Chapter Text
It’s a blustery autumn morning and Mr Gold is examining an antique garnet ring, holding it up to the light to check for blemishes, when the bell starts clanging and a small bundle of russet wool blasts through the door with unnecessary force, dragging in its wake a large quantity of autumn leaves and an icy blast of wind.
“What. Is. This?” An envelope is slapped down on the counter with considerable force.
Gold quirks an eyebrow at the clearly infuriated librarian standing in front of him with blue eyes flashing in fury and cheeks more than a little flushed before nudging the document back across the counter towards her.
She really is enchanting when she’s in a rage.
Acutely aware that his every movement is being tracked, Gold takes his time in replacing the ring in one of the glass display cabinets. A toe tapping on his parquet flooring hints at impatience and irritation. How satisfying.
“Miss French” he purrs, “and there I was thinking you were the town’s highly educated librarian.”
The town’s highly educated librarian huffs before wagging a finger at the most irritating man ever to have existed.
“That, Mr Gold, was a rhetorical question. Perhaps you’d like to borrow a dictionary from the library if you need elucidation.” And back comes the document towards him, a little less gently this time.
Gold can’t resist a small smirk; his interaction with the majority of Storybrooke’s citizens is limited to snarls, biting sarcasm and financial transactions and he’s really rather enjoying the fire in his sparring partner’s belly.
“Well I’m sorry Miss French but you are clearly labouring under the misapprehension that you have a choice in this. You said, and I quote, ‘Please help me Mr Gold, I’ll do anything to save the library, anything at all.’ The subtle emphasis on ‘anything’ makes Belle wince.
I think you’ll agree that I've upheld my end of the bargain - I haven’t received any complaints unless I'm very much mistaken - so this,” Gold faux sighs apologetically, “is your’s.”
Another slide of the envelope back to his opponent, and this time he allows his hand to rest on top of it, keeping it in place. And checkmate.
For a moment the only sound in the room is the rain, now falling even more heavily, drumming against the roof and battering the windows. Gold watches Belle closely as she so clearly deliberates her next move, trying to work out if there’s any chance she can renegotiate the deal but he knows it’s an exercise in futility because he’s all about the small print, the detail, and there’s nothing he’s missed. Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.
Belle manages - just - to suppress the understandable urge to throttle Gold for being the biggest pedant ever to live, as he stands there in his ridiculous suit that almost certainly cost more than the library’s entire collection of rare editions, sporting a stupid silk tie and silly pocket square, looking so smug and superior and handsome…
Where did that come from. He’s not handsome, he’s not. He’s, he’s, well he’s the shady side of 50, his hair is never going to be brown again unless it’s courtesy of a bottle, and his teeth are snaggly and what’s with his nose anyway, being all long and pointy.
Satisfied that she’s firmly put any notion of Gold being a catch to bed, Belle decides to go on the offensive. She dramatically removes the sheaf of paper from the envelope and with a flourish mimicking the more flamboyant gestures of the pawn shop owner, reads the document out loud in an approximation of Gold’s Scottish burr.
“Miss French” and she pauses to glare in what she hopes is a ferocious fashion at him (he returns the glare unabashed), “is required to assist Mr Gold, owner of Gold Pawnbrokers of Storybrooke” and she breaks off here to mouth a silent “Really?” at him, “every Sunday for four weeks carrying out general shop assistant duties as he sees fit, such as dusting, polishing, sorting stock, indexing the books prior to display, rearranging assorted display cases and carrying out a backroom stocktake.”
Belle takes a dramatic pause before continuing but Gold’s gaze is unwavering.
“The hours are from 9am until 5pm, with one hour allowed for lunch, as well as a morning and afternoon tea break, to last no longer than 15 minutes. Tardiness will not be tolerated.” Gold is surprised that such a dainty little thing is capable of such a loud, unladylike snort and is not sure he is completely successful in hiding his amusement. He lowers his head to allow his hair to veil his face.
Ah but she hasn’t quite finished.
“A dress code applies.” As Belle’s voice rises in indignation at the implied suggestion that her attire is anything other than appropriate Gold suddenly finds the floor simply fascinating and he can’t help a mini shoe shuffle as he thinks that he might possibly have just pushed his luck too far with the last sentence.
“A dress code, Mr Gold. A dress code. What exactly are we talking here? A maid’s outfit perhaps? Complete with a feather duster and frilly apron?"
Gold’s trousers suddenly feel a trifle too tight.
“An excellent suggestion if I may say so. After all it is a little dusty in here, dearie” and if his voice is a little deeper now, hopefully Miss French will be too preoccupied to notice.
Happily for Gold this proves to the case. It seems it is only too easy to get Belle to rise to the bait. She leans over the counter and prods - yes, prods - Gold in the chest. “Do not push your luck,” she enunciates crisply.
If Gold was the quailing sort, he’d be rather intimidated by the sudden fury in Belle’s eyes but instead he rather admires her spark. She makes a rather charming adversary.
“Uh, Miss French, let me stop you there before you self-combust.” Belle’s face turns puce and Gold waves an elegant hand to suggest she remains silent, leading to a very chewed lower lip. “I simply meant that you might want to,” and he gestures at her four inch stilettos “wear flat shoes. More comfortable you know when you’re on your feet all day. After alI, I wouldn’t want you to sue me under health and safety regulations.”
Belle pauses because if she doesn’t she might scream in frustration. But then a moment’s reflection makes her see, because she’s a reasonable human being - unlike some she could mention - that he does perhaps have a point. Perhaps, too, he’s genuinely being considerate rather than trying to provoke her into a reaction although she’s not entirely convinced he has her best interests at heart. The man is sleek and dangerous, if the speculative gleam in his darker than dark eyes is anything to go by.
Belle is no fool. She knows - and he knows she knows - that she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Gold’s deals are unbreakable and that’s that. Not for the first time she berates herself for having allowed emotion to cloud her judgement, how the fear of losing the library, her livelihood, her everything, led her as a last resort to seek out Storybrooke’s very own Mephistopheles.
Yet maybe, just maybe, it might not end up being a complete disaster spending time in Gold’s lair. He does have an amazing collection of books she’s been desperate to get her hands on that she’ll now have the opportunity to peruse and she suspects that with his eloquence and clever way with words he can probably spin a good yarn about some of the more curious objects scattered around the shop.
And whatever you want to say about him, Gold is never boring, always unpredictable. It might be - fun - to poke the dragon’s breast to see if there is a soft spot lurking amongst the hard scales.
Belle eyes him from beneath her lashes.
“Very well, Mr Gold. Alright, you have a deal.”
Gold’s smile is perfunctory, his face carefully blank, as he hands her his antique fountain pen so she can sign the contract.
“But I have some conditions of my own before I sign.”
Gold frowns, thinking this isn’t part of the script but hesitates.
“I’m listening.”
“Condition one; you’re responsible for making morning and afternoon pots of tea. I take earl grey, black, no sugar.” Condition two: No uniforms. And condition three: you have to tell me a story about one object in your shop each week.”
Gold is silent as he mulls over what has just transpired. It seems the librarian has teeth (and very small and white and bright they are, too). This has just got a lot more interesting.
“Very well. You bring the biscuits. Dark milk digestives. Flat shoes only. I don’t want to have to catch you when you trip and fall off my ladder. And I choose the object. Are you happy with the additional clauses, Miss French, because I’m a very busy man and I’d like to get on if that’s alright with you?”
And Belle finds that she is.
He swiftly makes the changes, in tiny, neat handwriting, Belle watching carefully in case of any impish trickery.
Once she’s assured that everything is above board, their fingers brush when Belle leans across to take his pen and Gold’s hand tingles from the unexpected contact. He glances up to see Belle looking at him curiously before her gaze slides away for a second. She writes the most elaborate signature he’s ever seen and finishes it off with a dramatic flourish he can’t help but admire.
“Until 9am Sunday, then, Miss French.”
Belle is dismissed with a curt nod that does nothing to soothe her nerves or her temper and in a turn of speed that defies gravity she is out of the door and halfway across the street before the door bangs shut behind her with an unnecessarily loud thump.
Gold stares after her and then looks down again at the contract, battening down a sense of anticipation at what’s just transpired. So he’s got himself a deal. And an unwilling shop assistant. He has no idea what to expect when Sunday arrives but whatever it is, it’s going to be quite the adventure. And one he finds he’s really not that averse to.