Chapter 3

Things were finally looking up. Belle straightened the stack of flyers she'd printed out a couple days ago and wondered if it was too soon to throw them out. Or, well, too optimistic to get rid of them. She needed a lot more than a single volunteer, after all, and who was to say that he'd come more than once?

Oh, but she hoped he did.

Storybrooke was a charming town, small and placid and concerned more with its own tiny rumblings than anything happening in the outside world. And for a while, that was exactly what Belle had needed. But now…now it was just boring. And Belle had never done well with being bored.

Biting back a smile, Belle tidied the rest of her desk and then, trembling with excess energy, grabbed a dustcloth and began walking the stacks, on the hunt for the slightest speck of dust. If Mr. Gold were to ask, she wouldn't admit that ever since he mentioned volunteering, she had been doing nothing but cleaning. She also wouldn't tell him that she'd been able to think of little else than what she could set him to do.

He was such a mystery. She'd never met anyone like him. On first glance—and with only the whispered warnings of gossip-mongers—he could have been a gangster, the pressed suits and coiled menace taken straight from the pages of The Godfather. But the merest second look, the slightest bit of attention, showed that to be the illusion it was. He was painfully self-composed, it was true, but Belle had begun to suspect that it was a crippling shyness rather than austere cruelty that kept him locked up tight behind walls. She'd imagined that if only she could make him feel comfortable with her, maybe she could catch a glimpse of who was hiding there behind the aloof persona.

And then he'd stopped coming to the library. In fact, he'd stopped going anywhere but his shop and his home. The rumors insisted that he'd had a very public tantrum, going mad and attacking innocent bystanders. Or maybe he'd always been mad and he simply hadn't been able to hide it or bribe it from making the news this time. It hadn't seemed much of a stretch, then, after so many people saw him in handcuffs outside his shop, bloody and bristling and raving with his teeth bared, for nearly everyone to believe that he was on probation. For a while, it had almost been a sport, every time he was out walking, for people to try to spot the anklet underneath his tailored trousers.

That was a long time ago, though. Other scandals had come up, other gossip proved more entertaining, and Mr. Gold's hired man still came around to collect the rent, so the townspeople moved on to more exciting things.

But Belle had never stopped looking for the slightest glimpse of the closest thing this town had to a legend.

And now he'd be coming, maybe, at least once a week for three to four hours. Coming to her library. Spending time with her—or well, at least, around her.

It was, by and far, the most exciting thing to happen to her in years. Which was good. Of course it was. She didn't need excitement. She couldn't handle excitement, apparently. But this was relatively harmless.

The springs on the door compressed, a sound Belle had grown used to listening for, and her hand compulsively clenched around the dustcloth. Taking deep breaths as she'd been taught, Belle smoothed her skirt, straightened her hair, and walked as casually as she could manage back to the front foyer where Mr. Gold stood in front of the circulation desk.

"Hello!" she said brightly. "You made it!"

Which made it sound like she thought him a child, coming in for an afterschool treat. Belle hid her wince and dropped the dustcloth in a convenient drawer.

His lips twitched. She thought maybe he was trying to smile. Or maybe he was wincing at the inanity of her greeting the same as she was. Either way, he nodded a hello.

"As I said." He glanced around, presumably at the emptiness of the building. "Is…is it still a good time?"

"Of course!" Belle refused to take sanctuary behind her desk, instead coming to stand next to him. "I have to put up fall decorations around the library, and the ladder's too heavy for me on my own. I figure, we'll concentrate most of our efforts here at the entrance and in the children's section, then sprinkle whatever extra we have around the rest of the place. What do you think?"

He blinked at her. As she was quickly growing to recognize was normal, it took him a moment to deliberate over his response. "I think you'd have been better served with a volunteer who doesn't use a cane," he said, and Belle nearly laughed before she—thankfully just in time—realized he was serious. There was just enough of a bitter bite to his words to clue her in.

"Oh, no, I don't do too much," she insisted. A corner of her mind watched in muted horror as her hand darted out to clasp his over the handle of his cane before drawing it awkwardly back to her side. "Just some fake leaves to put on open surfaces, a couple posters for the children's section, and maybe a pumpkin or two. Autumn doesn't last long enough to do more. You know how it goes, I'm sure you put a lot of thought into your shop displays."

If there was any mystery in town aside from him, it was probably what about him turned her into a clumsy, chatty, overcompensating klutz. Ordinarily, Belle thought, she was professional and competent and friendly. But something about Mr. Gold always made her…too much. There were sparks fizzing through her bloodstream, and energy coursing along her bones, and adrenaline shooting ten times too many thoughts through her mind—and all of that combined to make her seem like an eager puppy tripping at his heels. She was too enthusiastic, too forward, too outgoing. Too much.

A crease formed in his brow, but all he said was, "Some days more than others."

"Oh. Well." Belle swallowed and tried not to give up already. "Where would you like to start?"

"The foliage sounds easiest," he said after a pause.

"I've got the boxes all stacked over in the children's section."

The walk back through the library was so uncomfortably silent that Belle felt her face flushing hot. She had been the head—the only—librarian for over four years. At city council meetings, she was able to speak clearly and eloquently—on the rare occasions the mayor allowed her the floor. Among her day to day dealings, she was sociable enough to know most people by name even if that and polite greetings were are far as it ever went. But now, suddenly, she felt completely out of her depth.

There was a gravity to Mr. Gold that mesmerized her. Wherever he went, even if he never spoke a word, he had a presence that commanded attention and demanded respect, and Belle couldn't help but envy that no matter how much it also, apparently, intimidated her.

"How's the Redwall sequel going?" she asked. Her voice seemed to startle him since he actually flinched. Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he clenched his cane tighter.

"Fine. I'm only a few chapters in. I haven't…I haven't read much this week."

"Oh, that's okay!" Belle's hands fluttered toward him before she determinedly tucked them together in front of her. "I know sometimes it's hard to find the time to read. I mean, not for me, particularly—I do work in a library, after all—but for most people, I understand…"

Coming to a stop in the middle of the children's section, Mr. Gold stared at her. And said nothing.

Belle bit her lip to keep herself from rambling and stared at the boxes. "Well," she said miserably. "Here we are. I have them all sorted, of course."

"Good thing."

It wasn't until Mr. Gold leaned his cane against a bookshelf and shrugged his coat off that Belle realized she hadn't done anything at all to make him comfortable.

"Oh! I can hang that up for you!"

"No matter." Slinging it over one of the low chairs she'd found at a garage sale and repainted herself to match with the low table that had been donated to the library, he pulled the first box open.

"Do you need something to drink? I could get us some water. Or, if you were willing to wait, I could run upstairs to my apartment and make us tea."

"I'm fine."

"It's no trouble, really! You're my first volunteer, and I don't want to overwork—"

"What?"

Belle blinked at him, discomfited to realize he was staring openly at her. "What?" she repeated.

"I'm…I'm the first volunteer?"

"Yes." She bit her lip. "Well. Only. I suppose. So far."

The awkward silence stretched. Staring down at the floor, Belle tried to decide if it would be more or less embarrassing to pull up the shabby carpet and crawl under it herself. It was hard to believe she'd been so excited for this evening to finally arrive. Now, all her grand hopes had plummeted to reveal that she was just plain, ordinary Belle, not dynamic enough to attract a crowd, not charismatic enough to compel volunteers, only good for reading and fading into the background. Nothing at all in comparison to a man who, she had pieced together on her own, started with nothing only to work his way up to owner of pretty much the entire town.

"I'm sorry, Belle."

The phrase didn't make any sense, mainly because the first thing Belle noticed about those three words was the low, soft voice. The accented cadence on her own name—the first time he'd ever called her by it. The almost regretful fall to his tone. And then, only then, did she realize that he was apologizing.

"What?" Belle didn't regret the quick steps she took to bring her within a foot of him. He didn't look aloof or menacing right then; he looked sad. So sad that when she met his eyes, she nearly choked on the sight of such open despair. "Why are you sorry? I'm so happy you're volunteering!"

"If my being here is going to keep others away, then I—"

"No!" Belle blushed but didn't retreat. "I mean…I didn't even tell anyone. It's not you, I promise. It's just…" Taking a deep breath, she looked away. "No one ever listens to me, you know? I've had those flyers up for three weeks. You're the first person who's even asked about it. I do try to bring up how much I could use the help to my friends, but…well, they're all busy, and I get it, really, I do. It's just…"

"Lonely," he finished for her.

Belle's eyes locked with his. "Yeah," she whispered. "You have no idea how happy I am that you're here. That you even bothered to look at the flyer, let alone showed up."

This time, the silence didn't feel awkward or long. It felt, if she dared to think it, full of potential.

"Well," he finally said. "I guess we'd better get to work, then."

Mr. Gold was a methodical worker, which translated to slow, but he was dogged too, so even though they ended up staying long past closing, they finished decorating the entire library. It really wasn't much, and seemed even less when swallowed up by the cavernous interior of the full building, but it was all Belle had had room for in the budget—and the posters she'd splurged on with her own money—and at least it was a nudge in the right direction.

"Very eye-catching," she pronounced, and didn't think she imagined the hint of a smile hidden in the corners of Mr. Gold's mouth.

Throughout the evening, they'd only had a few patrons disturb them, and Belle had been able to check them out quickly without worrying too much that Mr. Gold would slip away in her absence. At one point, hurrying back to him, she'd found him bending to pull out a book for little Alexandra, who reached with her hands high in the air, one of her shoes nearly coming off as she went on tiptoe. The smile Mr. Gold directed down at the child was so warm, so sincere, that it twisted at something in Belle's chest.

She'd never seen him look so open. So unguarded.

But then Ashley had swooped in to grab her daughter, causing Alexandra to nearly drop the book, and Mr. Gold's expression shifted back to flat neutral so quickly that if she'd blinked, Belle thought she might have missed the transition.

He liked kids. He was lonely, and he was sad, and he liked kids. Belle had learned so many things about him in only an evening that she couldn't imagine how much more she might learn if he kept volunteering. In fact, she was so caught up in imagining it—in fantastical daydreams about becoming friends with him, finally having someone to talk to about the big and little things, someone who'd care and who'd ask after her and who'd realize when she was having a particularly bad day—that she nearly fell from the ladder where she was hanging a string of orange lights, reaching too far, straining too hard.

Mr. Gold swiveled in place, his cane clattering to the floor, and caught her by her elbows. Belle's heart hammered in her heart as she felt him push her back onto the ladder, his hands steady until she'd caught her balance, then falling quickly away.

"Thank you!" she gasped, and stumbled her graceless way off the ladder. The lights were crooked, and the end of the string was hanging unevenly, but she didn't care. She wouldn't change a thing about this moment for all the money in the world. The tiny bulbs cast a russet glow around them, transforming the usual fluorescent lighting into something intimate, and her skin burned where he'd touched her.

Mr. Gold said nothing. At his side, his thumb rubbed against his index finger, a repetitive movement that made him seem nervous.

She wondered if he was.

She wondered how often he was.

"Thank you," she said again.

His lips twitched in that shadow of a smile before he bent to retrieve his cane and went back to weaving plastic leaves into some kind of wreath.

Such a small exchange, but that night, after he'd gone, when Belle was eating microwaved soup in her apartment, she replayed that moment a hundred times and felt warm all the way through.

It was that smile at Alexandra that gave Belle her brilliant idea. If Mr. Gold liked kids—and so seldom got to interact with them thanks to the fear of the adults—then she'd help him out.

Of all the library events Belle organized, the Story Hour was the most well attended. She knew that most parents saw it as an easy babysitting opportunity, and that they'd dump their kids before heading off to run errands, or grab a quick coffee, or just catch their breaths. Aside from putting up a sign that insisted the library wasn't responsible for the well-being of unattended children, Belle didn't fight it. It increased foot traffic and gave her a bump in her check-out stats, and since the mayor herself sometimes left her toddler, this event was probably one of the only things keeping her library open.

"I have so much paperwork to get done," she told Mr. Gold when he arrived on that Friday night, which was true. "I know this is short notice, but would you mind terribly doing the read-aloud with the kids?"

For just a moment, Mr. Gold looked panicked. Or perhaps startled. Belle hoped it was the latter, but he was hard to read.

"I'm better with paperwork," he finally said.

"Oh, but it would take more time to explain where I am and what still needs doing, and besides, I wouldn't feel comfortable making you do my actual work. I already picked out the books for the kids, all you need to do is just read them. They do like voices, if you're willing, but really, they're pretty content with anything. Please?"

It took him such a long time that Belle nearly retracted the offer, but finally Mr. Gold nodded.

"Thank you!" She smiled at him, then led him to where the kids were already beginning to congregate in a large half-circle around the Reader's Chair. Only belatedly did she realize she'd grabbed his hand.

"How are you today, everyone?" she asked in her brightest voice. The kids chorused back their answers, and she made sure to ask a couple questions to engage them all, before she tugged at Mr. Gold's hand to bring him forward. "We have a very special guest with us today who's going to read us all some amazing stories. This is Mr. Gold. Can you all say hello to Mr. Gold?"

His hand clenched around hers. Actually, it felt more like a spasm, and was so tight Belle almost thought she felt a couple bones in her fingers grind against each other. Hiding her wince, she nudged him to the chair and tugged her hand free of his.

"Now, listen very closely," she instructed the kids as she handed him the pile of books. When he took them, she saw that his hands were trembling. She darted a glance up to his face, but his expression was impassive. He really was shy, then. "Give Mr. Gold all your attention so you don't miss a single word. I want you to tell me all about it when he's finished, okay?"

With a last pat to his shoulder, Belle backed out of the circle and headed for a nearby table. She'd left her papers where she could sit and still watch him—there was no way she planned on missing even a second of this. If he was going to smile so openly at these children the way he had Alexandra, she wanted to be there to see it.

She just wanted to make someone happy. Just one person. Was that so much to ask for?

After a pause during which the only sounds were those of kids fidgeting in their seats, Mr. Gold opened a book. Belle smiled when he found his place on the first page.

That smile quickly died as her brilliant plan turned into a smoldering disaster.

At first, she could see Mr. Gold's lips moving. The kids all leaned forward, creeping closer and closer, so she assumed he was reading aloud, even if exceptionally quietly. But then, his lips fell still. The book sagged to his lap. There was a pale, nearly sickly cast to Mr. Gold's face as he stared down at a little boy in the front row. Henry, Belle thought, a quiet little tyke with a face as cute as a button. Even from as far away as she was, Belle could see Mr. Gold's hands shaking.

Half-rising, Belle felt a lurch in her stomach.

"Ava," Mr. Gold said, and before the girl could do more than stand, he was dumping the pile of books into her arms, grabbing for his cane, and limping back into the stacks.

Ava sent a quick, panicked look to Belle, who tried to smile reassuringly at her—it must have worked because by the time Belle was halfway into the fantasy section, she could hear Ava's voice rising in a storyteller's lilt, clearly copied from Belle, that would have made her smile on any other day.

"Mr. Gold?" she whispered.

She heard the ragged breathing before she heard the thump and crash of something falling to the floor. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to dash forward and make sure he was okay, but Belle had learned a long time ago that her instincts often led her wrong, so she took an extra moment and let her heels tap against the tile as she came around the corner to find Mr. Gold standing with his back to her.

Ahead of him, just over his shoulder, she could see a streak of crimson against the off-white brick—she didn't need to see his hand to know his knuckles would be bleeding—and one of the chairs for the table back here was overturned. Belle couldn't focus on any of that, though, all her attention fixed on Mr. Gold's shuddering shoulders and gasping breaths.

"Mr. Gold," she said, more to let him know she was there than to draw his attention. Softly, carefully, leaving a slight space between them, she circled until she was in his field of vision, and only then did she reach out to place her hand on his arm. Just fleetingly, one touch before she gave him a moment. She left the chair where it was, not wanting him to think she was more worried about the collateral damage than she was him.

Not that he was looking at her. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and almost all his weight was leaned on his cane as he gasped for breath. For composure. For anything past the panic attack she'd tossed him into.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, and dared another glancing touch. "It's okay, Mr. Gold, really. No harm done."

And then she folded her lips inward and kept all other words inside where they wouldn't pressure him. Perching on the table, she swung her legs, and every once in a while, reached out to pat his shoulder or his forearm, a reminder that he wasn't alone. She kept her own breaths deep and steady, in the pattern she'd learned and copied a thousand times over, hoping he'd mimic her.

Gradually, bit by bit, his breathing eased, slowed, steadied. His shoulders sagged from around his ears, his hand loosened its white-knuckled grip on his cane, and finally, his eyes opened. He didn't look at her, though. Rather, he looked past her.

"I'm sorry," she said before he could grasp for some form of explanation. She was desperate to find the right words to comfort him, to fix this, to make sure she hadn't scared him away forever. "I should never have put you into that position. I should have asked you—"

"You did ask," he said shortly.

"But I pressured you—"

"I'm fine." He turned his back on her, moving smoothly for all the fact that there was a tiny puddle of blood near where he'd stood. His knuckles were still dripping; she hoped he hadn't broken anything.

"Mr. Gold, you don't have to be—"

"I think I'd better go." He didn't even seem to hear her speaking at all.

"But—"

He was gone so fast, graceful and decisive and everything she wasn't, leaving Belle standing uselessly in place, her hand half-raised toward the empty space in front of her, an overturned chair at her back and a bloodstain on her wall.

Maybe she wasn't too much. Maybe she was just, always, for everyone…not enough.

Her father had been right, after all. She would never be able to make anyone happy.