The only reason Mr. Gold knew that her name was Belle French was because he had seen her walking into the library to sit at the circulation desk, and he knew the name of every public figure—even down to the man in charge of sewage. She knew he was Mr. Gold because everyone knew that he was Mr. Gold, but they never said each other's names.
They never said much, really. They'd been coming to the same coffee shop at the same time for a month, and whether it was by coincidence or not, Mr. Gold always ended up behind her in line, reading whatever book she had brought over her shoulder. Sometimes, he enjoyed it—like when she brought poetry or Kurt Vonnegut—but other times, it was romance novels or trashy mysteries. Still, he read over her shoulder, and she held it just a little higher than was natural, and sometimes, she'd ask his opinion.
He was never nice, even if he liked something, and Belle French had an eye roll just for him. It was more polite than most gestures he received, and she always followed it with a hidden smile, and he would have to look away to hide his own.
It took him that whole first month to realize that he could ask her if she wanted to sit down and drink their coffee together. It took another week for him to gather the courage, but he took the fact that she didn't have a book with her that day as a good sign. She was even wearing blackberry red lipstick—as though she had dressed for seduction.
"Oh, I'm sorry—I have to run to a meeting today," she said, biting her lip.
He swallowed—no one would wear lipstick like that for him. "Of course. I hope it goes terribly."
She rolled her eyes, and pressed her smiling lips together. "Tomorrow?"
Something caught in his throat. It might have been surprise. "Ah—yes. Yes, I am available tomorrow."
"Okay." She faced forward so that she could move toward the now-free counter, and then glanced back. "I'll see you then."
Reading the paper was an antiquated hobby, but Mr. Gold had been doing it every morning since his eighteenth birthday, and he was loathe to give it up—even if the Storybrooke Mirror was a pile of shit handcrafted by the mayor to make her look better, and he'd have gotten better news from opening up his computer and scrolling through CNN.
Instead of the front page detailing the mayor's new campaign to make the town better, the headline read 'SHOOTOUT IN MAIN STREET.' It was over a large photo of a scruffy man in a leather jacket with a bleeding cut on his forehead—the shooter, probably.
For an article like this, he figured he'd want to dedicate actual attention, so he set his paper down and buttered his toast. After a beat, he went to the fridge for the blackberry jam and added that as well, then sat down with his finished breakfast and coffee and unfolded his paper.
The man in the photograph was named August Booth, age 35. He'd been in town a week, and was the shooter's intended target, but had been pushed out of the way. His rescuer was in critical condition at the hospital, and the doctors were not optimistic. Mr. Gold took a bite of his toast, getting jam on his upper lip. Instead of wiping it off with his napkin, he licked it, then set his toast down to reach for his coffee.
It is unknown why Belle French, age 29, was at the scene of the crime, but it seems she was Booth's guardian angel. Booth told the Mirror that, after shouting did nothing to dissuade his attacker, French ran toward him and shoved him out of the way of an oncoming bullet, taking the blow herself. The bullet injury was non-fatal, but French fell onto the pavement and hit her head. She was unconscious when paramedics arrived on the scene, and is now currently hooked up to life support in the hopes that she might awaken soon. Police have not caught the shooter, but Booth is aiding in any way he can.
Mr. Gold set his paper down as though the table might shatter if he wasn't careful. His toast followed, and then his coffee cup, and then his reading glasses. After clasping his hands over the newspaper, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.
It was just as well that Belle French was in critical condition. Death was the only sure way to escape from the likes of him.