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Chapter Three: Little Did He Know

Shards of glass flew, and Gold twisted his face just enough to avoid the worst of the flying debris as he reared his cane back and struck at the display case again. And again. The objects beneath, he thought with a detached, latent form of sensibility were jewelry. It was alright to smash this display case, the damages wouldn't be sustaining to the merchandise. And so it was, again and again he brought down the cane until there was nothing recognizable to it.

"Mr. Gold, distraught and furious, brought down his cane with notable force against the pristine surface of the display case-" Gold bit out, going to the next one and slamming down again with his cane. It shattered, and this time he realized that the case held a delicate model ship within it. Too late. The cane crashed again, "-destroying an irreplaceable replica of the Lady Annabella-"

Again he broke a case. Again the narrator, for once, seemed to have no comment. Time for a new approach.

Gold slammed his cane back to the floor and stalked toward the back of his shop, "Mr. Gold was a man of furious temper-"

Nothing. The Voice was remaining silent.

He approached the safe, dialing it open, "Nicholas Gold was a man of fortune and vast wealth and-" what had been that last part again? Solitude? "-Solitude?"

Nothing. The voice was silent.

Gold could feel the massive wave of hysteria start to pass, and he sunk, bonelessly into his swiveled chair, "Nicholas Gold wondered out lot how to stem the prospect of imminent death."

Silence.

He sighed, leaning back and looking upwards. For once, solitude was starting to feel like a bad thing.

In the front of the shop, a light fixture that was hanging by a few cords snapped off and fell, on yet another display case.

Archie was pretty sure he had straightened his glasses for about the fifth time, "Well, you see Ms. Lucas-"

"Ruby, Archie."

"…Ruby, it looks like your payment was off a few times this past year…"

Across the table, the only response that Archie was given was a rather over the top and dramatic roll of the eyes, "Why do you work for that monster?"

Archie cleared his throat, nervously shuffling the papers out of the manila folder, "And because of that, there's an outstanding balance of…" his eyes widened as he did a final run-threw of the numbers, "…twenty-three dollars and fifty-four cents. Huh." Maybe he hadn't been doing Mr. Gold a favor by taking the Lucas accounts, seeing as the sum total was a significantly small number.

"He can take the twenty-three dollars from my cold, dead hands."

Maybe he had.

Archie sighed, "I know it's not…the best of leases, but it's still legally binding-"

"Ugh, first Belle and now you with this legally binding crap." Ruby groaned, looking over her shoulder to make sure no customers straggled in. It was technically her break, and while she didn't mind spending the half hour in Archie's company, she wasn't in favor of spending it talking about late returns and fiscal responsibilities and whatever other buzzword for "robbing you blind" Mr. Gold had concocted.

"It's not crap," was all Archie could offer, straightening his glasses for want of something to do with his hands besides fidget. Ruby's company brought that out in him.

"You still haven't answered my question as to why you work for him."

Archie looked down, and gave a sigh, before closing the manila folder. Obviously the grand total of twenty-three dollars and fifty-four cents wasn't going to be resolved until Mrs. Lucas arrived, "I imagined-"

"What? Cushy late fees? A nicer office building? A bonus of blood sweat and tears-"

"-that even people like Mr. Gold could use a friend."

Ruby immediately colored, biting down on her lip, "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

Archie gave a slump of his shoulders, "I know it's…hard to imagine, but Mr. Gold is just as human as any of us-"

"Really hard to imagine," Ruby took a sip of her coffee, "You know he's out to sue Belle, right?"

Archie grimaced at that. Miss French was a very kind, brave young woman. And her bookstore was one of Archie's favorite places to practice his knitting- she often let him look at pattern books for free, "I didn't know that, no."

"Who could sue Belle. I mean, I could see him suing me maybe, but Belle does book-drives for Kindergarteners'. And for the people in Storybrooke prison."

Archie nodded, "The Books for Crooks campaign, right?"

Ruby gave a grunt as she took another drink, "Apparently they're big on Nicholas Sparks."

A comfortable silence fell between the pair, as Ruby started to add another sugar packet to her drink and Archie began to tidy up his area. It was nice of her to let him use one of their booths for his financial work, just like she did every Tuesday, usually with a complimentary slice of cheesecake. Ruby Lucas was a far kinder person than she gave herself credit for.

"…I don't think you should be sued." The words were out before Archie could reign them back in.

Ruby stared at him, confusion overtaking her very, very pretty features, "What?"

Archie cleared his throat, "Earlier, you said you could see Mr. Gold suing you. I…I don't think you should be sued, either."

The waitress tilted her head and smiled, "Aw, you're cute."

He was pretty sure he felt the same shade as his hair, "So maybe I'll just…borrow you the twenty-three dollars and fifty-four cents."

Her nose wrinkled, "You think he'd sue for that much?"

"You only need twenty dollars to go to civil court."

"What a beast."

"A beast with a gift for litigation," Archie sighed, "Though maybe we should refrain from the name-calling?"

"Whatever you say, Archie."

He placed his files in his leather satchel, the buckle snapping down with a clean click, "I was reviewing your lease files earlier, and I noticed that there was a conditional that we could maybe take a look at…"

Ruby's eyes narrowed, "Conditional?"

He nodded, again going to straighten his glasses, "Every five years, Mr. Gold put the conditional that the leasing agreement can be revised. If my spreadsheets-" Ruby gave a snort at the word, but Archie bravely pressed on, "-are correct, that's coming up next week. I could…"

"You could?"

"I could take a look at them, if you want. I'll admit that my expertise isn't in contracts but I could maybe review some of the numbers-"

"Isn't that like being a double agent? You work for Mr. Gold."

Archie looked down, only semi-guiltily, "Mr. Gold was the one who put the conditional in the contract in the first place…"

Ruby gave a bonafide squeal of delight, the sound of which made the psychologist slash accountant straighten in his seat, "That'd be great! We can really stick it to-"

"-I don't really intend to "stick it" to anyone-"

"-and Gran can finally save up to buy that new oven! You're a lifesaver, Archie!" Ruby declared, leaning over and giving him a hug. Even though a formica table, two saucers of coffee, a leather satchel, a half-eaten slice of cheesecake, and two sets of silverware were between them, Archie still managed to give the tinniest bit of a manly swoon. Before awkwardly patting her back.

"It…was just a suggestion…"

"The best suggestion ever, quite frankly," Ruby said leaning back in her seat and Archie felt, for the briefest of moments, a very profound sense of loneliness at the lack of her warmth, "I'll talk to Granny."

Archie smiled, "I'm happy to help."

Ruby opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of the bell by the door paused her statement, she turned, and her face fell, "Speak of the devil," she muttered under her breath.

Nicholas Gold stood in the doorway to Granny's. His tie halfway done, what looked like some blood peeking out from beneath his hairline, and pocket-square suspiciously missing.

Also he looked a little deranged.

There was that too.

Archie's eyebrows knit in concern, "Mr. Gold? Are you alright?"

Gold walked over to the table, his normally steady gait offset by the frantic expression on his face, "I've been looking everywhere for you," he paused, noticing Archie had company on the other side of his booth, "Miss Lucas, a moment, if you would."

She snorted, throwing down her dish towel on the table, "My break's over, anyways." She sent Archie a look that he was sure was supposed to be meaningful, but as he tried to concern its significance, she slid away and Mr. Gold almost immediately took her spot.

"Do you want anything?" The waitress asked Gold with no small amount of disdain.

"Tea. Please." A pause, "Decaffeinated."

"Sure." With a considerably warmer tone she turned to him, "Archie? Anything?"

"…Maybe some coffee."

"You got it. Good luck with the monster."

Gold scowled at that, but she was gone before he could offer a quip in return. Archie slowly took off his glasses, giving them a methodical clean with his sweater vest.

"So…you seem…stressed."

"I hear a voice inside my head."

Archie stopped mid-lens, situating the glasses back on his face and trying to ignore the fact that one was half smudged, "Beg your pardon?"

"In my head. There's a voice."

If this had been anyone, absolutely anyone other than Gold, Archie would have suspected he was on the butt end of a joke. As it was, "…what sort of voice?"

"A narrator. One with a more flamboyant and at times manic tone."

"You…hear a narrator?"

"Yes. I believe I've asserted that well enough at this point."

"And it's…telling you to do things?"

"No, it's telling me what I'm already doing."

Archie gave a very slow, calculated blink. In his years of school, and his following as a professional in the field, this presented a very new problem, "What you're…already doing."

"Sometimes. It comes and goes."

"The voice isn't constant?"

Gold grit his teeth, and Archie could sense his annoyance between the formica table, two cups of coffee, half eaten slice of cheesecake, and two sets of silverware, "No. It disappears occasionally, as if it's off telling other parts of the story."

"So you think you're in a book?"

"Something like that."

Archie cleared his throat, "Maybe you'd like to continue this conversation down at my office-?"

The sound of Gold's cane slamming against the floor gave a sharp interruption. "No. There might not be time for that."

"Why not?"

"Because the voice said something about imminent death. Now, are you or are you not deserving of that doctorate, Dr. Hopper?"

Archie, not used to such…aggression from his employer, shook his head to regain his thoughts and composure, "You have a narrator warning you of imminent death?"

"That's right. Why?"

Archie pinched his nose, "Well, and this is in no way an official diagnosis, by any means, under any circustances, generally speaking-"

"Out with it!"

"- a voice inside your head indicates schizophrenia. "

Gold inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly, "It's not schizophrenia."

"I said it wasn't an official diagnosis-"

"The voice isn't telling me to do anything. It just. It's omniscient. And in the third person," he paused, leaning forward, "Does that have any significance?"

"The point of view?"

"Yes."

Archie gave a shrug, "I…I can only offer my experience as a psychologist, but generally no, the point of view is a smaller factor in cases of schizophrenia."

"It's not schizophrenia," Gold leaned back, and thoughts of dusty books, long tables, and beautiful eyes assaulted him, "It's…literary."

"I'd suggest talking to Miss French then, but…it seems you've made a poor impression."

Gold didn't miss the slightest hint of accusation there, and his eyebrows rose at Archie in surprise.

"She donates romance novels to prisoners," he countered diplomatically.

"Of course she does," Gold muttered, "I…I can't talk to Miss French about this. And it's not schizophrenia. In your opinion, what should I do?"

"Then I guess…" Archie frowned, tugging at his collar. This was the first time Gold had asked him his advice since…well, ever, "I guess the next logical step would be to talk to someone who knows a lot about writing."

The coffee hit August's tongue with a fiery vengeance, and he swished it around in his mouth experimentally before taking a swallow. His tongue was burned, and now his landlord wanted to talk to him, not the best of days. It was good coffee too, not that he would be able to taste it anymore.

He looked up from his mug to stare across his kitchen table. On the other side sat the aforementioned landlord, his hands folded over his cane and his face drawn into a tight expression that August had come to associate with his late payments.

"So you think you're in a book," August said, taking another long sip from his mug. Gold winced at the slurping sound.

"Potentially," Gold said in a strained tone.

"Huh."

"Aren't writers supposed to be more…loquacious?"

August's eyebrows rose behind his mug, "Loquacious. Now there's a big word."

"It appears my vocabulary has been exponentially expanded as of late."

"Exponentially. There's another."

Gold scowled, leaning forward, "I suppose now's the time where I mention that I am in ownership of the building you live in?"

August made a dismissive hand motion, "I'm a wanderlust king. The writer never stays in one place too long- don't roll your eyeballs, Gold, that's probably why you're in this position- or the plot gets stagnate." He tilted his head, "Part of why I don't get someone would be writing a book where you're the main character, no offense."

He frowned at that. It was one thing to be told by a third person omniscient that you were doomed to die, imminently at that, it was quite another to be told you don't make a compelling protagonist, "Are you trying to imply something, Mr. Booth?"

"August, please. Mr. Booth is so…antiquated." He leaned back in his seat, "Maybe," he lifted his mug, "How much do you think this mug costs?"

Gold scowled. "The relevance of this, Mr. Booth?"

"Just take a guess."

Sums and figures danced around Nicholas's mind. The mug was cheap, ceramic. Likely bought at a thrift store or had been in Booth's careless possession for a multitude of years. The painting of the pink kitten on the side did little to instill an intrinsic value to it.

"Fifty-cents."

August made a mock wince, "Harsh. But true. How about the coffee?"

Mr. Gold took a deep inhale, he cared little for coffee, preferring the subtle nuances of flavor to be found in tea instead, but coffee was typically present at business meetings. Good coffee made impressions.

"Considerably more expensive than the mug."

August nodded, setting the mug down and folding his hands over his stomach, "So you're a loan shark-"

"Creditor."

"Who makes a living screwing people out of their earnings-"

"Maintaining legal contracts."

"-anything else? Besides the rummage store-"

"Pawn shop."

"Same difference, narratively speaking."

Gold exhaled, "I do some legal work."

"Lawyer?"

A nod.

August nodded in return, "I guess that might have some potential. Married?"

Gold glared at him, his jaw setting tight, "Once."

"Divorced?"

"She left me for a pirate."

August perked up with genuine interest for perhaps the first time since Gold had sauntered into his apartment like he owned the place. Which he did. But that was beside the point, "Swashbuckling kind?"

"...corporate buy-out kind."

The interest deflated. He could've worked with pirate pirate. "Kids?"

The grip on his cane became tighter, August could see his knuckles go white, "The point of these questions, Booth?"

"Just Booth now. Interesting." August leaned forward again, taking the pen and notebook that lay on the table and jotting something down. Gold's teeth grit, "You live alone?"

"Yes."

"Pets?"

"Absolutely not."

"Friends?"

His mind briefly flitted to the red-haired accountant, "Not particularly."

"Hm," August stood up, taking his kitten mug with him as he walked into the kitchen. The water started to run, as did the continued questions. "What's the narrator sound like?"

Gold sighed, standing up and following him to the kitchen, "What?"

August stopped the running water, turning around and leaning against the sink, "Your narrator, what's he sound like?"

Gold frowned, "…eccentric."

August rose his eyebrows, taking another drink from that ghastly mug, "A man?"

Gold nodded.

"Is it someone you know?"

"It doesn't sound familiar, no."

"Hm."

Gold gripped the handle of his cane. The irritating writer had been saying that monosyllabic expression a lot.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"No. I prefer tea."

August smirked, "Of course you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're starting to sound more caricature than character."

Gold had to resist the very strong urge to crush that offensive mug with his cane.

August walked to the fridge, pulling out a jar of pickles, some mayonnaise, and a container of turkey, "Sandwich?"

"The threat of death has made my appetite somewhat displaced."

He nodded, unscrewing the lid to the jar. Some mayo got on his finger and he licked it off. Gold grimaced, certain now that this man's abhorrent mannerisms were on purpose, "So this narrator of yours told you that you were going to die?"

A tight nod.

"And you believed it?"

"That would explain my presence here."

"Oooh, sarcasm. Refreshing." August pulled out two slices of Wonderbread and began to prepare his sandwich, "Do you like your work?"

"It doesn't make me unhappy."

"Double negative. Skirting the question, got it." He then proceeded to put an ungodly amount of pickles on the spread, "Let me ask you a question."

"You've been doing a remarkable job as of late."

"If I told you that you were going to die tomorrow, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Why not."

"Because, quite frankly, I find your intelligence level more and more suspect as this conversation continues."

"Says the guy with a voice talking to him-"

"About me."

"Same difference. Anyways, my point is I don't think I can help you."

That made Gold's irritation fall away as another, more familiar emotion replaced it: desperation. "Why not?"

August closed the fridge door, sighing as he picked up his now complete turkey sandwich, "Because I'm an expert-" Gold snorted, "-in writing. Not an expert in crazy. Honestly, I can't think of a single aspect of your life that makes it worth narration. You live alone, you don't like anyone, and your manner is so off-putting that I doubt anything short of the visitation of three Christmas spirits will make a notable shift in it."

"I'm not crazy," Gold countered immediately, though secretly the paranoid thought was beginning to filter itself in his mind, "And I assure you that your lease agreement for next term is going to be far more severe."

August gave a shrug of his shoulders, "Keep a journal, talk to Archie. That's all I have for you. Now, if you don't mind, I have three chapters to finish by Friday and my protagonist, who, by the way, is nuanced, is being a little difficult at the moment-"

"There was a third person omniscient."

The younger man's dismissal halted mid-sentence, "What? You know what a third person omniscient is?"

Gold snorted, "I am quite well-read, thank you. But I remember the final words and I think they have some significance to the direction of this conversation, 'But little did he know that the simple, innocuous acts of that evening would eventually lead to his imminent death.' "

"Son of a bitch, he really said "Little did he know"?"

"Clearly."

August perked up, suddenly seeming far more invested as he dug in his pocket, "Little did he know means there's something you don't know, which means that there's something else outside of your life going on. It's one of the most important literary devices-"

"I assume this means I've certified my "caricature" existence?"

"-You can assume that it means you're screwed," August retrieved a pocket calendar, flipping it open, "Why don't you come back next week and we'll, wait, damn, "imminent", you can be dead by then, how about tomorrow? Can you come back tomorrow?"

"For what purpose?"

August smirked, "We're going to find out what sort of story you're in, Mr. Gold."

"Two seconds ago you said I was insane."

"Crazy, not insane. But either way, it's been a very revealing two seconds."

Mr. Gold gave a heavy sigh, "Then I suppose I'll be back tomorrow."

"Good, and Mr. Gold?"

"Yes?"

"The kitten mug cost me seventy-five cents. Rummage sale."

Gold wasn't sure why it was the park that his feet led him to, following August's abrupt dismissal. But there was something about the tree-lined walkways and pebbled sidewalks that set his mind at ease despite the several existential crises he had been experiencing ever since those damned innocuous acts.

Nicholas Gold was deep in thought.

Obviously Nicholas Gold was deep in thought. Nicholas Gold had just been told of his imminent death. Omnisciently, at that. The birds chirped quietly as he continued his scenic walk back to his home, the gravel underfoot giving a nice, crunching noise.

With all of nature surrounding him, all the contracts, all the deals, and all the numerical precisions of Gold's life quietly faded away.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, and to yet again refrain from contemplating the actuality of the day's events and his relative sanity to them. Now was not the time. There was too much to think about, and not enough peaceful moments to avoid thinking about them.

How perfect, then, that on this tranquil walk Nicholas Gold would encounter one Miss Belle French.

As Gold turned, he noticed that the bookstore owner was currently occupying one of the benches that lined the pathway, a loaf of bread in her hands. She was tearing it into chunks, tossing it down at the small ducklings by her feet, a frown on her face and a mechanic quality to her motions that suggested her thoughts were long-gone elsewhere.

Gold felt his feet come to a stop.

She really did have such pretty eyes.

"Miss French," he greeted, before he could stop himself.

Belle froze, blinking herself into awareness. A smile graced her features before she realized who was addressing her. Quickly, she started shoveling her things into her purse.

"Miss French there's no need to leave-"

She ignored him, moving even more quickly and before Gold could rationalize what he was doing he was taking a step closer to her.

"Miss French, really-"

A stray hand knocked the cane from his grip, and as it clattered on the ground Belle paused and Gold looked down at her, meeting that remarkable stare.

"I'm sorry-!" Belle started.

"It'll recover," he offered, bending down with a wince to retrieve it.

She sighed, moving faster than he with his bad knee and picking it up for him, "It's not…it's not cracked or anything, is it?"

Delicately, he took the cane back from her, "I imagine if smashing through a dozen display cases won't damage it, a drop on the ground will do little by way of destruction."

Belle paused, staring at him with a confused look that made it clear she couldn't determine if he was serious or not. He offered a slow grin.

She hesitated, but returned it, "Right. Got it."

The silence stretched painfully for a second or two, before Gold cleared his throat, taking a step back, "Do you come to the park often?" He winced.

She stared at him, "Yes."

Silence again.

"I do too."

"That's nice."

Mr. Gold swallowed, the ducklings underfoot beginning to reform near the woman who was feeding them after being scared away with the cane's fall.

"It's…it's a nice day."

Belle looked at him wryly, "For you, perhaps. I'm being sued."

The ducklings began to waddle around his very expensive Italian shoes. Gold feared for their ability to remain clean.

"Of course, Miss French."

She tilted her head, "By a really unpleasant man, too."

Another awkward moment emerged. Belle took up the bread again, tearing off portions and tossing it on the ground for the ducklings. Gold noticed that she took particular aim at his shoes.

He cleared his throat, folding his hands over the handle of his cane, "I may owe you an apology, Miss French."

"For the suing?"

"For my earlier behavior. It was…unprofessional."

She paused in her duckling feeding to cross her arms over her chest, "The part where you fined my father into poverty or the part where you blatantly stared at my breasts?"

He felt something like heat rush to his cheeks, but dismissed such an occurrence as impossible, "…the latter."

She stared at him for a few moments, and Gold wondered why it was that a young bookstore owner was the only person to make him feel uncomfortable in this town, "…Apology accepted, mainly because you blushed."

The smile made its way to his face before he could stop it, "I do no such thing, Miss French."

"Belle. And you did. Are doing," she smiled back, and he noticed she had dimples. They were lovely, as far as dimples went.

Adult ducks were now starting to filter towards them, joining their ducklings in the feast of free stale bread chunks. They, too, waddled over Gold's feet.

"It seems good manners are in short supply for creditors."

"Loan sharks," Belle corrected.

"Semantics," he replied easily.

She leaned forward, resting her arms on her skirted knees, "So do you make a habit of apologizing to people before bringing them to civil claims court?"

He couldn't help his grin, "Not generally, no. It turns out apologizes can be taken as an admission of guilt in some circles."

"I'm sure that ruins the image of blood-sucking fiend."

"Which is why I make sure all the children shed at least one tear when they're being evicted from orphanages."

Again, she gave him that stare that said she couldn't discern if he was joking or not.

He coughed into his leather-gloved hand, "A quip, Miss French."

She exhaled in relief before giving a slight chuckle, "I'm sure you manage to confiscate all their stuffed toys and blankets as well?"

"Only the ones that give them any semblance of comfort or hope."

She laughed, and again Gold was treated to the sight of her dimples.

Sensing an opportunity, Nicholas attempted small talk.

"Your fiscal documents are kept very tidy."

Weakly attempted small talk.

"Thank you. I keep them that way in the event of legal prosecution."

Gold began to calculate the odds of his making an utter ass of himself with the amount of time he stayed to chat with the beautiful Belle French. Thankfully, a decision was to be made for him in that respect.

Belle looked at her watch, "As lovely as it's been chatting with the evictor of orphans, I have to go," she stood, gracefully brushing away stray crumbs of bread from her light-blue skirt. She outstretched the hand holding the stale loaf of bread towards him, "Would you?"

Confused, Gold took the loaf of bread.

Belle smiled, and gave a mock curtsy, "Thank you."

Before Gold really understood what was happening, Belle lifted her purse over her shoulder and began to walk away from the park. He stood there, blinking, as several ducks and ducklings began to swarm towards him and the loaf of bread.

He was delighted, and surprised at the almost flirtatious encounter with Miss French.

He watched her as she retreated, becoming a smaller and smaller splash of blue and chestnut against the backdrop of the trees.

So surprised, that he failed to notice one of the male ducklings taking a rather liberal shit on his expensive, leather shoes.

Gold looked down and swore.