Turning
DISCLAIMER: OUaT isn't mine. Psh.
One-shot, Belle/Gold, Storybrooke, season 1, post-Skin Deep.
This is a gift for my To Wish readers for the week-long hiatus. Ya'll have been amazing. I hope you enjoy this.
Dedicated to my utterly brilliant beta, OldRomantic. Emily, you're a dream. I could not have picked a better editor.
Please review! I'd love the support!
-XXX-
She turns it in her hands, letting the thread-like gold strands glitter and flicker. It feels cool, yet warmly familiar. Chain wrapped around one finger, she moves on to the center, the core, the pendant-a smooth, champagne-coloured egg of a pearl. The tips of her fingers whisper against the surface. Memories surge to break from the dam; yet it did not break. She is on a verge. An edge. But nothing comes. Lost. Again, amidst the wall built by his curse.
Regret tinges his gaze. He watches her examine the necklace, his amber-hazel eyes tracing the curve of her figure, absorbing the impossibly real sense of being. His and hers. He'd never thought he would come to this moment. Ha, he'd never thought he would see her again. Not in this life.
Or any other.
When he'd opened the velvet, silk-lined pouch, turned out the contents, letting the thin chain and shining stone slide onto his outstretched hand, he had not anticipated the pure glow of wonderment to rise in her. She'd stared into his hand-his tanned and manicured in this land, not the calloused and worn limb he'd bore in the old world-before accepting the offered piece of jewelry.
"Was this mine?" she asks softly.
"Yes. It was."
"Did I wear it a lot?"
He inclines his head. "A considerable amount."
"Yes." she whispers.
It was one of the few things he had mysteriously found tucked in one of the numerous rooms of his Painted-Lady mansion. Well, perhaps not just a numerous room. His room. The room with blue-walls. In a drawer, in his armoire. Tucked beside his handkerchiefs and his wristwatch. And the moment he'd found her again he knew it-the necklace-wasn't a mere slap of fate, it wasn't Regina exerting her highest level of bitch and serving him a hearty reminder of remorse. It was Belle.
"Can I wear it?"
"Of course. Here…may I? Alright…turn, my dear."
He accepts the chain from her slim fingers, opening the clasp. The young woman sweeps back her thick curtain of hair, pushing it over one shoulder and holding it there. Gently, he brought the gold strand around her front, draping it over her collar and closing the claw so that it rested along the base of her pale neck. His fingers linger briefly, touching the goosebump-puckered skin with the lightest of caresses, ghosting her shoulders with his breath.
For a brief moment, he wonders if this will help. If she might have an epiphany. If she might remember. Upon more reflection, he realizes that should an epiphany occur, he would not quite not know how to react. On the happy instance that she recalled him fondly, look upon him with good feeling they would merely pick up where they left off. But, should she refer to her exile and his abandonment…well, then they would have some talking to do.
So far, in her muddled state of mind, Belle has been sweet, shy, reserved, and perhaps a little wary. Skittish. She reminded him of a fawn with big, dewy eyes, soft skin, nervous quivers, and a gentle inclination to dipping her head so as to avoid others' gazes. Her general state is one of quiet-he wonders if this is a result of time spent in the ward, or if she was always like this, and he'd just missed it. The castle was always she been as well, with him simply not noting what had never been altered? He wanted nothing more than her comfort, in this world and the past one. So…silence, it was.
"It's beautiful."
She breaks the silence when she stands before a mirror-the only mirror in the house, besides the ones in the respective bathrooms-fiddling with the tear-drop stone. The pawnbroker steps away, considering.
"Yes. Very lovely." he agrees softly from the background. In the mirror's oval visage, he can easily make out her slender figure, hands twisting, rose-coloured blouse falling just passed her hips, black trousers skirting the lines of the supple flesh of her legs. The chocolate locks of her hair now tumble past her thin shoulder blades. And there, in the upper left corner, one could just make out the man with shoulder length caramel-coloured locks, dressed in a black suit, mouth loose with dull ache and eyes staring forward with a painful anticipation.
"It would be very easy to fall in love with Belle." he thinks bitterly. Bitter because he knows that the same is not true of him, that not even a trace of love could be applied to the town's most hated figure. To love him would take work, certainly.
Work that she is, he can see, all too willing to give, when she spin to face him fully, giving him her hands. "Thank you." she says. "It's a lovely gift."
He swallows. "I cannot give what was already rightfully yours."
But she ignores this, instead choosing to squeeze his hands and offer him a soft kiss upon his aged cheek. The sensation sends crackles of energy throughout his body. Even though it's the type of kiss one might give their grandfather or uncle. Or, so he's trying believe.
"Thank you," she repeats, whispering against the taut skin of his hollow cheek. "So much."
At that, she spins out of his hands and away, slight blush colouring her cheeks. Cautiously, she makes for the kitchen.
Perhaps things are not quite perfect, not quite the story-book ending. But they are turning out to be quite….
"Gold, are you going to read to me tonight? Shall I make tea?"
"Yes, my dear. Of course. Tea would be…grand."
…brilliant.
-XXX-
I suppose this is a continuation of the 4 or so Storybrooke one-shots I've written over the past two weeks. Everything from Gold visiting Regina to demand Belle's release, to the release from Belle's POV, to Gold's, and several others. I have a kiss and then a wedding one coming up, so…stay tuned.
And please review! Please...one click!