Author's note: Because this is an AU anyway, I did some re-assigning of jobs, since it worked better in the story. Emma Swan is the sheriff, Graham Humbert (which according to the ever helpful Wikipedia is his last name) is deputy.
Chapter 7: And He shall smite the wicked
His head hurt. Everything hurt. The bright light was hurting his eyes, even though he still kept them tightly shut. His head was pounding so hard he could actually feel the veins throbbing. His throat felt dry and raw and there was a disgusting taste in his mouth. His body ached, jolts of pain were shooting through his ankle and his stomach was turning around inside his body.
Tentatively he opened his eyes, groggily taking in his surroundings. How did he end up on the couch of his living room? With a pillow underneath his head and a blanket covering him? Slowly he sat up, groaning as his head was apparently in the process of splitting open from the inside out. What the hell had happened?
Then he remembered. The Rabbit Hole. The anniversary of Bae's death. The Scotch. The entire bottle of Scotch. For god's sake, he normally didn't indulge himself in that much of a pity party. How on earth had he gotten home and tucked in on the couch as well?
He squinted his eyes, wrecking his brain, when suddenly a memory stood out clear in his head.
Belle. Taking his car keys away.
"FUCK!"
The cry reverberated through his addled brain and he felt the bile rising in his throat, his stomach clenching and churning painfully. He got to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ankle and all but ran to the toilet in the hallway, arriving just in time to empty his stomachs' contents there. It went on and on, until he was finally spent and empty and even then it continued on, as if his body was trying to eject all the vileness and viciousness from his body.
Finally he staggered back towards the kitchen, shaking and stumbling, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. With trembling hands he managed to pour himself a glass of water and he drank slowly, the water suddenly sweet after the bitter taste in his mouth. Then he drenched a cloth and ran it over his face, willing his shaking of his body to stop. Exhausted by the effort of these small tasks, he leaned back against the counter, running his hands over his face as more memories of the previous night began to flood back to him.
Belle had been there and had taken the car keys aways from him. She had led him to his car and suddenly he could see them in his mind's eye, him leaning all over her, clinging to her like some pathetic drunkard, while she tried to drag him along.
She had driven the car and helped him upstairs. It must have been her who made him comfortable with a pillow and a blanket. He looked down and on himself and noticed his state of undress. His shoes were gone, as were his suit jacket and tie. She must even have loosened the top buttons of his shirt.
Why had she done all that? Why hadn't she just shoved him into the shop and let him rot on the floor?
Because Belle was good and kind. Because she'd taken pity on an old monster. On a sad, pitiful drunk.
Aching all over, his stomach wane and hurting from the coldness of the water, he slowly made his way back to the living room and sank down on the couch. It was only then he noticed the glass of water and the strip of aspirins. Carefully he stretched out his hand towards them, but then abruptly pulled back his fingers. Still, a hint of smile ghosted around his lips.
His beautiful Belle… so thoughtful and considerate…
Then the smile froze on his face and his eyes widened in shock as the final memory clicked into place.
He had called her beautiful. He had touched her face, invaded her personal space and had made a display of himself, being the pathetic, predatory leech that he was.
Another wave of nausea overtook him and hurried back to the toilet, moaning in agony as he started to retch once again, while there was barely anything left in his stomach to come out. When he made it back into the living room at last, his insides were burning and he felt completely wrung out.
Seeing the glass of water still standing at the coffee table, he was suddenly gripped by a wave of fury. He grabbed the glass and hauled it at the doorpost where it crashed against the wall and splintered into a thousand pieces. Then he fell back on the couch closing his eyes against the blinding light and the bitter consequences of his transgressions.
He had lost her. Had lost her friendship, had lost any regard she'd had felt for him previously. She must loath him now, the unrestrained, boorish blackguard who turned to a bottle for his relief and compromised a sweet-tempered woman who was only trying to help him. The only woman who'd ever shown him any kindness.
He had been a fool. He had gotten caught up in her smiles and her eyes and had deluded himself into thinking that there could ever be more. That she would come to care from him, love him and wanted to be with him.
But it ended here, he vowed to himself. He would no longer impose on her or her time.
She'd be better off at any rate, no longer tainted by association from being seen with the town's fiend.
She hadn't expected to see him on Sunday, realizing his massive hang-over would probably keep him occupied all day.
But when he wasn't at his usual booth at Granny's on Monday morning she got worried.
She spent all morning agonizing whether or not it would have been better if she'd checked up on him the day before - he had been in quite a state after all - and by the time it was noon, she closed the library for a quick lunch break. Luckily the antiques shop wasn't far from the library and she hurried along the street.
The shop was as dark as ever, but the little sign on the door indicated it was open and she rushed inside.
To her immense relief she found him standing behind the counter, the second she stepped inside. Making her way in, she scanned his face and posture, noticing he looked rather pale and gaunt, but very much up and about.
"There you are," she breathed, finally relaxing fully. "How are you feeling?"
She was in front of the counter now, a little surprised he still wasn't looking at her. When he finally did though, she was taken aback by the steel look in his eyes, as if all the warmth had left them.
"Good morning, Miss French,"
Up until then he'd never called her differently, save from his alcohol-induced episode, but somehow the address now sounded like a deliberate attempt to put her in her place.
"Hello…" She was vexed to hear her voice wobbling, but gave him a tentative smile nevertheless. "You weren't at Granny's this morning… I was worried."
"Well, as you can see, Miss French, that was completely unnecessary. I'm as fit as a fiddle."
She eyed him critically, thinking to herself that that was probably overstating matters. There were dark circles underneath his tired, bloodshot eyes and his shoulders were slumped. She decided to humor him though.
"I'm glad to hear it," she answered cheerfully. "I hope you didn't feel too rotten yesterday?"
To her utter shock, he snapped at her. "Miss French, is there a point to you visit today?"
"I… I just wanted to see if you're all right…" she stammered, completely taken aback by the tone of his voice.
"I'm perfectly fine, as I've stated before." His voice was sharp like a razor. "If there's nothing else I kindly ask you to let me return to my work, as I'm sure you have something more productive to do as well."
Determined not to be brushed aside like that and feeling her temper rising, Belle pressed on. "What's the matter? Is this about the other night? Have I upset you somehow?"
It had occurred to her that he might feel embarrassed about what had happened, but she'd never expected him to retreat so vehemently.
"I'm grateful for your assistance, Miss French," his voice couldn't have sounded more condescending if it tried. "But I fear that lately our relations have become overly familiar and thus highly unsuitable."
"Unsuitable?" she repeated incredulously. "I was under the impression that we were friends."
"Miss French, we shared a work-related dinner." His tone was harsh and cold as ice. "Please don't turn it into anything more than that. I have neither the time nor the inclination for anything else."
Hearing him belittle all the moments they had shared in the last few weeks, brushing them off as mere inappropriate, bothersome encounters broke something inside her.
For all her put-up bravery she'd been terrified all along that he would eventually grow tired of her. That at the end of the day he'd see her like everyone else did. The bookworm who might or not might have a lunatic strike about her, just like her old man did.
She had grasped onto every straw, every indication that he might like her, that he might have been developing stronger feelings for her.
But as it turned out, she had been fooling herself. He wouldn't spare her a second thought. She was just being a nuisance to him.
And what was even worse, she'd been wrong about him as well. He was every bit as mean and calculating as everyone in town had warned her he was.
Shrinking back from the counter, from him, she couldn't stop the words that tumbled from her mouth, before she ran.
"You are not who I thought you were."
It should have gotten better over time. The piercing ache he'd felt the day she'd walked out of his antiques shop should have soothed after many weeks of careful reasoning that he had done the sensible and ultimately kindest thing he could have done.
He shouldn't be missing her anymore, after weeks of studiously avoiding her at all costs, going as far as to abruptly change his route, the moment the thought he saw a colored-clad figure appearing into his range of vision.
The dreams should have stopped, now that he had firmly put a stop to all his foolish fantasies and longings and had accepted the stark reality: Belle French wouldn't come near him of her own accord ever again.
He should be content by now. His business was thriving, he was respected, if not feared in town and he was surrounded by all the comforts of life.
The truth was that he was utterly and wholly miserable.
He had relived the encounter in his shop countless times. And each time the recollection of it caused him to burn with shame. As much as he tried to convince himself that he had acted in her best interest and that she couldn't possibly care more about him than she would about any other random acquaintance, the nagging voice inside his head kept telling him that he was just an enormous coward and a cruel liar on top of that.
Because even if there was no doubt in his mind that she didn't love him, at least not in the way that he loved her, not in the way he yearned for her and longed to have her close, he could no longer deny, even to himself that she had cared. For some inexplicable reason, this wonderful warm, kind and beautiful woman had cared about him, had even called him a friend.
And she had deserved so much more than his cruel words, his inebriated ramblings and his foolish fantasies.
He hadn't seen her for weeks and he missed her every second of every day. At first he had actively tried to avoid her. He stopped going to Granny's in the morning, made sure he didn't cross her path during the day and even had gone as far as sending her a curt, all businesslike request, asking her to transfer her rent directly to his bank account, sparing him the monthly trip to the library.
After a while he began to notice that he didn't have to work so hard anymore to avoid her, because she was dodging him with equal diligence.
And even though he had no right whatsoever to feel like that, even though he had completely brought it onto himself, he was heartbroken because of it.
His dreams only intensified in the cold of her absence, alternating between hot, feverish dreams, from which he woke panting and scorching, drenched in sweat and deep, hazy dreams where she loved him, cared for him and belonged to him and he never had to fear she'd leave him again. Dreams that left him with a heart that clenched with homesickness for her when he awoke.
If he was so lucky as to fall asleep at all. insomnia had been his constant companion for weeks now.
She might have been the best thing that had ever happened to him and he had ruined it.
Thursday evening was the only evening he trusted to eat at Granny's, because it was the evening she worked late at the library. At his usual booth, he half-heartily spooned away some lasagna, the food holding little appeal to him. The jukebox was playing some god-awful tune, the place was buzzing with chatter and noise and he wanted to just go home, crawl into his bed and get a few hours of relief.
January had been rainy and all together unpleasant, February brought a change in the weather. Suddenly the frost had set in, turning the days bleak and the wind cutting. He felt the cold seeping into his bones as he left Granny's, leaving a bank-note next to his half-eaten lasagna.
He drove home past the library, not able to resist the urge to lower speed and crane his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her through the window. Of course he didn't manage to see anything and he cursed himself as he drove on.
He noticed something was wrong the second he'd parked his car in front of the antique shop. There was a gaping hole in the glass of the door for starters. He hurried out of the car, swearing under his breath, only noticing as he came closer that the door was slightly ajar. Gripping his cane tightly, he pushed the door open and switched on the light. Immediately the shop bathed in light and as he surveyed the wreckage, he felt like he had suddenly been punched in the gut. Half of his inventory was scattered on the floor, most of it reduced to pieces.
Then a horrible suspicion started to form in his mind and he dashed behind the counter, through the door to his office. Upon first glance the room was untouched, but he had only eyes for the file cabinet in the corner. He yanked open the first drawer and rummaged through the assorted files. Finally locating the file folder he was looking for, he pulled it out and opened it.
As he'd suspected, it was empty and he fought down a wave of panic as gravity of it began to sink in. Then he was alerted to the sound of police sirens outside and he realized that somehow the sheriff must have been notified. Quickly pushing the folder back, he shut the drawer and limbed back into the shop, just in time to watch Sheriff Swan enter.
"We got a notification from your alarm-system," she told him, before looking around. "They've certainly managed to trash up the place. Did you notice anything missing?"
"How should I know, I just got in!" he snapped, his mind working over-time, trying to determine what he should tell the sheriff and what to conceal.
"You just came out of your office - or what I presume is your office," Emma Swan shot back.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. "I came home not five minutes ago," he explained, forcing himself to keep his voice even. "When I noticed the wreckage I went straight to my office, because that's where I keep my safe. I wanted to see if it was still there."
"And was it?" the sheriff asked.
"It was," he confirmed, "and it was untouched." His eyes swept through the shop, mentally taking inventory of the damage and looking for missing items. "Also, nothing seems to be gone from the shop on first glance."
"You are sure nothing has been taken?" Emma Swan asked again, giving him a searching glare.
He doubted for a split second before nodding. "Quite sure. Nothing appears to be missing."
"Perhaps it was an act of vandalism instead of robbery," the sheriff wondered out loud.
"It's possible," he agreed. "If vandalism was the intent of who ever did this, they've managed to succeed spectacularly. They've smashed up some very valuable pieces."
His distress took him by surprise. For the past twenty years he had convinced himself that there was nothing in this world anymore that truly mattered to him. In the end everything was disposable. What didn't have his heart, couldn't hurt him.
Seeing his shop, his sanctuary, trashed and ruined caused a painful stab to his heart and he realized with a start that despite everything, the shop had given him a semblance of happiness all these years.
"Do you have any idea who's responsible for this?" Emma Swan asked straightforwardly.
Again he weighted his options before deciding on a course of action. "Gaston Frollo," he bit out, white-hot anger surging through him at the taste of his name.
"And why would he do this to you?" Sheriff Swan had the uncanny ability to make him feel like he was being interrogated while it was his shop that was smashed to pieces.
"We had a… difference of opinion about three months ago," he replied.
"A difference of opinion?" the Sheriff asked, her eyebrows raised. "I'm afraid you're going to have elaborate on that, Mr. Gold."
"He interfered with something that I considered to be my business," his tone was measured and his gaze fixed on the sheriff's face. "He may not have been aware that he had, but I did set him straight."
"You set him straight?" Emma Swan repeated, never once breaking eye-contact. "And how did that go?"
"I made it clear in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't tolerate any more interference from him." Technically, he wasn't lying. Technically, he told it exactly like it was. But hell would freeze over before he would mention Belle or drag her in any way into this fiasco.
"But this was three months ago," Sheriff Swan asked frowning. "Why would he come after you now?"
"Isn't that your job to find out?" he inquired coolly.
Emma Swan gave a brisk nod. "Very well, I'll talk to Gaston Frollo first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, I don't want you to touch or change anything around her, this is now a crime scene. My deputy and I will be over tomorrow to gather evidence."
He nodded impassively, his mind on the empty file case in his office.
"I'm afraid you'll have to close your shop for a few days, Mr. Gold," the Sheriff said apologetic.
"No matter, any chance of profit for this month is gone anyway," He replied sourly.
The second the sheriff had left, he returned to his office, once again opening the file cabinet and pulling out the file case. It was still empty and the panic he'd experienced earlier settled back in full force.
He had been truthful when he'd voiced his suspicion of Gaston Frollo to the Sheriff. The now empty folder used to contain the bank statements, proving Judge Claude Frollo's corruption.
The one trump card he had owned to protect Belle from the advances of that over-indulged narcissist and he had ruined it.
He cursed himself for his stupidity, for his ignorance in thinking that the papers had been safe in his office, that no-one would dare to enter his den.
There was a streak of viciousness he recognized in Gaston Frollo and he knew exactly what his father was capable of.
He had attempted to keep Belle safe, but had in all likeliness only managed to put her at risk to a far greater danger.
Author's note: sorry about the angst, but this is Gold and he was never going to accept love easily.
I'd still love to hear what you think though!