Belle (Is the Only Word)
'Tell, who'd be the first to raise his hand and throw a stone,
I'd hang him high and laugh to see him die alone...'
–Garou, Daniel Lavoie & Steve Balsamo
Past experience tells him to be cautious, but what does he give a damn for caution?
Gold strides into Granny's trading shop like he owns it, and the woman behind the counter glares at him for it. Amazing really, he thinks, that she has this much – a shop, a family, food – with such a poor attitude.
He doesn't underestimate Granny Lucas though. Oh, no, the bint's got more fire than most of the Capitol's chic and independent women thrown together, and he's met enough of them to know. And, if asked nicely, he might even admit he has a grudging respect for the woman, who has come out of all her trials no more different than sporting a grey head of hair.
Gold steps towards the counter, their gazes locked, and makes sure to thump his cane against the wonky floorboards for extra effect. He's pleased when she flinches.
"I'm here," he drawls, "because a little bird told me you refused her patronage."
Lucas cuts a sigh and gives him a hard, narrow-eyed look over her smudged glasses. "So she sent you? She's not the Belle I remember; would have dealt with me on her own if she was."
Gold's jaw tenses. "She did deal with you on her own, and you sent her packing. I'm here," he pauses, relaxing into an easy and not-at-all-comforting grin, "to remedy that."
"And what makes you think I'll sell it to you?"
Gold's eyes stray to the tea set in the glass case behind the counter, before returning Lucas' glare. "Because you don't have a choice."
With a shabby wooden box under his arm, Gold takes the longest route home to the Victors' Village, unwilling to lose any of the fine china in his care to bustling backstreets or uneven ground.
He thinks about what Belle's expression might be when he walks through the door of their – previously her – house with her desired trinkets in-hand. Will she smile, laugh, scold? She'll know he's wrangled Granny into a deal with threats, but then she must have known it would be a possibility when she came to him in the first place, face sullen and blue eyes wide.
He had coaxed it out of Belle of course, the story of how she'd gone down to Granny's in the hopes of finally buying her favourite item in the shop, only to be told that she wasn't welcome and no amount of money or bartering could tempt Granny Lucas to make it otherwise.
Gold had seen to it with making a few promises about Red's upcoming betrothal and wedding, and how he could make the entire affair as hard on Granny as possible. Belle had been his ace, and Granny hadn't wanted to face the ire of her granddaughter if a blessing wasn't given by her best friend.
Wise decision really, Gold thinks as he starts the slow road up into the Village. He doesn't want to get on the younger Lucas' bad side either, what with her stubborn and hot-headed nature, not to mention he actually likes her.
Gold takes the road to the left and circles the second house, entering through the back door with as little noise as possible, though he knows Belle's already heard his approach.
The kitchen is cool for such a mild day, and he knows that she hasn't eaten this morning, otherwise there would be a fire in the hearth and a bowl in the sink. He searches, turning the corner into the living area, and finds her cross-legged on the floor with her back against one of the armchairs. A cheery fire crackles in the grate of the fireplace at her side.
Gold can't help but pause, taking in the ruddy glow from the fire as it casts itself across her lovely features. She's wearing her favourite dress – the green one – and it is moulded to her form, flattering her mature figure.
She's darning a shoulder of a blue frock in her hands. He recognises it instantly as the one she had worn at the last Reaping, where she had been chosen.
He suddenly remembers how he had seen her in the crowd that day, lining up with the other girls her age as he took his seat. He remembers Saph, how she had soldiered on and tried to whip the district into a frenzy, before calling Clarabelle's name.
Gold remembers how he had found Belle's face in the crowd again, watched her, disbelieving that he could have been so close to petitioning her and her father for her hand, only to have his first ray of light in years snatched away by an oncoming storm.
He remembers Belle's nerves, her fortitude, her pain and her kisses, and his name for her, whispered on a breath as she slept in the arena while he had watched on a television screen, sequestered in his room with a bottle of scotch and a glass without ice.
He remembers how he had mingled and socialised, clawing in sponsors like a man possessed, and then looked up from a meeting with an interested party in an exclusive restaurant, only to see Belle's face plastered across the television screen above the bar.
He remembers how he had watched her kill a girl with the kind of absolute surrender and ultimate feeling that only she can muster. He remembers how he had prayed, more than he had over his mother's grave after she'd taken her own life while he had been in the Games.
Gold remembers the exact expression Belle had displayed when she had dismissed him at the Victor's Banquet, and then the one she'd worn when he'd made love to her. He remembers how he had held her in his arms at night and took her hand in secret during the Tour.
He remembers a blessing, pinpricks, firelight, and skin. He remembers stopping her hand when she had poured too much salt one time, and vetoing too whiny a pet another. He remembers everything in this one moment.
Her rock, she has called him. Well, she's his absolute, and that dress does not suit her.
She speaks before he can. "I don't know why I'm fixing it, really."
Gold says nothing, stepping closer and putting the box on the floor beside the chair at her back. Without a word, Belle leans forward so he can seat himself in the armchair, and he does so with a smile.
She leans back into him, warm and soft between his knees, and he can't stop himself from tangling his fingers in her wild, dark curls. Belle lets him have his fun, resting her cheek against his knee as he twists and teases her long locks of hair.
Her fingers though, he notices, have stopped their work.
"Don't fix it," Gold murmurs as he leans in to press a kiss to her ear, hands finding her shoulders and sliding down her arms. "I'll put it away and we'll forget the thing."
Belle eventually nods, setting the dress to one side before leaning back into Gold's embrace, sighing as he wraps his arms about her and buries his face against her neck.
"You said you had business," Belle reminds him, smiling. "Terrorise anyone?"
"Just one person, love." He pulls back so he can push the box towards her. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of acquiring this for you."
Her fingertips, when they finally brave to touch the worn varnished box, are tentative, and she turns her head to look up at him with such a pleased expression that he can't quite believe his luck.
"Rum?"
He urges her to open it, and Belle slides the wooden slat from the top of the box. Inside, the fine cups and saucers are all intact, securely packed together with sawdust. The delicate hues of sapphire paint decorating the set are a little worn from age, and there are cracks and chips in the rims of all the cups, but there is no denying the value of the items, or their beauty.
He thinks of it as a late birthday present because he hadn't been able to get her anything substantial on the day, due to their lack of funds. He had wrangled a cake at the time though, from the baker.
Her voice, when it comes, is soft and small. "Thank you."
There will be no scolding, Gold realises, and it lifts an invisible weight from his shoulders. Belle doesn't ask how he got Granny to release the antiques into his care, just simply turns and rises up on her knees to give him a long and searing kiss.
Her lips are so soft, like the rose she is rumoured to be, and her breath is sweet with tea. Gold's hands slide down Belle's sides, across her curves and delicious hips, until he can grip her more securely and urge her up, into his lap.
She situates herself atop him with a knowing look and a heat in her eyes that belies her innocent façade. She's such a wildcat – such an untamed and powerfully beautiful creature – and yet, she deigns to let him love her, to touch and caress and kiss her until he can think about nothing else but her scent and her feel and her sweet power over him.
He remembers when he saw her for the first time, her hair loose and her dress dusty, and he remembers how he'd been struck by her. He remembers how he had attempted to pass it off as nothing more than misplaced lust, but, no, he feels so much more for her than that.
Even now, when she's seated across his lap and purposefully nudging his cock, he feels love and affection for her, along with amusement tangled in his desire. He tucks a curl behind her ear and kisses her hard.
"We'll be separated a lot, most likely," Belle murmurs against his lips.
Gold nods, drawing back an inch. "They'll want to put cameras on you often, but it'll be good for whoever's chosen tomorrow. You can get them attention, love."
She is quiet for a moment, her thoughtful blue gaze trained on his chin, before she smiles and buries a hand in his wavy mane. Her cheerfulness is sudden and melancholy, wavering before his very eyes.
"It's Red's last eligible year," she finally says, her voice louder than a whisper but more fragile than spun glass.
"Yes." Gold offers her his comfort as best he can, holding her close and stroking her back. "Anyone can be chosen."
Belle glances at him, her curls riotously framing her pale face, and he doesn't know why he asks, but he does. She can prise anything from him with a single look.
"What if she is chosen?"
Belle doesn't flinch, or snap, or laugh it off and pretend that there's no way her friend will be chosen at the seventy-third Reaping tomorrow. No, she thinks about it, and it's one of the reasons why he loves her.
In a flash, she has an answer for him. She grins.
"Then we'll have another victor from District 8," Belle tells him, and he believes it.
Her kiss pulls him from the chair, drawing them both to the rug-covered floor, where he proceeds to cover her with his body and see to it that his wife is satisfied. Belle, Gold has learnt, is a joy to please, with so many faces and so many smiles and sounds...
A groan – she wants more. A hiss – harder. Kisses – she loves him. Nails in his back – she's close. A gasp, sweet and glorious – she is undone for him.
A hand to her thigh might satisfy his need to feel Belle's skin beneath his fingertips, just as a breath against her neck might satisfy his need to taste her on his tongue, but then Gold's needs are few when it comes to his wife. She has so many different colours, all in which she shines – except for blue – but he is black.
He meets her every mood, no need to anticipate, fitting with her so perfectly whether it's between her thighs or battling words over breakfast. He is her equal, no matter what she throws at him, because he is black, and only partnering with colour – her colour – makes him worthy, desirable. Only in her eyes can he see himself as anything but a beast.
And that, he thinks, is also why he loves her.
Belle tips her palm to him when they are both spent, warm and panting in the fire's glow. She strokes his jaw and his neck, slipping her hand down his naked chest as he turns on one side next to her, before tangling her lovely and curious fingers in the soft strip of hair running down from his bellybutton. He likes to think of it as her spot.
It makes him smile every time she does it.
"I don't care who gets picked," she says, looking up at him, as her hand strokes soothing and sensual circles across his belly. "I'll help them."
Gold lifts an arm to brace his head as he shifts, so he can look at Belle more clearly. She's not warning him, just telling a simple truth: she will help anyone.
He leans down to kiss her forehead, muttering, "And I'll be right beside you, sweetheart."
And she smiles gratefully. Because she knows. She knows he gets attached to the kids and men and women that are sent through him, crying or kicking or screaming, to Death's door, and that he feels for them, and that, once upon a time, he had given up helping because it had been too hard, with no hope of reward or reprieve. Only her Reaping had woken him from the cyclic spell of whisky and regret.
Gold slips a hand over Belle's shoulder, caressing, before kissing the same spot. She smiles under his touch, wriggling playfully, naked and glorious.
"Let's unpack the set," she mutters against his lips, when he decides he must kiss her again. "Break it in with a 'good luck' cup of tea."
He thinks of her 'list,' and smirks. "I thought we had other things to christen, hm?"
Belle's previous suggestion of tea is forgotten between hot kisses and frantic movement to the opposite armchair, which they have yet to properly christen as they have most of the rest of the house.
Gold presses a tender kiss to Belle's collarbone as she takes him inside of her again, and he relishes slipping away with her, into the secret place that only the two of them know.
"Oh, Belle."
It's the only word he'll ever need.