So I haven't been a writer of fanfic for a very very long time, spontaneously decided to give it another shot. Forgive me if this is rusty and cliched, hopefully just getting back into the swing of things.
Be prepared for some fluffy star crossed dorks, that's all I can say.
The clock above Storybrooke library struck five, a second which felt heavy with a kind of magic in the small town, releasing its grey inhabitants from their grey jobs to walk under the grey skies, free to add some colour to their day. The pawnbroker glanced up when the first signs of his neighbours shutting up for day sounded and checked his pocket watch. With a little flourish he clicked the lock on his shop door and flicked the sign, smirking with relief as he tugged the blinds closed.
Mr Gold, of Gold and Son Pawnbrokers was a thread of colour in this small town. Foreign, both in upbringing and country, and wealthy without compare for miles around, his tailored three pieces held him up as he endured mistrust, and as time went on and he invested in more and more properties, open hostility. His son Neal, a teenager when they had moved to Storybrooke, was fortunately well liked by most due to his implacably charming nature, but now he had moved for college there was no longer a buffer or saving grace to adjust public opinion.
As time went on, he began to carry the grey suits he wore, and own the reputation he had been handed. He was unrelenting and precise in his execution of payments of rent, and repayment of loans. He was not friendly, only coldly polite, relying on careful silences and developing a glare that could occasionally even wither Mrs Hubbard of Granny's Diner, whose biting remarks ordinarily rivalled a wolf's. No one in this town liked him, but none truly knew him, and he had settled contentedly into a grey life where most day he would largely be free from frivolous begging or chattering, because everyone just left him alone.
Then Isabelle Rose French had stumbled out of her green car on her blue heels, chestnut curls bouncing over the detail on her purple blouse, and promptly spoiled his neat grey life through her red lipped smile and eyes which shone with green and blue light as she caught his arm as he passed to steady herself.
It had been six months of colour since that day, when he had taken her Australian accented thanks and self-deprecating giggle of embarrassment at her clumsiness with a small smirk, given her a brief nod and a word of welcome while she said she had come to run the town's old library, and continued along the street as if he not just met the most beautiful and engaging woman he had ever encountered. To his astonishment and pleasure, she had deigned to speak to him again a few days later as he collected rent at the ice cream shop, and for the first time since Neal lived with him he bought ice cream after business was done.
She was subject to some of the same mistrust he had been initially, but her looks and aptitude with children and her work soon dissuaded the more malignant comments. She was however considered an outsider, and like him did not tally well with what the townspeople expected from her – she declared herself uninterested in dating, despite what some of the mothers had to say about her being in her thirties and unattached, and while enjoying make up and clothes she did not follow fashions and looked very little like the other women in the town. Those first few weeks of her settling in had led him to come to the firm conclusion that he was not going to be capable of staying away from her, and she had thoroughly and effortlessly ruined his perfectly acceptable existence.
Since then they had maintained what the closest thing to a friendship, with him regularly stopping by the library under the pretence of buying a book on antiquities or a casual read, usually staying for upwards of an hour while they had debates and discussions on all manner of things, and she did the same, stopping by the pawn shop while out shopping on the weekends. He was surprised how much he had missed deep conversation and intellectual challenge, and was enthralled by her passion and quick wit.
Recently though, their visits were dying down – the summer had come and Belle was an engaging and passionate librarian – her time at work was filled with activities and guidance and teaching of the local children. His business was picking up too, with tourism and returning families meaning rent was no longer a struggle to get and more of his time was taken by trips out of town to buy, sell and value antiquities. He had been trying to tell himself that this was good – he needed to maintain his image in order to be safe, and too many times he had been caught in a good mood and been generous with rent time or had library goers pause in confusion when they heard him happily chatting with Belle and think they can also speak to him like that.
Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a persistent whisper that he couldn't care less what the town thought and wanted her all to himself. Obviously that part of his mind come into the light recently – everything about him, from his hair to his shoe tips, was grey. He and Isabelle Rose French were not even painted by the same hand, they could never share a canvas.
Not five minutes after he had locked the shop, there was a tentative knocking at the door. His eyes snapped up and dumbly stared towards it for too many seconds before he heard her soft and vibrant voice call his name questioningly.
Hopefully that was a nice taster, more coming very soon.
Just a minor note, I am English so use english spellings and I am woefully ignorant of American culture beyond what I see on the TV, so I hope that isn't too reaching - I am assuming small towns are much alike wherever you are.
Thanks for reading, constructive feedback would be much appreciated.