I had a snow day, and was bored. I wanted to write something Belle-centered. A gift to my OUAT readers who enjoyed Skin Deep.
One-shot, please review.
-XXX-
He cannot help but watch. He wants to tear his eyes away, find another object to fixate upon. But she is dancing, face painfully blank, lips slightly parted. Arms held aloft, eyes closed, she looks to be daydreaming, peacefully floating through her own mind.
Mad as a hatter, she is.
One would never know it, though. She looks perfectly normal. Happy, even. But looks are deceiving. When she opens her mouth, not a sound comes out. He waits for her to stop dancing before asking softly, "Yes, m'dear?"
Bright blue-green eyes shoot open, and she hits her chest with a closed fist. The hollow sound of contact is far from pleasant. She breathes loudly. Then, finishing a twirl, she stops, back to him, head bowed. How dearly he wants to approach, brush those ivory, rose-scented shoulders with his own wretched fingers, and whisper in her ear. How he would love to touch the billows of soft curls, inhale their lovely fragrance. Teach her how to smile again. Tell her how many times he's sorry. Show her that he's nothing more than a silly, weak old man who would do anything for her forgiveness.
She seems to know him, sometimes. Fingers will stretch out, make to touch his face, and he can swear she's whispered his name. The softest of breath will caress his cheek, and he'll close his eyes and-and-
But for the moment, for now, she's still standing with her back to him, her head is still bowed. And he feels entirely helpless, cannot even think of touching such a brilliant, perfectly damaged creature.
"Belle," He commands, and she looks up to him. Hopelessly lovely.
Two weeks, and he's still uncertain as to whether or not she can speak, or even understand him. She seems to respond, but he's yet to hear her own lithe voice. This ought to worry him, but right now he's too relieved to know that she is simply alive to even be bothered by the details. Twenty-eight years stuck in this damned place, he's never thought he might receive her for all of his trouble. She had been dead and gone-but not dead and gone, and oh, he's so glad of it. She could be disfigured, mauled and mute, he doesn't care. She's here, and she's living, and she will be okay.
"Belle," He says again, differently this time. And, almost as though she can understand through his tone alone what he needs, the young woman crosses the carpet on light feet. She sits before him, tucking her knees beneath her, tugging at the hem of her night dress before resting her head upon his quaking thigh. A sigh or two later, she is settled. The pawnbroker is left to wonder long into the night.
-XXX-
It was rather by accident that he found her. Or, Emma found her.
The wards beneath the hospital had been discovered by a certain young man-who remained nameless on all media fronts, but was generally acknowledged to be the brave Henry Mills-and "busted" by a certain young sheriff, who promptly set the hospital up for prosecution. The ward's patients were being escorted to the local nursing home, where they would be placed in the best care until their families were contacted. Three people-two women, and a man.
He had heard the news, just as everyone else had, at the diner, and escaped another dreary afternoon in his shop to watch from the yellow tape line, spinning his cane between his legs. The patients were being escorted out, just as he approached, guided by their elbows with gentle hands. They did not appear to be particularly aggressive or dangerous, merely wary and perhaps frightened. The pawnbroker watched as a man, a bland sort of fellow, was lead to a white van. The two others, the women, were next. That's when he saw her. That's when his lungs froze.
She was wearing scrubs-light blue, a dull blue-and white tennis shoes. Even in the dull, overcast afternoon light, she blinked as though she hadn't seen the sun in years. Stumbling on thin limbs, the young woman bit her lip. As she was being pushed nearer and nearer to the van, he felt the panic rise within him. He couldn't let leave, not now. Lord knows what would happen to her. What if no one claimed her? What would happen then? It's been so long, and he owes her so much-
That's how he finds himself pushing through the crowd, ducking the tape, stopping before Emma Swan, and telling her in one croak that there was some mistake, that woman, the young woman, was under his protection. She was under his guardianship.
It takes only two phone calls: one to Regina, with a well-placed "please," and another to his lawyer to draw up the proper paperwork. Soon, the hospital finds the correct records; she's his again.
Miss Swan clearly found the whole situation to be "sketchy," but he cannot bring himself to care. His lawyer is dealing with the legal affairs of suing the hospital of ill-treatment and misplaced paperwork, Regina is seething from her tiny corner of the world, and he's the happiest of men.
-XXX-
So, their reunion was not what he expected. He would speak, apologize, and the girl would merely stare back until he finished. It was discouraging. No matter what he said, she would simply wait until he was out of breath, then return to whatever she had been occupied with previously. He'd never trusted doctors, but he found himself turning to Dr. Hopper. After an hour of examination-during which the pawnbroker refused to leave the room, and the young woman remained comfortable beside him on the couch, buried in his reluctant arms-the psychiatrist hopelessly declared her to be "fine," simply…off.
"It'll pass, with time." He assured the older man nervously. "Clearly she's suffered some sort of shock, but I have no doubt it will be overcome, once she has time to adapt to her new surroundings."
"You make her sound like a gold fish." He snarled. But the doctor shrugged kindly. There was nothing he could do.
"Belle, let's go for a walk," and she would follow. Dressed neatly in a lilac dress, hair neatly plaited down her back, she appeared in good health. She would hold his hand easily enough, smile when something pleased her. Soon she could nod, answer questions directed to her. It was progress. He still didn't dare take her outside of his estate. The pawn was neglected, but no matter.
"Do you like the flowers, Belle?" He asked her while they toured his rose garden. She nodded brightly, burying her nose is large bloom.
There were problems. His happy ending hadn't come yet. But it was something, at the very least.