Chapter Text
No. Not today.
Robert Gold had actually been having a fairly nice day up to this point. He had woken up a little later than usual, enjoying the luxury of sleeping in, and had gotten a quiet walk down to Granny's for breakfast and coffee with Neal and Emma. After leaving, he'd decided to pop over to the library before opening Gold's Antiques for the day. After all, he could use a new stack of mystery novels.
And maybe a chat with Belle French.
He prided himself on being a cool and collected sort. In the past few years, after Neal had followed him to Storybrook and slowly convinced him to do mildly unpleasant things like open up and get to know his neighbors, he'd been able to to create friendly-if-distant relationships in town and feel a sense of contentment, of calm detachment, and of control.
All of this had flown out the window almost exactly one year ago, when he'd walked into the library to discover that fellow later-in-life transplant and mystery enthusiast Moe French was retiring and his daughter Belle had moved down from New York to be with him and run the library.
And, no offense to Moe, but Robert had never reacted to his presence the way he had Belle's.
He'd tried to convince himself it was a silly infatuation at first -- Belle was undoubtedly beautiful, and what man wouldn't notice that? But he wasn't going to be the creep hanging around the reference desk and trying to get a glimpse of her colorful skirts and blouses or her (admittedly very pretty) bright blue eyes.
So he'd resolved himself to not be a fool and to work out his embarrassing lust in private.
Unfortunately, he'd then made the mistake of actually talking to her.
And he'd become absolutely -- though he would never say the damned word aloud, could barely admit it to himself -- smitten.
Because, in a terrible twist of fate, Belle's inner beauty was somehow even greater than her looks. She was warm, friendly, funny, and patient as she'd helped him find a few titles he requested, and given him a promise to purchase copies of the ones she didn't yet have. She didn't seem to mind his cane, his awkwardness, his general status as Storybrook's own Boo Radley. And, when she'd told him goodbye with a smile, he'd found himself smiling back.
A week later, when he'd gotten up the courage to visit again with Neal in tow, she greeted him cheerfully and damn near beamed as she presented him with the fresh stack of books.
"You'll be the very first person to get your hands on these," she'd said, and winked as she passed them over.
He'd blushed (goddamn it, blushed) and fled, leaving Neal to save himself.
"Jesus Christ," Neal had chuckled as he caught up. "You ran out of there like Forrest Gump, which is impressive considering the cane. Maybe you should ask Moe to ask her if she, you know, like-likes you back."
"Shut up," Robert had responded irritably.
"You'd better ask her to the prom before someone else does."
"Are you twelve fucking years old?" He'd hissed.
"Nope." His son had grinned. "But you might be."
Luckily, he'd gotten better at talking to Belle over the past year. He could pretty much get through five minutes of small talk without stuttering! Even as he'd learned more about her -- how selfless she was while taking care of Moe, how sweet she was in hosting so many events for children and families, how surprisingly bold and sarcastic she could be if pressed or caught in a sly moment -- he'd been able to keep most of his desires to himself.
And today's latest development was going to ruin everything.
Because there, on the Belle's Favorites shelf at the very front of the library, sat a copy of Rose Red And Other Stories.
And he knew, if he opened it and flipped to the table of contents, he'd find it.
His short story.
Starting on page 128.
Skin Deep by Gaz Silver.
Shit. Well, he'd had a good run.
Skin Deep, of course, had always been one of the little thorns in his side. Twenty years before, after his divorce and an extended bout of unemployment after losing his accounting job, he'd desperately needed money to get him and Neal to New York, where a distant acquaintance had a job opportunity and a fresh start available. While he was now on friendly terms with Milah and her husband Jack, had even visited them in Florida, he'd been terrified at the time that they would demand custody of his son and spirit him across the ocean, leaving Robert with no son, no job, and no hope. While he knew now that they would never have done such a thing, he'd been too hurt, too young, too prideful to talk it out -- instead, he'd anticipated the worst.
And so, he'd set out to make some easy cash.
His friend Gaz had suggested he join a strip show he was putting together with some of their unemployed colleagues, but Robert couldn't quite stomach the idea of doffing it all for an audience paying ten quid each. Besides, split so many ways, even a record-breaking show would barely put a dent in what he needed to start over.
Gaz, always a bit of a jack of all trades but nonetheless a good man, had put out word among his contacts that bookish Robert needed money more than any of them, would do anything that wasn't illegal or too sexy.
Someone had clearly disregarded the too sexy part, because Gaz had soon presented him with an opportunity from a small London publisher.
"Yeah, so they need someone to write a dirty fairy tale, if you can believe it. You know, Snow White getting absolutely smashed with the dwarves and fucking in all seven beds, that sort of thing." He'd grinned. "Well, not Snow White. They already have someone giving her a good go. But, if you say yes, they'll tell you what character to write about."
Robert had groaned. "Dear God, Gaz. Not too late to join the strippers, I hope."
Gaz shook his head. "Tough luck, mate. We're already deep in rehearsals." He tossed Robert a sly look. "But, come on! You've always been the smart one of all of us. Going to university, reading for fun and all that. None of us could do it like you could."
"I don't know..."
"Do it under a fake name, then. Nobody's going to know it was you...well, except myself and a few assorted lads." Gaz had grinned evilly, but then softened. "Come on, Rob. It's a good opportunity, nothing too terrible. We all want to see you get back on your feet. You and Neal deserve it."
It was the mention of Neal that had done it. So, with a couple of phone calls, three writing samples, a decent advance payment, and some vague instructions to sex up Rumplestiltskin (dear God), Robert had sat down with his shitty brick of a computer.
He'd read a couple of the other stories his fellow writers had submitted. The general theme of it seemed to be blushing beauties being forcibly taken and ravished by their so-called princes (except for Snow White, who'd had a mutually nice time with the dwarves). He couldn't bring himself to write hurt and pain and anguish, so he'd allowed himself to draw on his own loneliness and think, silly as it was, about what a true love story might look like.
Rumplestiltskin couldn't fall in love with a woman too fast -- audiences liked a little anticipation, if not too much. He could be teasing and selfish, but not so much that the audience couldn't see the redeemable man underneath. He had to be both a little bit alluring and a little bit confused, shaded with past pain and rejection, and a secret, growing hope.
The heroine had to be his match -- no one-dimensional object. She had to be kind, willing to see that man underneath, but brave and strong enough to confront him and challenge his perceptions of himself and the world. She had to be both a little bit cheerful and a little bit uncertain, slowly treading down a path toward a happy ending with that same, small hope.
And, of course, these two characters had to absolutely fuck each other senseless at the end of the story.
All in somewhere between fifty and seventy pages.
But Robert had done it, and in a way he was a tiny bit proud of. In his story, Rumplestiltskin had made a deal with Princess Lacey to save her kingdom in exchange for her becoming his castle's caretaker. At first, they'd been grudgingly tolerant of each other, if slightly intrigued. Then, following a botched revenge attempt on Robin Hood, a well-timed fall from a ladder, and some lonely heart-to-hearts, they'd begun to see each other differently...and truly.
And then there was the finale, a ten-page sex scene Robert had banged out (well, not like that) that culminated in true love's kiss and that had, he swore to God to tell no one, actually gotten him hard as he'd written out the whole sordid affair, from Rumplestiltskin accidentally catching Lacey moaning his name while satisfying herself to the two of them spent and cuddling in front of the castle library's fire.
Skin Deep had made its debut in the pages of Rose Red And Other Stories, credited to the author Gaz Silver -- the name a combination of Robert's small revenge and a convenient, coded surname. It had sold decently in large cities across the UK -- not enough to make a huge impact or become a big bestseller, but enough to provide him with the funds to escape to New York with Neal and start over.
And now, decades fucking later, it had come back to haunt him in the worst way, as a favorite of the woman he really, really liked.
She'd read it! Read the whole thing--
Read those filthy, filthy words he'd written.
A particularly descriptive passage about Rumplestiltskin licking Princess Lacey's thighs floated across his mind, and he groaned even as his brain curiously replaced Lacey's blissful face with Belle's.
He groaned again.
No. Not today.
What a fairly terrible day he was having.