Til Chapter Three
AN: This is an AU based on the movie Stranger Than Fiction :D It's not going to follow the movie exactly, but the BIG element is still there. Enjoy!
Prologue: Meet Nicholas Gold
"Bullshit!" The cry of indignation was punctuated quiet loudly by the slamming of both hands to the counter, "This is absolute bullshit, Gold!"
"Ruby," was the low hiss immediately after the outburst, an old woman glaring at a rather…incensed brunette from behind the counter of a diner.
"Don't Ruby me Granny!" The waitress threw off her apron and placed both hands strongly on her hips, "This is the third time our rent's been raised in six months."
"Once bi-monthly," came the calm and unwavering reply as Gold took a step forward towards the cash register, and the more level-headed employee of the diner, "As per your original leasing agreement."
Though clearly not happy, the old woman hit the cash button for the register, the drawer springing out to reveal a few big bills and a stack of twenties. While she counted the money out, she made sure to continue the unwavering glare that had begun the second Storybrooke's chief (only) loan financer had made his way into the restaurant.
"Granny no," Ruby demanded, stomping over quite remarkably fast for a woman in so tall of heels, "Do not give that man any more of our money!"
"Hush girl!" Granny snapped, double-counting the twenties before rolling them into a ball. Gold sneered at the manhandling. No doubt the woman knew he hated crumpled bills in his safe. "We signed the lease."
"Because it's the only lease in town!" The young waitress, clearly sensing a losing argument with the matron, swerved on her heel and pointed an incriminating finger at Gold instead. "You. How can you sleep at night? Running up the bill on decent, hard-working people?"
Two eyebrows rose, "Comfortably. Now, Miss Lucas, I believe my business is with the owner of this establishment."
Her nostrils were nearly flaring at this point. "You can't just waltz in here you mother-!"
"Ruby that is enough!" Granny spat, slamming shut the cash drawer to punctuate her point. It worked, somewhat, as Gold's ears were spared the rather vulgar use of language and Ruby was shocked into silence.
For about a half second.
"But-!"
"Go out back." Granny muttered.
"I'm not going out back-!"
"Now."
The girl actually stomped her foot. He almost felt compelled to give her applause for committing so well to the image of petulant child. Making an angry, huffing noise, she swerved on those impractical shoes, sending a glare that rivaled her grandmother's as she furiously ducked underneath the diner's bar and disappeared through the kitchen's doors.
Her grandmother just sighed, shaking her head and wrapping a rubber band around the stack of money.
"Is your customer service always so…expressive?" Gold asked, not with the expectation of an answer but for the opportunity to convey the proper amount of disdain.
"My girl's a good girl," the old woman said pointedly and with no room for argument, reaching over the counter and offering him the roll of bills.
Gold smiled, "I trust it's all accounted for."
Granny glared, "And I trust you can see yourself out."
He clucked his tongue against his teeth, "Now, now Mrs. Lucas. There's no need for hostility between two business associates," he soothed, reaching out a hand to take the money.
"Associates implies one's not getting robbed."
"You were well within your rights to review the lease's terms before signing."
"Gold?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lucas?"
"Kindly get bent."
The smile only grew, "I'll see you same time next month, dearie."
The door to the diner soon closed without more spectacle, and when Mr. Gold finally left the premises of Granny's the patrons breathed a sigh of collective relief.
III
This is a story about a man named Nicholas Gold.
The air of Storybrooke had a bite to it as Gold sauntered back to his pawn shop, cane in hand and tapping with a practiced regularity on the pavement. As he passed several people on the road, most made an effort to get to the other side of it as quickly as possible. The rest merely ducked their heads down or suddenly became enraptured with their cell phones.
Speaking of. Gold paused in his walk when he felt the tell-tale vibration of phone call in his pocket. He stopped, pulling the cell out and scanning the name of the caller.
And his Blackberry.
Ah, the florist.
Nicholas Gold was a man of infinite numbers, propositions, and remarkably few friends. And his mobile managed them all.
He answered, "Make it fast."
Every weekday, for twenty-eight years, Nicholas Gold would operate a pawn store from the hours of seven am to six pm. There, he would consolidate loans, barter goods, and negotiate rental agreements. On Saturdays, Nicholas Gold made himself available for legal counseling.
"Mr. French, I do believe the terms of the deal were fairly specific." Gold began to continue his walk, approaching the pawn store across the road.
Every day before he opened the store, Nicholas Gold would tie his tie in a double-windsor knot. He would cleanly press his own shirts and trousers, as the local dry-cleaning service failed to put in the proper crease along the seams. His pocket square was always a complimentary shade to his tie, and would be evenly folded across three planes.
"I understand your plight, Mr. French. But I'm not in the business of handing out favors," as he made his way to the door, Gold leaned his cane against the wall and fished in his pocket for the key to the building.
Every day, for twenty-eight years, Nicholas Gold would visit the fifty-seven establishments under his rental management for monthly payments. A civilized man, he would always conduct these visits on a Tuesday in order for property renters to organize their payments the previous Monday. For those unable to pay on that first Tuesday of every month, Gold would apply a quite reasonable 26% interest rate to the rent due the following month.
The key turned over the lock easily, and Gold lifted his shoulder to press the phone to his ear as his other hand reached for his cane, "You seem to be having problems understanding your situation, Mr. French, so allow me to clarify: your rent is due, in full, for the last six months, next Tuesday or I will be forced to appropriate what I deem as suitable collateral."
And every day, for the last twenty-eight years, Nicholas Gold would spend 2.7 hours balancing his general ledgers.
Gold ended the line abruptly. The florist had been a rather pathetic pain in his side for the past year, barely scraping by on the agreed rental payments for his delivery van and store building. It had been amusing, at first, to watch the man struggle and create excuses every month, but at this point things were just beginning to cross the line from entertaining to taxing. And Gold was not a man in the business of losing revenue.
Following the balance of his general ledgers, Nicholas Gold would then give himself to a twenty-five minute lunch break. This allowed him an additional fifteen minutes to review previous legal briefings.
The shop was dark and dusty as Gold made his way inside. He turned, flipping the pawn store's sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and then hitting the light switch with the same amount of practiced regularity. The light was hardly bright, a low amber at best- chosen to promote the ambiance of antiquity.
Gold paid little attention to such things today, however. He reached inside his suit pocket and withdrew Mrs. Lucas's cash, as well as the envelope he had collected earlier from Mr. Tillman.
Then, later in the afternoon, after all his ledgers were balanced and the belongings of his safe accounted for, Nicholas Gold would then indulge in a six-point-three minute tea break.
Gold walked steadily towards the back room, sitting in his office chair and tossing his cane upon the desk.
Outside of his shop and his dealings, Nicholas lived a life of solitude.
He pushed his good foot against the ground, wheeling his swiveled chair towards the large safe.
He'd walk home alone.
Expertly, and with the same efficiency that his sign was flipped and his lights were switched, Gold began to dial the safe's combination.
He would eat alone.
The dial landed on a number, then twisted back to another.
And, at precisely 11:15 every night…
The safe's door popped open, revealing thick but neat stacks of bundled bills. None of them were in a smaller increment than $2000.
…Nicholas would go to bed, alone.
Gold's fingers pried open Mr. Tillman's envelope, withdrawing the neat, crisp stacks of fifties from within. The mechanic, at least, had the courtesy to keep his payments tidy.
His Blackberry would rest on his nightstand, within arm's reach every night in the event of a financial emergency.
Satisfied, Gold then went to unroll the rubber band from Mrs. Lucas's unkempt payment.
This was, of course, before this Tuesday.
It took several attempts to smooth out the wrinkled monetary notes. But Gold persisted in smoothing them until they at least resembled the crisp bills within the safe.
On this Tuesday, Nicholas's Blackberry changed everything.
And somewhere, as Gold attempted to smooth out his earnings, a little boy named Henry Mills was receiving a toy bow and arrow set. His grandfather affectionately ruffling his hair.
And somewhere else in the sleepy town of Storybrooke, an irate waitress was walking into a small, used bookstore.
If one were to ask Nicholas, he would say that this particular Tuesday was like all Tuesdays prior.
Gold licked his thumb and began the slow, methodical shuffle of counting up the month's rent from the diner, one bill after the next.
He continued that afternoon the same way he always-
Gold stopped counting. Silence. He shook his head as he once again licked his thumb and began to count-
And he continued it the same way he always did-
Gold stopped. Again. He eyed the bills suspiciously for a few moments, and when he spoke it was with hesitance.
"Hello?"
Silence was his only answer. He scowled, wheeling back from his safe to see the entrance to his shop. No one was there. When he went to count again, it was with an obvious hesitance.
He continued it the same way he always did. When others' minds would-
He set the money down on the desk, grabbing his cane and using it to prop himself up from his seat. He took a few steps towards the storefront, just to be sure.
"Hello? May I help you?"
Nothing.
He stayed standing for a few minutes extra before snorting, heading back to his seat. The cane was set down once again, and Gold picked up the money with a touch more reassurance-
When others' minds would fantasize about their upcoming weeks or their potential dalliances with friends or family, Nicholas Gold just counted crumpled twenties.
Gold slammed down his money.
"Alright. Who just said that I was counting crumpled twenties?" He paused, the anger being replaced with unease, "And how do you know I'm counting twenties, crumpled ones nonetheless?"
There was no response.
He touched the money.
Thankfully, this Tuesday-
He removed his hand from the money quickly. Nothing. He touched it again-
This Tuesday, things were to be different for one-
He moved it again. Silence.
With the furrowed brow of a condemned man, Gold picked up the stack of bills one more time-
Things were to be different for one Nicholas Gold.
He dropped them, swearing.
Gold wasn't sure what exactly was happening…but if he had to wager a guess, he would wager that he was becoming subject to narration.