Chapter One: 78%
Nonsense, Gold thought to himself angrily as he began to bundle his money in preparation for the safe. The voice, if that's what he wanted to call it, had grown silent for the remainder of his tally, and he was beginning to believe that this had all been some sort of gross misunderstanding.
Perhaps it was time to take an additional day off during the week. That was all.
Gold nodded, smoothly gathering the bills from the desk into his hands and moving back towards the safe. With steady hands, he opened the door-
It was remarkable-
-he closed the door.
Gold's brows furrowed as he went to open the door again-
It was remarkable-
He stopped. Maybe it…wasn't nonsense entirely. Though he had yet to rule out the possibility of an intricate prank being pulled on him by one of the many, many jilted denizens of Storybrooke. Sighing, he opened the safe's door completely.
It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Nicholas Gold's life, so often taken for granted, would become the catalyst for an entirely new life.
The bell rang, signifying a customer had entered the front of the shop. The safe door slammed shut with a touch more gusto than the usual Tuesday count-up, and Gold reached for his cane, propping himself up out of his seat.
Gold walked towards the front of the store, his polished, leather shoes gave a squeak in stark contrast to the gravitas of his cane hitting the floor-
He stopped, looking down at his shoes. Experimentally, he wiggled his toes within them. They squeaked, and Gold consequentially began to utterly loathe this Tuesday.
And though this was to be, an extraordinary day, a day to be remembered for the rest of Nicholas Gold's life, Gold just spitefully thought it was a Tuesday.
He shook his head, pushing through the curtain that separated his shop from his office. He was surprised to see Billy there, the young mechanic from Tilman's. In his hands he was holding what looked to be an old engine, obviously there to make a deal for it.
"Mr. Gusgus," he greeted politely despite the chaotic mess that was his current Tuesday, "How can I be of service?"
The mechanic looked to the side guiltily, "Falling behind on my truck payments…" Gold knew, he received them, "Thought I'd try and sell some old motorcycle parts-"
Gold knew what that old part was worth. And that it'd scarce be enough to compensate for Billy's extensive debt-
Gold stared at the younger man contemplatively. Now was the time to see. Billy, though not the best at managing his personal finances, did have a sick, honest quality to him, "Excuse my interruption, but did you hear that?"
Billy blinked, "Hear what?"
"The voice, Gold knew what that old part was worth?"
The mechanic glanced at him while leaning away slightly, "I know, that's why I came in here."
The pawnbroker scowled, "No, Mr. Gusgus, did you hear it? Gold knew what that part was worth?"
Billy raised the hand not holding the motorcycle part defensively, "I heard you say it three times now."
"No, I…" Gold sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nevermind."
Billy continued to stare, "So, uh…" he shuffled the part back and forth between his hands, "Did you want to buy it or not?"
III
Mr. Gold moved the antique bottled ship to a new display, unaware that it was the actually the same display and that he had moved it to the same display three times over the course of twenty minutes. His head was starting to pound, and he very much doubted it was a result of the dust in the store.
Nicholas found it hard to concentrate on work. His thoughts were scattered, his mind elsewhere.
"One can only imagine why," he muttered darkly to that omniscient pest as he returned the ship back to its original place.
Across the store, two teenage girls were staring appreciatively at some costume jewelry. Gold had his suspicions as to their intent to purchase, mainly due to the word "prom" being mentioned several times. The one on the right, with long blonde hair braided into pigtails, turned to him.
"Hey, Mr. Gold," And when his "how" customers "much for these" asked for prices "earrings?" Gold drew a blank.
"I can't come up with anything else with such inane commentary," Gold hissed under his breath, drawing a concerned stare from the girls.
"What?" Asked her companion.
Thankfully, Gold quickly answered 13.99-
"Thirteen ninety-nine."
When in reality it was actually 6.99-
"Excuse me, six ninety-nine."
But with the special, it had been reduced to 4.99-
Gold clenched his jaw, "Four ninety-nine."
The blonde girl with pigtails blinked, "So, uh…do you want to sell them or not?"
III
Archie hated Tuesdays.
It wasn't anything against the day itself, but the first Tuesday of every month meant that the timid accountant slash psychiatrist (he was a certified double PhD, and yet he still couldn't manage to find the right bow tie to match his sweater vest. Such was life.) had to deal with possibly the least pleasant member of the town. The loan shark, pawn broker, and generally unhappy Mr. Nicholas Gold. While Archie held nothing against the man personally, and on the contrary, he knew that there had to be some justification for the man's less than social graces, Tuesdays meant going through the man's extensive tax files, ledgers and budgets. And with Gold, there were always many sitting on the desk in his back room. And they were always untidy. It baffled Archie that a man so successful and shrewd could be so utterly unorganized.
So, that first Tuesday of the month, after getting his customary coffee from Ruby at the diner, Archibald Hopper had set out to Gold's pawn shop. Judging by the way Ruby's (already) darkened eyes darkened more, he judged that this was not to be a good day when settling the accounts.
And as Archie opened the store door, the bell giving its customary ring, it took him only one look inside the store to come to the conclusion that he was right. Just not for the reasons he thought.
Archie frowned with concerned as he took in the sight of Mr. Gold. The man stood behind the glass display, which he was using as an impromptu…ironing board.
"Mr. Gold-?" Archie carefully removed his coat, hanging it over his arm. Eight years of medical school, and fifteen in his field, had taught him how to identify nervous breakdowns when he saw them.
Gold's stare shot up, mouth stretching into a tight smile. "Mr. Hopper."
Maybe it was better not to ask. But Archie couldn't help but feel worried for the man, as unfriendly as he could be, "Are you…alright?"
Gold's hand clenched tightly against the iron's handle as he traced it back and forth over his unfolded pocket square.
The quiet reigned. Archie began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He made to clear his throat when Gold spoke up first.
"Mr. Hopper, I believe someone is attempting to cause me mental discomfort."
Archie could see that. Tact, however, kept him from stating that. Instead, he took another step towards the display case, "And what makes you say that?"
Mr. Gold scowled. "You're a man of discretion, yes?"
This conversation was going nowhere safe, but it was for his honest empathy and professional integrity that Archie nodded.
The pawnbroker hesitated, hand still holding the iron which was not moving, and, judging by the faint smell of burning silk, hadn't been moved in a while.
"A man's voice is commenting on me."
Archie's eyes moved slowly from the iron, to Gold's face, and back to the iron.
"How so?"
"He's narrating."
Archie made careful movements to hang his coat on a nearby chair. He had the feeling that this was not going to be a short story, "Mr. Gold…forgive me, but you're…ironing on a glass case. What is he narrating?"
Mr. Gold inhaled so harshly his nostrils flared, "I had to stop filing due to his incessant chatter."
"Chatter?"
He sighed, "Listen."
Archie watched as Gold moved his hand over the pocket square.
As Gold pushed the iron across the now ruined-
Gold stopped, looking up at Archie and raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
Archie swallowed hard. "I'm afraid I don't hear anything, Mr. Gold."
He scoffed, "No, listen."
As Gold pushed the iron across the now ruined pocket square, the monotonous, continuous motion of his hands and the delicate hiss of the iron brought back peaceful memories. As the creases were smoothed, Gold let his mind imagine the spinning of a wheel as he brought the iron back and forth, constant and unending.
"There. Surely you heard that."
As much as Archie knew he should stay, he unfortunately had an appointment with Henry Mills in a half hour at his office across town. "Mr. Gold, if you need someone to listen, please come by my office anytime. Unfortunately, today I only have time to drop off those budget anomalies you wanted me to check into."
But Gold was now muttering to himself, "How could he know I imagine the sound of a wheel…"
Cautiously, Archie watched Mr. Gold as he dug into his satchel, pulling out two files. The one on top was thick, stuffed to the brim with paperwork. The one underneath it was scarcely a fourth of its width. "Mrs. Lucas's documentation and the rental receipt of the payments on the Storybrooke bookstore in the name of Belle French."
Gold stared at him blankly, before nodding- his mind being pulled from the imaginary spinning wheel and back into the world of hard budgeting. "Ah, yes, of course. Thank you," he stated, reaching for both folders.
Archie stared at Gold's hand before slowly putting the Lucas file back into his satchel. "I'll tell you what. I can take care of the Lucas file, and you just…" he placed the thin file in Gold's hand instead, "Give yourself a free afternoon, alright?"
Gold exhaled slowly, opening the French file.
"Yes, I suppose a quiet evening would be appreciated."
Archie frowned with concern again, "Are you sure you're feeling alright, Mr. Gold?"
Instantly, the dazed, confused look vanished from his face- replaced by the aloof countenance Archie had come to know very well in the ten years he had done business with Mr. Gold.
"Never better, Mr. Hopper. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must make my way to this…bookstore before it closes. It seems Miss French is behind on her payments."
Archie rubbed the back of his neck, but grabbed his coat, "Of course. But…Mr. Gold?"
"Yes?"
"My office is always open. If you need to, you know, talk."
III
"I don't know what you're talking about," Belle French didn't even have the civil courtesy to look at him while she spoke, focus devoted entirely to the stacks of books that were strewn about on the counter.
"The rental payment for last month, Miss French," Gold grit his teeth, beginning to grow irritated at the blatant disregard.
"What about it?" Again, she didn't look up, her hand going for a red stamp and opening up each cover, giving it an angry red stamp, pushing it aside, and starting the process over with the next one.
"You neglected to pay about a fourth of it," Gold's eyes followed the movements of her hands, trying very hard not to grow the slightest bit dizzy by the actions.
She snorted, looking up for the first time. He tried not to think of various shades of blue when seeing her eyes. That implied they were remarkable enough to try and categorize, and Gold was currently of the mind that the only thing remarkable about Miss French was her atrocious arithmetic and incomparable rudeness.
"I disagree, Mr. Gold. 'Neglected' implies carelessness," she grabbed a stack of books and walked around the desk, going to a ladder leaning against the tall shelves.
Said shelves held the dusty collection of Storybrooke's Story Books, which had the honor of not only being the sole used bookstore in town, but also the sole bookstore slash café. Story Books was…disgustingly quaint at best, an utter hovel at worst. Old, worn couches lined the sides of the store, with a barista's cart in the corner that served tea, coffee, and those…small little crisp things that the bibliophiles found themselves endlessly attracted to. Biscotti. But though the store itself was hardly on the top of interior decorating, it had a decent amount of customers, and Belle French was one of the few business owners in town who had never asked for an extension despite his assumption of the operating costs for the establishment being barely met. She seemed to have a loyal market.
Several members of which were staring at Gold with disgust. Apparently accusing Miss French of failing to pay her rent would not be taken kindly here. No matter, Gold was used to disgust.
Gold, irritated by her choice of phrasing, followed her. Crystal? Damn it. He wasn't supposed to be contemplating shades of blue. "Are you implying, Miss French, that you intentionally failed to pay the correct amount for the rent?"
Still not looking at him, Belle shuffled her books to one of her arms and braced the ladder with the other. "Not at all, Mr. Gold," she hoisted herself up a step, placing beaten down novels on shelves with the same practiced speed that Gold bundled twenty dollar bills in groups of one hundred, "I intentionally chose not to pay the same amount that you unjustly added to my father's loan."
Ah, that's what this was about. The florist. She took another step higher.
"Miss French, the business conducted between Mr. French and I is perfectly legal, I assure you-"
This time she looked at him. If only to glare. Cerulean? Damn it again. Two more rungs up the ladder.
"Mr. Gold. Legal, as I'm sure you know, is not the same thing as just."
The next book was shoved rather violently into its place.
He mustered up a smile, "I'm afraid a subpoena won't discern between the two."
Her lips pressed together in a thin, thin line. "I suppose I should say I'm surprised." But. The unspoken word echoed throughout the building.
"The deal was fairly-"
"Specific. We're all aware Mr. Gold," Belle huffed, turning back to her shelving with a vengeance. "He's an old, sick man and you're taking advantage of the fact that we're in a recession."
"And you're using your father as an excuse to be late on payments."
"I believe I paid-" THUNK came the book as it hit the shelf with the same amount of force as a punch would, "-Seventy-eight percent-" THUNK, "Of my rent. Three days early, might I add. The additional twenty-two percent that is owed-" THUNK THUNK THUNK, "-will be distributed to you through the overage that is being paid on my father's. It all-" THUNK. "-evens-" THUNK, "-out." THUNKTHUNK, she turned. Ultramarine, maybe? "I'm not in favor of stealing, Mr. Gold. And I am perfectly fine with paying the amounts that were agreed to."
"The increase to Mr. French's was agreed upon, Miss French-"
Another snort. She was beginning to remind him painfully of Ruby Lucas yesterday. In the back of his mind, he recalled the two being friends or something, "It was a half a centimeter of print that led to an obscure footnote printed on the back of the contract."
"It is a legitimate document."
"It was highway robbery for money you didn't need and you should be feeling very ashamed of yourself." With all but one of the books sorted, Belle began to slide down the ladder, the remaining novel held in the crook of her elbow.
Gold's hand tightened its hold on the top of his cane. By this point, the patrons of the hovel-store were not even pretending to hide their entrancement with the bickering pair. Hushed whispers were traded as angry stares were sent over the tops of leather-bound editions.
"Let's make this simple then, dearie," he spoke, far calmer than what he was currently feeling, "Are you or are you not going to pay the remaining tender owed?"
She shifted the book from her elbow to her hands, flipping the cover open and beginning to read as she turned her back to him and walked away. He swore under his breath. Damn the woman with her sky blue eyes-
Yet again, he followed after her. This was all beginning to become unorthodox. Gold absolutely hated orthodox.
"Answer the question, Miss French."
A page was turned as she neatly sidestepped a drunk reading a book of poetry on the floor. Leroy, if he remembered the name right. Regardless, he moved around him easily enough as he continued to pace after the aggravating woman, "That depends."
"On?"
"Are you going to have my father's rent lowered to its original fee? Are you going to stop charging an arm and a leg for the good small business owners of this town to operate their establishments? Are you, perhaps, going to remove that cane from your-"
It became hard for Gold to pay attention to the baseless accusations that fell from Belle French's mouth-
Gold snarled, "Not now."
Belle whirled around, stopping in mid-step next to a long, oak writer's desk that held several unstocked books, "No, Mr. Gold. Now. As I was saying, you are aware that Mrs. Shoeman has forty-seven grandchildren and you have brought her rates up twice this year alone-"
-because as the vivacious bookstore owner continued to speak, Gold found his mind wandering elsewhere. It wasn't difficult for him to imagine Belle French, here, alone in the bookstore. Her small, graceful hands gently ghosting over leather spines. Her long, shapely legs taking agonizingly slow steps up the ladder to reach the tops of shelves. However, Gold was not prone to fantasy, and tried his best to remain professional.
"All of those matters have been legally accounted for," Gold muttered to himself, desperately willing away the images that the…whatever it was conjured out of absolutely nowhere. "And also fail spectacularly to have any relation to the original question."
But of course, he failed. Gold couldn't help but wonder over the soft feel of her red lips. He couldn't help but imagine her leaning over her desk, back arched as she reached for that heavy stamp.
Gold's grip on his cane became tighter at the same moment that he found himself drawn to the areas that the narrator- gods, he was calling it the narrator now- described in such…unfortunate detail.
Belle lowered her book, a hand resting on her hip as her brows drew together.
And he couldn't help but imagine her naked, stretched-
"Gold?"
Her neckline wasn't low, but the square cut to the tight sweater was not helping Gold retain awareness as the narrator continued.
"Mr. Gold."
Were he able to hear the tone of his own voice, he would have been promptly embarrassed at the husky quality it held, "Yes, what is it Miss French?"
The book was set down harshly on said desk of his fantasy, the noise shocking him into awareness. And several of the bookstore's patrons into awareness as well.
"You're staring. At my breasts."
He felt the slowing of the heartbeat that only occurs when one is caught doing something one shouldn't be doing. Such as entertaining thoughts of naked, insufferable bookstore owners who were fiscally irresponsible and had soft red lips and he was going to be severing this line of thought immediately and focusing on the task at hand.
"Don't be ridiculous, dearie," he muttered, making sure to focus over her shoulder when he looked up. He wasn't in the mood for another synonym for blue, "Such a thing would hardly be appropriate towards a woman I'm about to take to small civil claim's court."
Belle bit her lip as anger overtook her features.
Perhaps it was time to leave.
"I believe now might not be the appropriate time to address your criminal behavior, Miss French," Gold said levelly, both hands folding over his cane, "I'll be back tomorrow with the proper documentation. Mainly the copies of the lease agreements both you and your father consented to."
Belle stood coolly, arms crossing just below her chest in a way that made the sweater stretch just a little tighter and that woman was doing this intentionally to goad him he was sure. "And I imagine I'll be here. With my proper principles." She glared, "And breasts."
Gold swallowed, but retained his aloof business approach. "Of course, Miss French. Until tomorrow."
Belle's mouth turned into a frown that signified oceans of unimpressed sentiments. She opened her lips to speak-
As she began to chastise Gold for his blatant, yet desperate stare, his mind once again drifted to the smooth, creamy skin that peaked from-
Gold turned and proceeded to walk towards the door without another word. A tad faster than normal.
As he left, a dozen or so bookstore patrons let out a breath of relief simultaneously. He certainly had that effect on people.
Once he was outside, Gold's calm countenance screwed into an expression of intense anger as he retreated from Story Books and walked in the direction of his shop.
As Nicholas Gold left the bookstore, he felt overcome with emotions of embarrassment, belligerence, and confusion-
That did it. Gold tossed down his cane, staring skyward. "Quiet, you damned thing!"
He shouted, cursing the heavens above in futility-
"Are you completely thick, you pig-headed narration?! I'm not cursing the heavens, I'm cursing you! So, if you'd be so kind, leave me alone."
Silence reigned. Gold continued to sneer up at the sky.
Moments passed. Several passer-byes stopped to watch the spectacle of their feared loan shark staring up as if he expected someone to bludgeon him with something dropped from a very tall building.
Nothing.
Exhaling with a resolute but irritated satisfaction, Gold bent down to retrieve his cane-
It wasn't often that Gold surrendered his composure to passion. But the weeks of unending mundaneness had taken their toll on the businessman-
Damn it.
-and that, coupled with the strange attraction he felt for the infuriating yet captivating bookseller-
Damn it all.