A/N: This is just a brief break from Hard Day's. I was inspired and felt like this was something worth writing. Hope you all like it and it can keep anyone held over until the next chapter of HDN is finished. Also, don't own the characters and it was inspired by OUaT and Bomb Girls.
Tentatively moving to the dance floor, Belle couldn't believe the nervous anticipation that accompanied her fluttering heart. Her eyes darted downward as he looked back at her, brown eyes and wry smile. "What's wrong?" he smiled.
Belle glanced up, a subtle blush creeping up onto her already powdered cheeks. "I don't know," Belle murmured truthfully, both of them now standing still on the edge of the dance floor, her front teeth biting into the plump and painted flesh of her bottom lip. "Just nervous," she laughed at the ridiculousness of her own words. "I don't dance," she admitted.
The soldier shifted on his feet, looking nothing like the confident man who had approached her moments before, but softer – more human. "Don't be nervous," the lilt of his voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up straight. "I don't either, really," he confided, leaning in. Belle wasn't surprised, really, since his limp was evident – but she chose to keep that to herself, looking at him for further explanation. "Besides, it's not forever – just one dance."
Though the pressure in her chest had started to deflate, there was something about that sentence didn't sit right with her. "Just one dance," she repeated, a little steadier, the shaking in her voice masked by her smile and the sound of the band.
"Unless you'd prefer not to," Belle only realized that he was letting go of her hand, the contact starting to fade.
She had a choice to make, and not for the first time in the past year had she spoken before she actually thought about it. "No," a burst of confidence poured through her and his expression perked up into enthusiasm. "Like you said," she smiled, "It's not forever."
They both laughed and she was the first one to make another move toward the floor, glancing back at him with a wide smile, not wanting to waste another moment of the slower tune that she figured was perfectly suitable for both of them. "Lead the way, dearie," he teased as she whisked past, a playful twirl before circling into his surprisingly strong feeling arms.
As he wrapped his slender, elegant fingers around her own hand, and she felt the subtle press of warmth on her waist – and that was when Belle knew, everything that the last six months held for her was somehow changing. This was going to change everything.
Belle had been working the floor at Nolan's Munitions for six months. Her chestnut brown hair had turned blonde from exposure to chemicals, but she was slowly and surely getting used to looking at herself in the mirror and seeing herself like that. But, even if she lost her dark hair, it was a sacrifice worth Belle's time – one she didn't mind making. Every bomb that she lifted from the line was one more going to help the boys overseas.
It had petrified her at first, and disgusted her – but war was creeping closer and closer to their lives. Belle's high school sweetheart, George, who never failed to promise that he was going to marry her one day, even after they'd gone their separate ways, who wrote her and called her while he was at school, something Belle only dreamed of, was shipped overseas. Europe, he said to her on her front porch, he had said it was his last before he left.
"Europe?" Belle's voice echoed a mix of terror and – deep down – envy.
She saw the curt nod he'd have done, with his cropped black hair and square jaw. "France," he confirmed, and Belle's heart sank.
"Oh." How many times had she talked of her dreams, of traveling and seeing the tower, or castles, or boulevards fit for film stars. She knew, in reality, that he wasn't going to the France of her imagination, but still – for a girl who had never been outside of Maine. The space between them remained utterly silent and tense for what felt like minutes.
He coughed, "Belle?" Belle made a barely-there sound, urging him on, glancing at him through thick lashes. George clumsily reached across the bench for her hand. "Belle, you're the best girl I've ever known. I was stupid to let you go," he admitted, "I never stopped loving you." Her throat started to close.
What was he on about? And why was he grabbing her hand so tight, and looking at her like that – like he was sixteen again in his silly Chevy, asking her to go out for the first time. "Promise me," he looked at her so seriously and Belle's breath hitched – this couldn't be happening. "Promise me when I come home you'll marry me."
When George looked scared, scared like this, Belle didn't know what to do. It was the same look her father had when her mother didn't come out of the delivery room at the hospital – a look that struck her to the heart. Belle didn't love him, she wasn't sure she ever had – but hearing him, that declaration laced with fear and sincerity of some kind or another, Belle's heart broke for him. And she thought, maybe, if he could convince himself he loved her, and he was proving he loved his country, maybe Belle could convince herself she loved him too. But, before Belle knew what her mouth was doing, she was saying, "Of course – when you get back home."
He had kissed her then, pulled her into a kiss that should have made her knees shake and stomach flutter up into her chest. Despite his passion, and the enthusiasm with which he pushed his lips against hers and his hands on her cheek and in her hair, Belle didn't feel anything except pity. Pity for the poor young man who came to her porch on a fall afternoon and asked her to marry him, despite the fact they hadn't being going steady since senior year of high school.
And just like that, he was gone, a fresh lipstick stain carrying him to the hanger. He was shipped off in his Army green uniform, leaving Storybrooke behind, like so many of the other young men who felt the call of war was too strong to ignore.
George wrote her letters – though they didn't come very often – and she started working in the factory, despite her father's wishes. Belle always needed to do something, though. If she couldn't write to George with any level of sincerity, she could fill bombs and help him win. She could do that. Blanchard's Munitions was less than three miles from her home, and it was only a street car's ride away.
And Belle had taken that streetcar every day since the day she started.
She joined the girls who gave up their nail heels and baubles – anything that could cause a spark and send the whole place up to heaven – at home. They changed into their white suits and walked onto the factory floor, knowing they were doing the job the boys needed done when they couldn't be doing it.
She handled explosives with steady hands – practiced from pouring coffee and tea. She twisted caps and flipped levers, watchful eyes always minding the speed and strength of the assembly line. She threaded detonators with the skilled hands of a seamstress. And, they rolled the labels carefully onto the bodies of the bombs, lifting them with those same steady hands, and sometimes, when a special number passed by, or a memory resurfaced, they lifted those bombs to their lips and left lipstick stains for their boys, and the jerries they'd be dropping them on.
But even then, with all of the honor and pride in the products of their work, the girls couldn't just sit around praying like saints. Waiting with their knitting needles by the fire or their pens and paper on a desk, dreamily staring out the window in wait. Belle had never been that type, and it seemed the factory was full of young women who felt the same.
Ruby Howell, with her wild laugh and love for swing dancing and uniforms, was the first person to reach out to Belle as a friend. Then there was Emma – fierce, brave Emma who never seemed to care a wit about what anyone did or said, always staying the course and glowering at the advances of young soldiers and factory boys alike. Word was her last love shipped off and died in the field. Oh, then there was Ashley, run away from home – eloped, young baby at home while her husband shipped out.
She supposed they were all rebels in their own way, even Mary Margaret who sat perched above in the Nolans' office as the secretary, defying her stepmother's wishes to even dare work near the factory – sneaking around to get to the Rabbit Hole with the girls.
Those nights were always the best. Even if they didn't take away the reality that young men were flooding overseas, heading out to fight the jerries or the Japanese, wherever they were needed, they were moments where the boys could believe that they'd get the girl to miss them and care about them, that they'd have someone to carry into war with them. Belle was that for George, she realized, as she watched Ruby receive three proposals in a week.
It was easier to process and live with – the fact she didn't actually love her fiancé. It didn't make it right, but it made it okay to go out and smile, and go to dances without stockings – they had long forgone stockings, all part of the sacrifice for the war – and while some said it was indecent, Ruby made a big joke out of doing her part in more way than one. Mary Margaret had been suitably scandalized at the whole thing before Lieutenant Peter something or other swept Ruby out onto the dance floor.
Now, just because Belle went didn't mean she ever did actually dance. She watched Ruby and even Emma sometimes, who felt the impulse when dragged out by a particularly handsome young soldier who introduced himself as Jefferson – very American, Ruby would comment later, but was apparently in charge of some big operation in the states. Whatever he was doing in Maine, none of them could know, Emma made it a point to mention how unbelievable that was every time his name was mentioned.
Belle tended to stay to the side, with Ashley. It wasn't right, she'd say, even for a sham engagement, to do that to George – and Ashley pined after Sean. She said she just liked the music, but Belle watched the way she looked at the dance floor. Ashley missed her husband, and Belle had a feeling that seeing this – all the flashes of green and their arms around pretty girls, it must have stirred up some memory or another. When Ashley looked her saddest, sometimes, Belle would pull her into a dance. But, neither of them ever ventured to cross that last line.
And it looked like neither of them ever would until one night, late in the spring when the flowers were starting to bloom and it rained every day but only for a little while. It was a clear night and the Rabbit Hole was full of young soldiers, including Jefferson Madden who was invading Emma's personal space – but it didn't seem as though she minded all that much, even with her best pout on.
"Look at that," Ashley commented, inclining her chin toward the two of them, standing at a makeshift bar. "She pretends to hate it, but she's been hurting," she looked at Belle, "even if she's mad at the guy, at least she feels something."
Belle giggled, the truth in Ashley's words just processing in her head. It must have been something else – to really love someone who was risking his life. It brought Ashley and Emma together, that was for sure, but Belle just couldn't get her head in that space. She cared about George, truly, but she didn't want to marry him. She half hoped that, like some of the girls joked, once the boys got where they were going they'd find someone else and forget all about their girl at home.
What was meant as a threat and legitimate fear to others would serve as a freedom Belle couldn't imagine. It hadn't happened yet, at least not from his letters, but she could hope. Watching Emma, it was easy to forget that the music was live; the liquor was flowing (though Belle could not bring herself to partake), and the world outside was still turning.
"Excuse me," Belle barely registered the words, her eyes drifting from Emma and First Sergeant Madden to Ruby approaching with a very red-faced redheaded soldier next to her. The height of the pair, Ruby in her slightly more than kitten heels, and the man masked the twirling dancers behind them.
Both Ashley and Belle straightened up, smiling almost in unison, as was custom when Ruby decided it was time to introduce another one of the string she was constantly chumming around and dancing with. "Girls!" she chirped, "this is Dr. Hopper." Her hand rested on his arm so comfortably while he looked like he might jump out of his skin. Perhaps coming to this place was not his plan. "He's a physician for the army," she added – as though they couldn't tell. Belle chalked it up to her excitement.
"Archie," he chuckled awkwardly, "will do just swell." He nodded his head to both of them as Ruby explained that they were her best friends and worked at the munitions factory with her. Belle couldn't help but like him much more than the self-serving, boastful boys Ruby started hanging about after Pete was shipped off.
She didn't like to admit it, but it tore her up pretty badly when he left. It was nice to see her smiling so truthfully for once.
Dr. Hopper cleared his throat and played with the cuff on his sleeve as pleasantries were exchanged, however, and started to step out of the way. "How rude," his crooked smile was endearing, "I meant to – oh, this is Lieutenant Colonel Gold."
He awkwardly half-stepped, half-slid out of the way to reveal a shorter, slighter man with a clean pressed uniform and certain… aura of age about him. Not quite young like the other men at the Rabbit Hole, but not old either. It was just… reflective of his status in the army. His lips pulled into a thin smile, shifting almost uncomfortably. "A pleasure." Belle and Ashley exchanged a glance – his accent wasn't American. He must have picked up on it. "Of Scotland," he added.
"LC Gold," apparently some kind of abbreviation, "was in my hospital," Dr. Hopper commented vaguely, "in France." There were many things that could mean, and Belle's mind struggled to figure out which. It wasn't proper to ask, and to look at someone with pity, well, Belle thought that must be worse. She looked down instead, shuffling her foot.
The silence, for a moment was awkward, only filled with the first bars of a song that sent couples reeling from their swinging to holding one another close until Ruby started up with something – Belle could hardly pay attention as she watched the well kept shoes and tailored pants come forward, not able to hide the awkward gait that betrayed a limp. Belle's eyes slowly lifted upward, from knees to waist to shoulders to neck, and finally to face – confident, but not hardened and entitled. "May I have this dance?"