was looming over her, his cane long forgotten by the cash register. He was kneeling in a position that couldn't be good for his bad leg, one of his hands holding hers.
"Belle, are you okay?"
Gabbe blinked. "What did you just call me?"
Gold looked confused. "I called you your name. Gabriella." He winced as he shifted into a more comfortable position, putting more weight on his good leg. "What in the world happened? You were dusting one second and the next—" he swallowed, and it's then she realized this is the first time he's ever looked worried in front of her. "—you looked like you were having a seizure."
Gabriella blinked again before her cheeks flush in pure mortification. Had she really blacked out in front of him? Oh god. If he didn't think she was weird before, what did he think now? She shook her head. "I think I was just tired," she said. She's always been a rotten liar, and despite the fact they hadn't even known each other a year, he could read her about as well as Mary Margaret can—which is to say, like an open book.
He stared at her for a moment before giving a sharp tug on her hand. "Come on," he almost growled, standing up with little difficulty. She looked up at him.
"W-where are you taking me?"
The words were like a slap of familiarity and he wasn't sure why. He just hobbled towards his cane and his car keys. "I'm taking you to the hospital. Last thing I need is for you to kill yourself while—"
"No!" she screeched once the word hospital left his lips. If he took her to the hospital, if he told the doctors what happened, it would be like telling her father he was right all along. And he couldn't be right. Not about this.
She grabbed his hand, the one that was holding the car keys, and looked up pleadingly at him. "Please," she whispered, pouring every ounce of desperation into her voice. "Please, you can't tell them. Please. I'm sorry, Mr. Gold. This won't happen again, I promise. Just… please, don't tell them."
His eyes bored into hers; dark, milky chocolate brown to bright, teary lapis lazuli. He'd never seen her beg before. But now that he had, now that he'd seen the pain and the desperation in her eyes and her voice, he knew he couldn't let anyone know about today—not her father, not Storybrooke General, no matter how badly he wanted to.
Gold nodded and set the keys down.
"You need to get help, Gabriella," he said softly. The rest of the sentence was unspoken, but they both heard it. I'm worried about you.
"I know," she said. Thank you.
He wasn't completely sure what this was about, but he knew one thing for certain. This wasn't the first time this had happened.
It was only a matter of time before the rest of the world found out.
As You Carry His Name
And they do.
It had been three weeks since the incident at the pawnshop when she got another blackout. A symphony of noises and voices assaulted her suddenly as she walked through her father's house, as if she'd walked into a room full of invisible people.
"My family, my friends, they will all live?"
"You have my word."
"Then you have mine. I will go with you forever."
"No one decides my fate but me."
"She's right. The deal is struck."
"You will skin the children I hunt for their pelts!"
"I'm so sorry, it's chipped."
"It's just a cup."
"Why do you spin so much?"
"So you were a man once? Just an ordinary man?"
"Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses!"
"You're not a monster."
And he wasn't. The words in her head were jumbled and magnified by a thousand, but that much she knew. He was no monster. Vaguely, in the real world, she could hear her father in the background. Her father… and… the mayor?
"True love's kiss can break any curse."
The dark lady? It made no sense. Gabriella's head was hurting. She writhed on the hardwood—no, not hardwood. It was soft, whatever she was lying on. Soft cotton. A bed? It was squeaky, and it smelled like bleach, wherever she was. There were voices. People she knew, one of which she decided she didn't like. Not at all. Regina, the mayor.
"Mr. French," she said, "I assure you, it's in your best interest to commit your daughter straight away. If she's anything like your wife was…" a pregnant pause. "Well, schizophrenia is hereditary, isn't it?"
"It is," her father was saying, "But she's so young…"
The darkness takes over before the conversation comes to an end. And when she woke up, she was in a padded room. Her father was sitting across from her.
"Daddy?" she rasped. Her voice felt like it hadn't been used in a millennia.
"I'm so sorry, Gabbe," he said, his eyes watery and sad, "I hope you can understand. This is for the best. You're very sick, sweetheart. I'm doing this because I love you."
Gabbe opened her mouth to ask what the hell he was talking about, but before she could, another vision hits her.
"Daddy," she whispered, backing away from the man. He was not her father. Her father would read her stories at night and chase her around the castle pretending to be a dragon while she was his princess. Her father would hug her when she cried. Her father had been the one beacon of light she could count on after her mother's passing.
This was not her father.
This man, with his cold eyes and pursed lips—this was not her father. Fathers don't do things like this to their daughters. They don't. No matter what happened, they didn't do this. Fathers loved their daughters unconditionally, no matter what.
"I love you, sweetheart," he said, but she didn't believe it. Not for a minute. "This is for the best. I hope you can understand. I want to purify you. The clerics, the maids, the soldiers, Gaston's family… they all say the same thing. You're unclean. He took away your innocence, and this is the only way for you to get it back—"
He brought the whip up, ready to crack down again, when a smooth, silky voice stopped him.
"I wouldn't do that, Sir Maurice," the dark lady said, waltzing into her bedroom. Belle wanted to say something, anything. To kick and scream and cry and shout curses at the dark lady, but her body wouldn't obey. It wouldn't move.
She was too weak. She closed her eyes. Weak, maybe. Fragile, for now. But she was brave. Braver than most of the men in her once-father's court. She'd fallen in love with a beast—how much courage did that take? They were talking, the dark lady and her once-father, but Belle blocked them out. Whatever they were saying, she didn't want to hear it.
And then the Black Knight appeared, the stuff of nightmares in his all-black armor. He swept her up, into his arms, a cruel parody of a prince saving his princess.
She wasn't aware of much, not until she was thrown in a dungeon cell not unlike her one at the Dark Castle.
"The Queen has plans for you," the Knight said, and that was the last thing she heard before she blacked out.
When Gabbe opened her eyes again, she was alone. Her father was gone.
It was just her and the white padded walls.
Good News for People Who Love Bad News
It was seven AM when he got the news. The doorbell rang as Mr. Gold was getting ready to head down to the diner for a quick breakfast before meeting Gabriella at the pawnshop. Who he saw when he opened the door was quite possibly the last person he expected.
He knew Galen Hawthorne was an ex of Gabbe's, judging by the way he'd loiter outside his shop during the early days of her employment.
"Mr. Hawthorne," Gold greeted as pleasantly as he could. "What do I owe the pleasure?"
The boy looked nervous, for some reason, keeping his head down and his eyes trained on his Vans. "Um, well…" he trailed away for a moment. "Gabbe won't be coming in today. Moe told me to pass the message along."
"Oh, and why, pray tell, not?"
More shifting. "Because she's, like, in the hospital's psych ward."
Gold's world seemed to stop for just a moment. Just a second is all it takes for the earth to fall out from under him.
Hospital psych ward?
"She blacked out last night," Galen said, interrupting his thoughts. "Was screaming, all about other worlds and stuff. My mom was having me drop some cookies off at the house when we heard it—a thump from upstairs, and then she started screaming. Screaming her head off. Like she was being murdered or something." He shook his head. "Mr. French got his valium. Then we took her to the hospital. They committed her that night, said she had schizophrenia or something like that." He shook his head again.
"They said she'd be in there for a while, if she's anything like her mom. Sorry, Mr. G."
Gold nodded. "Thanks for telling me, Mr. Hawthorne," he said, and it was a dismissal if Galen ever heard one. The twenty-one year old nodded back before whirling around and striding back to his Mustang.
Gold wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling. Sadness, anger? Or perhaps relief, because obviously there's something going on with her and it's good she's getting help. But he couldn't ignore the gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach, the pain telling him she wasn't crazy, that she was anything but, that he should go over there and tell the doctors and her father exactly that.
But Mr. Gold was no Prince Charming. He was a coward, always had been, so he brushed off the new information.
After all, it's not like it's any of his business.
If Happy Ever After Did Exist
Gabbe dreamed of dungeons and Evil Queens, and pretty soon she believed the things they spoon-feed her on the outside: I'm crazy. I'm crazy. I must be absolutely insane, because what kind of sane person thinks like this?
She remembered a man. A man who looked like Graham but he calls himself the Huntsman and instead of being the sheriff he brings her food and makes idle small talk through prison cell bars until he got off work until the Queen calls him for whatever it is he needs to do.
She remembered a woman. A woman who looked like Mary Margaret but she's really an old childhood friend named Snow White and instead of being a schoolteacher she's a princess on the run until school lets out until she gets her happy ending.
She remembered another man, too, but he wasn't really a man. He reminded her of Mr. Gold but his name is Rumpelstiltskin and he wasn't a lame pawnbroker but a powerful magician and he wasn't her boss she's his caretaker and she was taken away from him in both worlds.
Gabriella French shuts her eyes against the cacophony of noises and voices that sound more like memories than they do hallucinations.
But that's why you're here, and not outside, isn't it?
Problems
She escaped one day.
It took the mayor exactly thirty minutes to find her, wandering by the library and the clock-tower. A plan formed in Regina's mind, one reminiscent of a lie told the life before. The girl is lost and confused, and maybe once upon a time Regina would've taken pity on such a defenseless creature.
Not anymore.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," the girl who was once a brave beauty said, hunched back against the closed-down library, the one the false memories said her mother used to work at before she lost it and hung herself.
"You will," Regina cooed, helping the young mental patient to her car. And she would. The former Evil Queen didn't know exactly why or how, but the curse was breaking on this particular specimen. If she stayed out in the open, regained her memories, tried to restore the happy endings… the mayor shook her head. That wouldn't happen. This girl was a problem.
And what did Regina do when she found a problem?
She got rid of them, of course.
Captive
They locked her up again.
The severe-looking nurse shoved her into her white padded cell once more. "The mayor is very angry," she said slowly, as if talking to a petulant child, "So, as punishment, you won't be allowed visitors. Ever again." The metal door slammed shut before Gabbe could even blink.
That's fine, she thought, curling up into a little ball on the floor, who would visit me anyway?
Unfixable
Gabriella knew she was crazy. She knew who she was, and she knew she wanted to be someone else. Someone who never existed. That's what they told her, anyway. Gabbe didn't want to be Gabbe. She wanted to be Belle.
But that was impossible, because she was not a princess. She was not a warrior-woman who helped men plan wars in a man's world. She was not a lady who lived with a beast; she was not a girl who had the courage to fall in love with a monster (or, well, she is, but she wasn't courageous enough to act on it).
She was not a brave Belle.
Not even close.
Maybe once upon a time she was. Once upon a time, she was brave and reckless and dreamy and always optimistic.
But now?
Now she was Gabriella, broken and chipped and utterly unfixable.
So This Is How A Heart Breaks
The shop wasn't the same without her.
It'd been over a month and a half since her admittance to the hospital, and he couldn't shake the emptiness of the place just yet. He missed the way she'd hum while dusting, her odd little quips and quirks about the merchandise. He missed her.
But he kept telling himself it's not his business.
She was just an employee, and employees come and go all the time, right? Right. He was thinking this when the bell at the front of the shop jingled (the bell she fixed), signaling a customer. He didn't look up from the ledger, but he smelled the familiar vanilla-based perfume, the one that always let him know when trouble was nearing.
"Mayor Mills," he said, without looking up, "What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to give my condolences," she simpered, slapping a copy of The Daily Mirror on the countertop. He could hear the smile in her voice and is almost afraid to look up at her. Luckily, he didn't have to. He kept his attention focused solely on the ledger before him, and didn't look at the newspaper until he heard the door open and slam shut.
It was the front page story. Mental Patient Jumps off Clock Tower.
His throat was blocked and his heart was heavy as he skimmed the article, already knowing who it was, not daring to believe it until he saw the name for himself.
And when the words Gabriella French jumped out at him between the cacophony of printed font and chaos, he swore he felt his heart break.
Phoenix
He took the chipped cup, the cup that she'd tried to throw away her first day with him, home. He doesn't know why but it reminds him of her, the echo of her laugh ringing in his ears whenever he looked at the imperfect porcelain.
All you'll have is an empty heart and a chipped cup.
He heard the words floating on her voice when he set the thing in his china cabinet. It looked out of place, the only imperfection in a crowd of porcelain perfectness, but he didn't remove it. It was out of place, but it fit just the same.
Just like Gabbe. A girl full of potential stuck in a backwoods Maine town.
Just like Belle. A phoenix rising from the ashes, only to get knocked back down into oblivion by the beast she dared to love.
Longest Night
Ruby and Mary Margaret entered his shop a week later. It was the first time they'd ever stepped foot in the place, and he knew they must have felt uncomfortable.
The pawnbroker didn't look up when the two girls walked in. He heard the quiet shuffling of feet, and then Ruby's voice, raspy and soft, most likely from crying. "Mr. Gold, are you coming?"
He turned his head to face them. "Coming where, dearie?"
The girls flinched in unison. Dearie was a broad term he often used when he was in a bad mood—and no one ever wanted to be around when Mr. Gold was in a bad mood. But Ruby plowed through, because she was nothing if not brave and independent.
"Gabriella's funeral. I—we know how close you guys were. You were like, the only one she could talk to. About anything. She trusted you way more than she trusted us—and we're her best friends, so that's saying something." She trailed away, and swallowed thickly, as if that five-sentence-long-monologue was enough to drain her. And then she continued, her voice even quieter and raspier. "It doesn't feel right—she'd have wanted you there."
"I was merely her employer," he said, words devoid of any emotion. If he acted like he didn't care, maybe they'd go away. Maybe they'd never bring her up again. Then, maybe, he can forget the girl with the golden smile.
"You and I both know that's not true, Mr. Gold," Mary Margaret said softly, uncharacteristically bold as she addressed the town menace. "You were friends." Maybe more. The last two words were unspoken, but he understood the implication. Everyone thought it; everyone whispered about it when they thought his back was turned.
A pregnant pause enveloped the store, and he broke it when he realized the cold shoulder tactic wasn't working and they weren't leaving. "I'm very sorry," he said softly, and right now he genuinely means it, "But I'm very busy."
Ruby and Mary share a sad, secretive smile.
"Okay, Mr. Gold."
"Whatever you say, Mr. G."
The chiming of the bell above the door is the only sound heard when they leave.
Gold grips the countertop as if his life depends on it.
Coward, coward, coward you're a god-damned coward, Gold.
In Loving Memory Of
It was a Saturday night, and Gold had just gone to Granny's to collect the rent. He liked going at night, when there was less of a chance of running into Ruby and having to endure those sad, pitying glances.
That was the night he'd regained his memories.
Emma. The name was echoing in his mind, over and over like a mantra. Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma.
"What a lovely name," he said, covering up for his surprised slip of the tongue. The blond woman didn't seem to notice. It would take her a while to get her to believe, that much he could easily see. She was an adult of this world so she was naturally practical, pragmatic, logical, programmed to believe in anything related to the word magic.
He collected the rent without much delay, and nearly managed to leave the house without locking eyes with Ruby. He brushed off the feeling of her eyes before limping his way back home, enjoying the fresh, cold air filling his lungs.
He opened the door to his pink two-story house. Made it all the way upstairs until he collapsed in a gasping heap on his bed. The memories had been building up the whole way home, and now they were unleashing themselves. Three and a half centuries worth of pain and guilt ate at him from the inside out, a whole collection of images and noises and feelings collided with his Storybrooke memories.
Twenty-six minutes passed before Gold gained a sense of where he was. The two sets of memories in his head had settled, and he took a second to match people from the Enchanted Forest to their Storybrooke counterparts. And then, without warning, the mental image of Bae and Belle assault him and he feels the need to retch with the amount of guilt and love just thinking about them brings on.
It's in these moments he begins to wonder if he was better off as Mr. Gold until the curse broke.
If he was better off being blissfully ignorant.
Holding Out for a Hero
After the Moe French debacle, Mr. Gold is perfectly content to never hear from Emma until the curse is broken. Or until he calls in that favor. Whatever comes first. The last thing he wants is to be put in prison. Again.
But when she called him one night, he can't help but pick up the phone. He was half-asleep and still kind of dreaming, dreaming of things he'd rather not discuss out loud (dreams of beauties and ogres and Bae) so when she said the name "Gabriella", he thought he was doing just that. Still dreaming.
Either way, whether she said it or not, he woke up when he heard it. He listened more attentively, ears perking when he hears that she might be alive. He doesn't care if the sheriff is wrong or not—this is hope, and it's the best thing she could've given him.
He said a quiet "thank you" before hanging up.
Regina. Regina. Regina. The name was poison in his mind, his mouth as he murmured it with undeniable loathing. If Graham's file was right, Belle had been locked up. For twenty-eight years, right under his nose.
Belle was alive.
Belle was alive.
Savior
Gabbe (no, no, it's Belle; it's always been Belle, I know that now) knew only one thing, being locked away in this prison for so long.
The door doesn't open.
It never opens, not unless she's acting up and they need to inject something into her system. Usually, they just spike her food, but sometimes she gets so caught up in her nightmare-dream that it turns to reality for a moment, and she begins to scream.
The door doesn't open.
Not until that one day. She was wary at first, jumping up at the sound, thinking maybe it was the nurse, thinking I haven't done anything wrong.
She saw the dark lady first, and she almost screamed. Not the dark lady—she'd rather have the horrible nurse. But then she noticed the expression on the dark lady's face—anger, resentment. Beside her stood a blond woman and—oh, god. Mr. Gold.
Rumpelstiltskin.
"Graham was right," the blond woman breathed, before taking a few steps forward and holding out her hand. She looked sympathetic and nice, but a little awkward. Belle eyed her warily. "Uh, come with me. We'll keep you safe. You're Gabriella, right?"
Belle, she wanted to correct the nice blond, but stopped herself last minute. They couldn't know. If they were letting her out, they needed to know she was sane. She'd regained enough of her memories to know that much. She nodded quickly. "Call me Gabbe," she said, more on impulse than anything else.
The blond lady nodded and smiled gently. "I'm Emma. I'm the sheriff."
Sheriff. Sheriff. Her mind is in a tailspin, but she knew that that couldn't be right. "Where's Graham?" she asked, pulling a memory from the depths of her mind. Graham. The Huntsman. The man who'd kept her company when she was in the queen's dungeon. The only man in town who knew about her feelings for Mr. Gold. Her acquaintance, her sort-of-friend, her confidante.
Emma paused. "He's gone."
"Dead?" She doesn't sound torn up or angry; just knowing. Just expecting. Graham was Graham. Reckless, always trying to do the right thing. Back when he'd visited her at the queen's castle, they often quipped that it would be the death of him.
Emma nodded. "A few months ago."
"I'm so sorry. He was a good guy."
"Were you friends?"
"Yeah, sort of. Before. We talked."
"Oh."
They don't say anything else; they don't have to. Regina, the dark lady, is gone. Probably back off to her palace or empire to plot her next move. She didn't look too happy. But Mr. Gold (Rum, her mind screamed) was still there, waiting patiently.
Her attention turned away from Emma and onto the man in front of her, before she let the elation take over and barreled straight into his arms. He staggered, stumbling back until his back hit the wall. "Gabbe. Gabbe," he whispered into her hair, hugging her tightly.
"Belle. Belle," she whispered back, just low enough for him and only him to hear.
His eyes widen and he turned his head to look at her. "You remember?"
She giggled and buried her nose in his shoulder. He smelled like the woods. "I never forgot. Not really. It just… took me a while."
He chuckled and held her tighter. "And you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive. You were scared, unprepared. I came on a little strong. We're both to blame, when it comes down to it." She shrugged, her eyes glimmering as she looked up at him. And then, as if remembering something, she glanced back at Emma. The new sheriff was standing awkwardly off to the side, cheeks pink, gaze averted.
"Sorry to break up the love fest," she said dryly, noting that it was all over, "But we still have to get back to the station to sign those release forms. Plus, we need the OK from Archie. So if you don't mind…" she gestured to the hall, towards the exit.
Belle giggled and nodded. Gold rolled his eyes.
This wasn't over. Not even close. But it was a happy ending. It was their happy ending. A mental patient and a lame pawnbroker.
Who would've thought?
A/N: What was that ending? Sorry, I couldn't think of one! I was just getting sick of this ridiculously long one-shot. But I hope you like it anyway! (:
Constructive criticism/reviews are always welcome!