A/N: Don't you hate it when you get an idea in your head that gets stuck and won't go away? -YN
Mr. Gold is in a foul mood. It had been a good day, up until about two hours ago. He'd collected rents, made a few deals, the usual. He'd locked the store and gone to his car when it happened. He'd noticed Ruby crossing the cold street, and he'd turned his head to watch her move. She was gorgeous bundled in her winter coat with a hat on her head – they did nothing to hide those long, long legs and the fall of coloured hair down her spine. He supposed it made him a lecherous old man, and possibly a pervert – there had to be at least three and probably four decades difference in their ages. But as long as he looked and didn't touch, he could justify it to himself. Watching Ruby is his guilty little pleasure, the only one he really has. Then his cane had hit a patch of black ice, invisible against the bitumen, and he'd slipped, crashing to the ground and yelping in pain as his bad leg twisted beneath him.
He'd growled curses under his breath as he realised he'd bitten his tongue. Gold was trying to struggle to his feet when he'd heard it.
"Oh my gosh, Mr. Gold, are you okay?" It was Ruby. Ruby had come to his rescue. She had crouched beside him and offered him a hand up, but it was the look in her eyes that made him want to strike her. Pity. She pitied him. But he'd allowed her to help him up and steady him as he gingerly tried putting weight on his leg, because there was no other way he was going to be able to stand up.
"I'm fine, dear," he'd told her, shaking off her assistance when he realised he could stand. "Just a little tumble."
"You should be more careful," she'd advised him. "This weather..." She'd shaken her head, and the pity was still in her eyes. "Do you need a hand to your car?"
"No," he'd snapped, and he watched as she pulled away. It was good for her to remember who he was, and what he did for a living. Good for her to remember that he had his metaphorical hands around her Granny's throat, and all he'd have to do was squeeze.
"Fine," she'd replied, that rebellious spirit flaring up as she'd spun and continued on her way, leaving him glaring after her.
So now here he was, back in his salmon coloured house, pouring a fifth of scotch and taking a double dose of pain medication. He swallows half the scotch and divests himself of his now filthy jacket and his tie. His Armani is his armour, and he knows it. With the comfort of an impeccably tailored five thousand dollar suit girding his frame, he can forget that he's short and skinny and greying. He can forget that any woman who looks at him only lusts after his money, not his body. He takes another belt of scotch and refills the glass, relishing the warmth, the sweet burn in his throat that only the top shelf stuff can give.
Gold limps through his house and glares at the stairs, then stalks to the living room. He can't manage them right now, not until the meds and the scotch really kick in. So he sits, perches really, on the edge of an armchair and considers Ruby. She'd seen him vulnerable, but had she really seen beneath the mask and the armour? He tries to tell himself a comforting lie, but he can't. She tries to hide it behind her tiny shorts and bad manners, but the girl is quite intelligent. Perhaps he can turn this to his advantage somehow. He drinks more scotch and in the privacy of his house he makes a disgusted face. Just as long as he never saw that pity in her eyes again, he'd chalk this one up as a win.