#ar: guilty until proven otherwise

[lenific]

Prompt: dream. Set in Guilty Until Proven Otherwise.

—

Gold paused at the doorstep, signaling Dove to stop beside him. “What is that?” He tilted his head to catch the soft noise that had broken the monotony of the trek from the archive in the attic to his study.

Music.

An unfamiliar song drifted through the door of the smaller office down the hall.

He couldn’t tell whether the tune was popular, but a few seconds’ appreciation made him confident that it was improved by the accompaniment of Miss French’s sweet voice.

“I had no idea I’d hired a private concert too,” he said to Dove, then chuckled. Perhaps the girl wouldn’t act so nervous about her job stability if she knew he enjoyed her performance. He made a mental note to raise the subject the next time he and Miss French coincided in the kitchen for an afternoon cup of tea. It wouldn’t take long to make the girl blush with a sincere compliment.

“She likes to sing as she works,” said Dove, looking unsurprised by the development.

“She does it often?”

Dove nodded. “Indeed, Mr. Gold. As often as a favorite song comes up.” He smiled fondly. “Miss French has many favorites.”

Gold nodded, though he couldn’t like that he’d missed it until today. The last year had dragged like an unending dream, and though he’d fought tooth and nail for his freedom, there were moments when it hit him that since the end of the trial he’d been more a sleepwalker than his old self.

That those moments had one factor in common - a smiling, blue-eyed factor - had not escaped his notice.

“Should I tell her to stop?” Dove asked reluctantly, mistaking Gold’s thoughtful frown for disapproval.

Gold shook his head. “There’s no need,” he said, finally stepping toward his desk. He left the door open behind him, though. “I’ll get used to it.”

The End 11/03/18

[lenific]

Prompt: dinner. Set in Guilty Until Proven Otherwise.

—

Belle wasn’t surprised to find her boss surrounded by paperwork at half past seven. Dove had pulled her from the library not ten minutes before, so she understood the drive to work overtime.

“Dinner is ready!”

The reply was an annoyed grumble, so Belle readied herself for another battle of wills.

Her deal with the housekeeper was simple: Dove set another place at the table, and Belle made sure that Mr. Gold was seated at it. The man made a mediocre secretary, but his skills in the kitchen made it worth wrangling their boss away from his office every evening.

[lenific]

Shelter - Belle&Mr. Gold

@thelonelyjournal-keeper asked ‘heat’ + Guilty Until Proved Otherwise.

Her living room was warm, but Belle still felt a chill run up her spine as Mr. Gold told his side of the events that had robbed him of his right to privacy and the respect of his neighbors.

Her day had started with a call warning her to remain at home, since Gold’s house had been targeted by someone with a homemade petrol bomb. Her hurried trek across town hadn’t been appreciated by either Dove or Gold, who had insisted that she returned to her apartment - and succeeded only after she had demanded that her provisionally homeless boss came along with her.

At the moment, dragging Mr. Gold through her doorstep seemed to be the highlight of her day.

More than anything, Belle regretted every time she had felt tempted to ask him to open up about those awful months. Mr. Gold was not the type to rail about injustice, or to protest his innocence, but his demeanor chilled as the tale came to the week before his wife’s body had been found.

The quasi-clinical recital of the weeks that had preceded Milah Gold’s death was not what Belle had expected when she’d teasingly offered to trade shelter for a story. Mr. Gold, however, had given up on talking her out of publicly taking their relationship outside the boundaries of a business contract - just to try again to push her away while in private.

Like this, it was impossible to think of him as the friendly man who had given her free reign of his astounding library during breaks - and whose complaints over her increasingly lengthy lunches were more a reminder to eat her food while it was hot than an actual reprimand. There was so little emotion in his face as he recounted the facts as he remembered them, that Belle felt as if he were again before a jury, his freedom at stake, instead of safe under her roof.

His name - his given name, a gift she seldom made use of - was at the tip of her tongue, to ask him to stop; but he had put so much distance between them that Belle felt she could reach out and feel thick walls rising sky-high around him. Curling her fingers against the temptation to hold his hand anyway, Belle wished for at least a cup of tea to give her a distraction - and to generate at least a little warmth as the story prompted shivers to run down her spine.

The privacy of the Gold marriage had been torn open during the investigation and resulting trial, all the ugly facts and faults - particularly pertaining to the surviving party - had been a constant feature in the Mirror during those weeks. Having followed the news curiously, along the rest of the town, Belle had believed that she already knew the worst.

Not five minutes into Mr. Gold’s story, Belle had admitted her naivete.

“Should I stop?”

Belle opened her mouth to agree, if for his sake only. She couldn’t imagine that the memories were comfortable. But she pressed her lips shut when she saw the resigned flash that crossed his expression. No one would have cared to listen to his story, would they? Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. “If you want to share this, I will listen,” she told him, and made herself add a reassuring smile. “Rules of good hosting, you see.”

“Give the presumed murderer a fair hearing? That’s new.”

“Formerly presumed murderer,” Belle volleyed back, emphasizing the first word. “And it’s this or eating my cooking. I doubt you’d prefer the latter.”

His eyes widened, and there was a pause as he swallowed thickly, still staring at her. “Fine,” he said at last, hands curling around the handle of his cane. “We’ll order in. Where was I?”

“You found out about Milah’s affair.”

“Caught them in flagranti, you mean,” he corrected, his voice even. “No need to spare my feelings, Miss French. I am aware that what little the reporters were decent enough to withdraw from the news, Jones has been happy to share.” His lips pulled into a mirthless smirk. “He, apparently, has nothing to hide.”

“Neither do you,” Belle said loyally.

Mr. Gold gazed at her, his fingers tapping the wood of his cane in a slow tattoo. “You really believe that.”

Holding his gaze, she nodded.

“Even when I claimed that I do not remember a thing from the evening before Milah’s death until the next morning?” He chuckled without humor. “I’ve heard I bought the psychiatric agreement with my convenient memory lapse.”

Belle snorted. “From Dr. Hopper? You forget I’ve been his patient as well. He’d sooner resign from his practice than allow his conscience to be compromised.”

“Consciences can be purchased,” he said, giving her a knowing glance.

Not mine, she thought, straightening in her seat. “You don’t have that kind of money, Mr. Gold.”

He glanced at her, then gave a slow nod, acknowledging her point and seamlessly returning them to their original conversation. Shoulders that had been tense from the moment he stepped into her home dropped half an inch. “Not money, then,” he countered easily. “But there are other ways to break a man.”

Belle should chastise him for making the suggestion, but for the first time in their conversation there was a hint of heat in his voice. He was amusing himself at her expense, she realized.

Weighing her options, she decided it was better than his attempt to alienate her.

“For example?”

He lifted his eyebrows, but rose to the prompt. “Hopper startles every time he sees me in the same room. I could have had Dove threaten him instead.”

Barely keeping herself from laughing at the thought of Dove threatening anything other than a misfiled document, Belle settled for shaking her head. She could point out that Hopper had stood up to Mayor Mills, but she had witnessed that encounter out of chance, and wasn’t sure that she should share it as it had been part of little Henry’s therapy. Instead she pointed out the ridiculousness of Gold’s arguing against his own innocence. “You must have been a godsend for the prosecution,” Belle said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a miracle you didn’t do their job.”

Where he had kept his feelings under wraps as he talked about the past, his eyes warmed with laughter now that their conversation had shifted into one of the arguments where each fell into opposite positions and defended it. “I do have some self-preservation instincts.”

“As proved by your refusal to eat my food,” she said, trying to sound tart but giving in to a smile in the end. “Is it really that bad?”

“I didn’t escape death row to succumb under your lack of culinary talents, dearie.”

Belle shivered at the mention of the death penalty. It was an exaggeration, as even being found guilty wouldn’t have ended with such extreme punishment, but Belle didn’t like to even contemplate the notion. “Don’t speak like that, please,” she said softly.

He waved his hand in careless dismissal. “It was a quip.”

“It wasn’t funny,” she told him, frowning.

Mr. Gold pressed his lips together. “You have a soft heart, Miss French,” he said, as if it was some fault of hers. “You care too much.”

Stung, Belle raised her chin and met his eyes. After almost a year working together, she knew several truths about Mr. Gold that he would rather have kept hidden. “I’m not the only one, am I?”

 The End 02/07/17

[lenific]

OUAT - Belle & Mr. Gold

@bookwormchocaholic asked: Guilty Until Proven Otherwise (why haven't I read this earlier, it's fantastic!!!) Belle: how is work? Has things between you and your mysterious employer improved?    

CHANGE (Ao3)

“Miss French?” Belle looked up from the contents of yet another drawer full of receipts, bills, and letters. It was taking her longer than expected to organize Mr. Gold’s affairs. Every time she came close to having all files in order, Dove would appear at the door with another pile of unlabeled documents.

Belle was caught between exasperation and elation each time. On the one hand, it meant the work she had been hired to do wasn’t yet complete, and she couldn’t help a stab of failure at the thought; but on the other hand, she was still drawing her weekly checks, and a full stomach always trumped disappointed work ethics.

“Yes, Mr. Gold?” she answered, unable to keep the smile from her face at the sight of her boss.

The rest of Storybrooke might believe him a dour man capable of murder... and they would be in the right. But she now believed in his innocence, even if the man himself liked to act as if he’d gotten away on lack of evidence alone. After working under the same roof for almost half a year, after running into him in the kitchen so many times, and often engaging in long conversations before it struck her that she should get back to work, Belle was sure of her assessment of Storybrooke’s ‘beast’.

Beneath those solemn eyes and biting words, hid a sweet man with a penchant for silly jokes and a nice, soft laugh. Belle would bet - well, if she owned anything of value, she would bet it - that whatever Milah Gold’s fate had been, her husband had had no hand in it.

He eyed her smile, always weighing its honesty, and after a bit his expression softens a smidgen. The change was minuscule enough to go unnoticed by other people, but Belle had become an expert at reading him. “I was passing by,” he said, walking in. “Thought I would check on your progress...”

His eyes went to the piles of documents awaiting her attention.

“...assuming there has been any.”

Belle felt the flush on her cheeks, but drew her shoulders back and didn’t look away. She was trying her best, and she’d dare anyone to do a better job at keeping straight the multitude of businesses and side deals Mr. Gold managed. “You’re a very busy man, Mr. Gold.”

He walked up to her desk, and Belle had to blink away the realization that he had seldom walked this far into the library that served as her center of operations.

Usually, if he needed to consult her on anything, he sent Dove to escort her to his office; the few times she’d heard the tapping of his cane on the corridor had been only to tell her sharply that she better take a break and come downstairs for a sandwich, because he refused to be held responsible if a second woman with ties to him perished. “Inanition isn’t a pretty way to go, dearie,” he’d sneer at her from the doorway, and march away without further ado, obviously expecting Belle to follow him.

Belle, who disliked following orders, would mark her place and grin, shaking her head at the man’s foolish attempt to mask his concern, and hurry after him.

The kitchen was neutral ground, a place where he relaxed while she prepared her tea (and often an extra cup for him), and they talked of current news and old books while they sipped on their drinks.

The different approach he had taken today made her wonder what his goal was. “Dove just brought these this morning,” she told him, waving at the four medium-sized boxes, three of them full to the brim. “I will finish with them by next Monday, don’t worry,” she told him. “Is there a specific matter you want me to tackle first?”

Gold shook his head. He reached for one of the documents on top - a copy of a lease, Belle could tell at a glance. He examined the contents, then made a thoughtful sound. “This was signed last week.”

Belle nodded.

“I thought I hired you to straighten the paperwork I’d been unable to handle during... well. Harder and impossibly annoying times.” He scowled. “Trials are such a waste of time.”

Belle had to nod again, this time with a tight knot at her throat. She hadn’t mentioned that the dates on the contracts kept coming closer and closer to the present time, believing that Gold still was distracted with putting his many affairs back on course.

“Well, Miss French. Obviously there is an issue to be corrected here,” he continued.. “It seems to me the job I hired you for is no longer relevant.”

“I suppose,” Belle whispered, trying to swallow her dread.

Her credentials hadn’t improved much with this job, and her defense of Mr. Gold hadn’t endeared her to anyone. Her father’s flower shop was in no better financial place, and filial duty kept her drawing from what would have been her savings to keep the business afloat.

If she begged for a job, would he listen? She didn’t care if he hired her as a gardener of a maid! Then her heart sank when she realized that Mr. Gold already had a team on call to take care of such matters.

“I would like to finish what I’ve started,” she said instead, hoping to at least stretch her job for another week. “I can come on Sunday and finish it then.” “I don’t think that will be necessary, dearie.”

Belle’s heart felt as if squeezed by a tight fist. “I wouldn’t charge for the extra hours...”

Gold tilted his head, eyeing her with a hint of amusement.

The bastard knew she was terrified of unemployment, and he was relishing it!

At that thought, Belle’s back snapped straight. She wouldn’t give the cruel streak in him a reason to gloat, she promised to herself as she narrowed her eyes in challenge. If he expected her to beg, he would be bones and dust before she opened her mouth.

“I see,” Gold said softly, and then chuckled. “What I meant, Miss French, is that there is no need to sacrifice your weekend. I see now that an extra hand frees a lot of my time, letting me indulge in a particular project of mine. I wonder if you’d be open to become my assistant from now on?”

Belle stared at him.

“I will expect more from you, dearie,” he told her, wagging a stern finger in her direction. Then he lifted his shoulders. “But I have every confidence that you’re up to the challenge.”

This belief in her abilities made her tear up.

His grin dimmed into concern. “The change in position would involve a raise, of course,” he hurried to reassure her.

Belle laughed. “Yes!” Before he could say anything, she had hurried around the desk, meaning to shake the hand he’d offered to seal their new deal, but somehow throwing both arms around him instead. “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Gold!”

She released him almost immediately, as the man seemed frozen in shock, and only stopped herself from kissing his shocked face by a second. He would probably vanish into thin air, disregarding all laws of physics and reality, if she tried that. “Yes, Mr. Gold,” she said more quietly, fingers interlaced tightly so she wouldn’t reach for him again. “Of course I accept.”

“Good,” he said simply. “That’s good.”

He nodded at her, eyes a little wider than usual, and started his retreat.

“Mr. Gold?” Belle called, stopping him mid-flight. “Will my new job still include the regular lunch break times?”

He stared at her. Licked his lips. “Yes, Miss French. I believe so.”

Belle smiled. “A decent lunch and the best tea in the world - not to mention the good company. How lucky I am! This job is not what I expected,” she said with feeling, looking into his eyes, “and I’m glad.”

Gold opened his mouth, his surprise obvious, but no words came out.

Belle pretended she didn’t notice his discomfort, and moved back to her chair to try to focus back on the documents she’d been working on before his visit.

She didn’t look up until the sound of his steps had faded, but when she did, her grin had spread from ear to ear.

The End 14/02/17

[lenific]

@annievh asked ‘action heroes’. Set in Guilty Until Proven Otherwise.

—

Gold had watched enough action movies with his son to be aware that he wasn’t the right man for this job. Heroes strode into the villain’s lair cloaked in a tangible aura of strength, or at least outsmarted lethal traps and guards as he sneaked in.

A slow walk up a gangplank, aided by his cane, was not a promising start to a rescue.

The empty deck was another break from the script. He had expected Milah’s lover to receive him with more taunts and accusations, and was unnerved by the silence. “I’m here,” he yelled. “What about you, Jones?”