Author's note: This is based on a prompt by the wonderful repeatinglitanies.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, in a small town in New England lived a young woman by the name of Belle French.

Life had not always been kind to her. When she was only twelve years old a devastating fire had destroyed her childhood home, killed her mother and almost took her own life. Only at the last possible second a brave fireman had been able to pull her away from the scorching flames and wrapped her up in a blanket to extinguish the flames that were already licking at her skin.
Because of his quick actions she had escaped relatively unharmed, save from the nasty burn on the right side of her face, the one lasting result of her ordeal.
Even years later, she still cringed at the memory of how helpless and lonely she had felt in the long, dark nights at the hospital, the side of her face burning with agonizing pain, her heart empty and crushed from the loss of her mother.

Over time her wounds turned into scars, both inside and out. She still missed her mother terribly, almost daily, but she could remember her now with a fond smile.

The scars on her face were another matter entirely. The skin of her right cheek was marred with ridges and always felt tight. The redness of the burns had faded as the years wore on, but there was still some noticeable discoloring.
Belle was used to the staring, even though everybody knew what had happened to her. She was used to people's eyes constantly riveting to the ugly marks as they talked to her.

She was used to children pointing at her and hearing a curious: "What has happened to…?" before they were shushed by mortified adults.
She was used to strangers recoiling in shock after taking a first look at her and awkwardly adverting her eyes from then on.

Yet there were times when people's coarseness bothered her. Like when she had graduated from college with a BA in library science and excellent marks and the town council of Storybooke still decided they didn't want to employ her as a librarian.
The straight-forward Major Mills had little qualms about revealing the true reason for their rejection: "With the library being such an essential institute, we feel we should hire a person who has a less off-putting appearance. The librarian is after all one of the public faces of the town. And we'd rather not have yours… I'm sure you'll understand."

Belle had smiled a tight, forced smile, answering politely that she indeed understood perfectly and had never given the other woman another glance.

And if she had cried that night, alone in her bed, hot tears of frustration and sadness trickling down the ruined skin of her face, no one would ever know about it.

Instead of becoming a librarian, she worked at her father's flower shop. It wasn't a bad life, although it was a far cry from the dreams she'd had when she was a child.
She contented herself with the thought that at least she was being indispensable to her father.
Maurice French had never fully financially recovered from the fire that had turned all of his worldly possessions into ash and had left him with a sky-high medical bill as a result of Belle's hospitalization.
At least now she could help him pay off the debt.

Then on a chilly, bleak February morning Mr. Gold came into the shop and made his short and to the point request.
He planned on restoring the rose garden that belonged to his Victorian mansion and wished to hire their services to make it happen.

For Belle it was the challenge she'd been waiting for ever since her hopes of becoming a librarian had gone up in smoke and she had agreed enthusiastically to work for him three days a week, starting March.
In the intervening weeks she spend her evenings reading up on the care and cultivating of roses, checking out various heavy volumes from the library, determined to come in as prepared as possible.

When she arrived at the pink mansion on the first day of March with a clear idea in her head how she was going to tackle such a task, she was pleasantly surprised to find the conservatory at the back of the house to be a spacious, welcoming place, well equipped with all the tools she needed to start.
She soon discovered that the landscaping of the garden was rather beautiful, with lovely, natural slopes, perfect lightening and a charming victorian gazebo right in the middle of it.

Her imagination went in overdrive, picturing all the beautiful roses and scrubs she could plant along the boarders of the lawn, creating the perfect cottage garden.
Later that morning she met with Mr. Gold and she was very pleased to find that he intended on sparing no expanses on the garden and basically gave her a carte blanche to order everything as she saw fit.

Prior to agreeing to work for him, Belle had hardly ever interacted with Mr. Gold. She knew he owned most of the town, including the building that housed her father's shop and that in the past there had been difficulties between the two men. Ever since she had taken over the job of keeping the accounts from her father she had meticulously made sure that the rent was paid on time every month and since then there had been little reason for Mr. Gold to visit them, other than the collect the rent and those visits had always been brief, polite affairs.
She knew him to be a reticent, complicated sort of man with a quick temper and a tongue like a razor when provoked.

But during their short meeting he appeared almost pleasant, obviously amused by her enthusiasm and she decided he looked a great deal less fearsome when he almost-but-not-quite smiled at her.

Looking back he was never quite able to tell what on earth had possessed him, although restoring the rose garden had been on his to do list for a long time. His sentiments for that were purely practical. From a historical point of view, the rose garden was an inextricable part of his house and he was enough of an antiques dealer to want to restore the house he lived in to its original glory.

And when the kind-hearted florist daughter jumped at the chance to make it her project, well, why wouldn't he employ her services?
Belle French appeared to be one of the few people in town who understood the concept of paying rent: a monthly recurring obligation that simply had to be fulfilled. It was quite refreshing to have at least one tenant who was capable of having the money ready when it was due each month and could even spare him a slight smile along with it.

Her eagerness and dedication to the job were rather endearing and if he was going to have to tolerate another person in his house and garden for months to come it might as well be her.

Still, he was quite unprepared for the whirl of light and life she brought with her.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday morning at eight o' clock sharp she appeared on his doorstep, clad in a practical pair of bright red Wellington boots and a completely impractical skirt, cheerfully wishing him a good morning before dashing off to the conservatory.

For the first month there was just a lot of groundwork to be done, ground to be fertilized, scrubs to be planted and an ingenious irrigation system to be installed.
But half way through April the night frost disappeared and the days became warmer and filled with sunshine and the first rosebuds began burgeoning.

He found himself starting to try and find excuses to linger in the conservatory and talk to her and she didn't make it very difficult for him to do so. There was always a book about landscaping she wanted to show him, or pictures she wanted him to look at, at one of those modern iPad things she brought along. Apparently she had collected a near endless collection of pictures of roses and gardens on a site called Pinterest.

She included him in every decision and every idea she had and although after the first month he had an infallible trust in her abilities, he never passed up an opportunity to discuss her plans.

Most people in town avoided him like the plague, but she smiled at him, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling as she looked at him. She laughed at his sarcastic quips, often repaying him in kind and appeared to be wholly and completely unafraid of him.

On a warm, sunny afternoon, early in May he came home from another grueling day of collecting rent to find her tending to a rose topiary almost as tall as herself.
"It'll go on the terrace," she explained to him, carefully cutting away a few wayward leaves.

"It looks very nice," he complimented, feeling his body relax and his muscles unwind as he watched her work.
The conservatory was bathed in sunlight and comfortably warm, the air filled with the sweet, heady fragrance of the roses.

There was a mountain of paperwork waiting for him in his office, but he found himself reluctant to leave, wishing he could stay with her and just talk to her or simply watch her.

He was looking forward to coming home on the days she worked for him, he realized with a start, his heart suddenly fluttering nervously.
When had that happened?

He was turning into a rather sad, pathetic old fool, nursing a hopeless crush on a lovely young woman who didn't think of him twice.

The realization worked like plunge of cold water and snapped him out of his wistful thoughts.

Chastising himself inwardly, he excused himself with a few brusque words and left for his office.

Nervously biting her bottom lip, Belle clutched the vase tighter against her and raised her hand to knock on the polished wood of the door in front of her. Her impulsive idea seemed innocent and friendly enough back in the conservatory, but what if he took it badly?

She'd expected him to call out for admittance, so she was surprised to find him opening the door for her, his eyes growing wide as he took her in.

"Hello…" she started with an awkward smile, feeling horribly self-conscious all of a sudden. Without realizing it, she yanked her hair down so it would cover the right side of her face and hide the scars on her cheek, a gesture she performed thoughtlessly countless time each day. Taking a deep breath for courage she held out the bouquet of roses to him.
"I thought you might like to have these… to brighten up your office."

His face colored slightly and he took the vase from her hands in reflex. "Thank you… that's very thoughtful of you…"

"It would be a shame to let them go to waste," she answered with a smile, relieved by his reaction. "The roses are cropping up nicely."

"They most certainly are, Miss French," he said, admiring the bouquet. "You're working a miracle."

Flushing with pleasure at his compliment, Belle gave him a beaming smile. Really, she didn't understand why everybody else in town disliked him so much. He was pleasant to talk to, if not a little shy and cut quite a striking figure in his impeccable suits and grey-streaked hair.

Then she noticed to her dismay that one of the stems of the roses had broken, the rose hanging down dejectedly.
"Looks like one of them didn't make it after all," she said sadly, intending to reach for it and take it out.

Mr. Gold peered around the bouquet to see for himself and before she could do anything, he broke off the rose and offered it to her with a small smile. "It seems like a shame to let it go to waste," he told her softly, echoing her earlier words.

Her heart fluttering, she took the beautiful petalled, deep crimson rose from him and inhaled its sweet fragrance.
She knew she was blushing when she looked up to meet his eyes again, the sweetness of the gesture taking her completely by surprise.

"Thank you," she replied breathlessly, unable to look away from his gaze. "I -uhm… I should be going home"

"Yes…" he replied, his face falling slightly before he recovered himself. "Yes, of course. I'll see you next week, Miss French. Thank you again for the roses."

"You're most welcome, Mr. Gold," she answered, feeling both strangely elated and sad that she wouldn't see him for another five days. "Until next week."

Giving him one last smile, she turned around, clutching her rose tightly in her hand as she walked away.

From that afternoon on he stopped fighting the urge to want to be around her. It was futile and hopeless and although he forbade himself grimly to nourish any hope that she might return his feelings, he couldn't begrudge his wary and lonely heart the opportunity to be near her whenever she allowed it.
Surprisingly enough, she didn't seem to mind his company, didn't even object when he brought his laptop and paperwork down to the conservatory to work on them while she tended to the roses.

They didn't always talk, but he reveled in the opportunity of simply being near her, watching her from the corner of his eyes when he could be sure she was focusing on a task at hand and listening to the songs she hummed under her breath and the way she talked to the flowers when she thought he couldn't hear her.

Spring turned to summer and by the time June rolled around his garden was in full bloom and he was hopelessly captivated by her.
The more time he spend in her presence, the more he craved her. The three days she spend at his house weren't nearly enough and always seemed to fly past, while the next four days dragged on like something dead.
She teased him, laughed at his stories and smiled a smile at him that made him feel loved and cherished, no matter how fanciful the notion was.

One Wednesday night, the evening before the Summer Stolstice she was trimming the roses covering the gazebo when he walked up to her, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"Can I tempt you?" he asked her, holding up the bottle, his face hesitant.

"That would be lovely," she beamed at him, putting down her shears and wiping her hands on her skirt, wishing she looked a little more put together.

He gestured to the lawn chairs inside the gazebo and she sank down into own of them gratefully, watching how he poured her a generous glass of Pinot noir.

As he sat down across from her and absent-mindedly toyed with his own glass, she felt his eyes on her and gave him a little smile.
"It is so peaceful here."

She'd put up fairy lights a few weeks ago, twining them among the roses, bathing the gazebo in soft light. From the forest she could hear an owl hooting and the night air smelled of sun, grass and roses.

"It is," he agreed quietly, taking a sip of his wine and the dark burr of his accent made her insides quiver.
She knew was being ridiculous and an idiot, but as the months wore on, her infatuation with the landlord and pawnbroker had grown into something far more deeper and more meaningful until she had known for sure that she was in love with him and loved him more than she'd ever loved anyone else in her life.

She loved working for him, loved that she was privileged to see glimpses of the man no-one else got to see, loved that she was leaving an imprint in his home, something that would always remind him of her, even if her work here was long over.

For now, she couldn't bear to think about that day. It would take months before her roses would stop blossoming and as he asked after the books she'd been reading and shared his own stories with her she was determined to just enjoy this perfect moment.

The summer that year was a warm and beautiful one and their evening chats became a recurring occurrence.
He cherished each and every one of those nights where he could just pretend that they were the only two people in the world and that she would never leave him again.

One evening she told him about mayor Mills' rejection of her librarian application and the reason why and he seethed about it for days, his antipathy against the unfeeling woman reaching a new low.

He couldn't imagine how anyone could look at her and see anything but the beauty of her corn-flower eyes and the way they shone with warmth and loveliness. Or how her beautiful curls danced around her shoulders, making his fingers itch with the need to run them through the silky strands. Or how her lips were full and luscious like rose petals, forever curving into a smile and how he longed to kiss them. Or how the soft curves of her body enthralled him and begged to be caressed and worshipped.
Even the scars on her face were, in their own way, beautiful to him. They were a part of her and a mark of her strength and endurance and instead of putting them off, they only made him want to wrap her up in his arms and protect her even more, ensuring that no hurt would ever cross her path again.

Very early into their acquaintance he had noticed her habit of hiding the burned side of her face behind her hair and each time her hand reached out to cover her face with a curtain of hair, his heart clenched painfully.
She shouldn't feel like she had to be hiding or covering herself up. She was beautiful and beguiling and he wished that he was allowed to tell her and show her that every day for the rest of her life.

When August came and the evenings slowly turned colder, a chilling sense of dread started to fill his heart.
The roses in the garden were beginning to wilt and it wouldn't be long before their time to bloom was over.
Belle would prepare his garden for the winter and that would be it. She'd have no reason to come to the house until spring next year and he would have to make do without her presence and nearness during the long, cold winter months.

He thought desperately of a ploy to keep her with him once her work with him was done, but as he stared at the ceiling during the long, sleep-deprived nights when he lay awake, he couldn't think of anything.
She was friendly to him, but it was unthinkable that such a beautiful, young woman would develop feelings for an old monster like him.
They were friends of sorts, and that in itself was astonishing. Any unwanted declarations on his side would ruin the little between them that there was.

Until an idea hit him. At first he tried to dismiss it, trying to convince himself that it was as impossible as every other scheme he had come up with so far.

But as the rose petals began to fall and Belle started to wear warm coats and scarfs to protect herself against the cold his desperation grew and the idea gained in merit.

When September came the weather took a turn for the worse and after a week of heavy rain and icy temperatures Mr. Gold's garden, that had bloomed so beautifully all summer, began to deteriorate.

She knew the inevitable was happening, but it still broke her heart to suggest to him that it was probably time to prepare the garden for the winter and end their contract.

He gave an answer that was as ambiguous as possible, leaving her unsure of his intentions.
Nevertheless he offered to drive her home that evening, and she accepted readily, partly because she disliked the idea of her being out and about by herself in the dark and partly because she longed to prolong their time together as much as possible.

Heavy rain pelted the roof of the Cadillac as he stopped in front of the 'The Game of Thorns' and she bit her lip, her stomach sinking at the thought that this was probably one of the last times.

Swallowing her feelings down, she offered him a small smile. "Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Gold."

"It was my pleasure, Miss French," he replied, clenching his hands nervously around the wheel and she eyed him curiously.
He had been acting out of sorts all evening, being uncharacteristically quiet around her and for the first time ever there had been a hint of uncomfortableness around them.

"Good night then," she said finally, reaching out for the handle of the door.

"Miss French…" he started, his voice suddenly sounding urgent. "If I might have another moment of your time…"

She turned around and stared at him, noticing the small beads of sweat on his forehead and nodded her consent.

"I'd like to run a proposition by you," he continued, his voice strained as he uttered the next words: "I wish to marry you."

"W-what?" she stammered, completely gobsmacked, not believing her ears.

"Please hear me out," he hurried, holding up his hand. "I believe we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement… If you agree to marry me, I will cover the full expenses of the surgery that will remove your scars.
That way you can realize your dream of becoming a librarian if you still wish to be one…"

Her heart that had been soaring at the first part of his proposal plunged to the soles of her feet at the second part.
Shaking her head a little, she tried to make sense of the jumble of emotions inside her head, her hand straying to her hair to pull it across her cheek and neck, hiding the burn marks from his view.

"Why do you want to marry me?" she asked eventually, surprised at how calm she was sounding.

"I like you," he answered promptly and there was no denying that the look in his deep brown eyes was sincere. "I'm… tired of living my life alone in that big house, surrounded by antiques and roses. I don't expect a great love-affair… I'm not looking for romance… I simply want companionship."

He continued to look at her anxiously and Belle took a few moments to contemplate her answer.

He didn't love her… his impassive speech had cleared up that much. And yet, he choose her to spend his life with, that had to count for something. If she married him, she'd never have to leave him again. He might not love her, but she could love him enough for the both of them and perhaps in time he'd grow more fond of her too.

The idea of undergoing surgery didn't appeal to her much, but it would be a small price to pay.

She'd be his wife and he would be her husband.
And the idea was too tempting to resist.

"All right," she replied eventually.

"A-all right?" he repeated, his jaw slacking.

"I think you've made a very compelling proposal," she clarified.

"I'll marry you."

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