Prompt: "Belle wants a dog" (for crawsh-queen)
Words: ~8710
Category: AU. So very, very AU. Drama, Romance, Ironic Humor, Character Focus
Characters: Belle "Avonlea" French, Archie Hopper, Mr. Gold, Jefferson, Grace, other
.
.
What Belle Avonlea wants is a dog.
What she comes into possession of are a pair of Siamese cats, two laminated rope dog tethers, half-a-dozen all-black sunglasses, and an unencroachable, awkward, complete deception.
After spending so much time alone, a therapeutic companion seemed the sort of thing that might do her good: once she announced her aversion to the idea of moving back in with her father ("I don't want to see him anytime soon!"), Dr. Hopper himself recommended the idea to her. The thought's been on her mind a lot recently, and she decides she might go down to the animal shelter soon. If it weren't for the invasive elderly lady next door in 206 she might have gone through with it.
She hasn't been back from the asylum for a full week before her eccentric neighbor comes rapping at the door, twitching basket and plate of warm cookies balanced on one arthritic arm. This is where the two Siamese cats come in: Belle is startled the first time they slither out of the basket and meander purposefully (claws extended) towards the bedraggled drapes, tails curling fondly against her bare calves as they pass. The old maid in flat 206 ("call me Aunt Sarah, honey—everyone does!") returns often, seemingly glad to find another resident (and apparently fellow shut-in) in the apartment bloc to chat and wile the hours away with during the work week. The cats ("my darlings! My babies!") can do no wrong in Aunt Sarah's eyes, and return to Belle's tiny, musty room as often as Aunt Sarah and her old-fashioned skirts do.
Belle is just happy she has made an acquaintance: Dr. Hopper suggests having a frequent guest will help her move back into the world and ease away those feelings of constant social anxiety. It's true: the sudden panicked fits and heart-drumming fight-or-flight responses have lessened since meeting that busybody spinster, Aunt Sarah. Although her neighbor is eager to push Belle out into a broader social sphere ("I could introduce you to one of my nephews!") in a way that is unabashedly manipulative, she is immensely, sincerely kind to the no-longer-quite-insane Belle. However, Belle feels that these regular visits might be leading up to something. She's been eating free almond-macadamia-nut cookies for near a month now: there's gotta be catch. She's gleaned from Aunt Sarah's stories of her numerous relatives that they always owe her something ("I'm a martyr for my family, really!") because of "the marvelous advice those of advanced age impart upon the young." Belle just hopes Aunt Sarah won't decide that a former crazy should return the gesture by meeting one of those numerous nephews, as a favor to a friendless old woman...
It's a Monday when Aunt Sarah makes the appearance that will obligate Belle towards fulfilling that immense favor (involving Siamese cats and leashes, by the number of two, and some very thick wavy-glass shades). The white-haired lady has just set herself down on Belle's sparse sofa when, from the hallway, comes an immense pounding noise. Aunt Sarah startles: her teacup rattles in the saucer, and Belle's eyes dart towards the door as she presses herself against the sofa in a terrified imprint. She recalls a calming breathing exercise, and with effort draws nearer to the edge of the sofa.
"Ms. Felton!" calls a strongly accented (familiar? Belle isn't sure) male voice that now accompanies the pounding on a nearby door. Aunt Sarah drops one hand (which had previously been stroking one of the salaciously-purring cats) abruptly with uncharacteristic rudeness ("sit up straighter, honey! They'll take you back yet unless you improve upon manners!"). They both stiffen. Swiftly, Aunt Sarah approaches the door with stealth to rival one of her glassy-eyed pets. Five more knocks, rough and impatient.
"I know you've read the little lease-renewal pamphlet, Ms. Felton. Renewal day will become an eviction date if you don't comply with the unauthorized pets clause." The voice, sardonic and tired, curves around the words 'eviction date' triumphantly. Aunt Sarah (Sarah Felton, Belle thinks dimly) tiptoes nearer to Belle's door, clutching her chest. The Siamese cats retreat, hissing, into their basket.
"This is your one-week notice, Ms. Felton," the voice is moving, roving up and down the tiny hallway. "I don't know where you've chosen to hide his time, but rest assured that your room had better be fur-free by Thursday if you plan on retaining your cozy sitting space. Do you hear me, Ms. Felton? Good."
With finality, the door to the stairwell creaks audibly. Belle and Aunt Sarah gaze at each other, Belle quite flushed and startled, as the tap-tap-tapping noise and footsteps fade away. Aunt Sarah, pale as to match her hair, resumes her place on the torn sofa primly. The two cats emerge from their cobra's den, sliding liquidly onto the comfort of Aunt Sarah's lap to her immediate attention. Belle stills, even now trying to place that voice—that voice! Her efforts fail. Aunt Sarah turns her chinless countenance quite suddenly, her plump, wrinkly hands clasping Belle's own sun-deprived one in earnestness. Plump, watery tears fall down her cheeks. Belle freezes in socially-induced terror.
"If only you could do something," she begs desperately (flaunting the theatrical talent she often mentions possessing when she gets into the subject of her younger years as an actress), "hardly anyone knows you, hardly anyone knows of you! Please, just for a little while…take care my babies. They're all I have!" She looks at the cats through piteous tears, and the cats give Belle a condemnatory stare, as if to say you don't want to help your neighbor? She's sobbing! Surely you know what neighborliness is, even if you're a crazy one! One of the cats sneezes into a sooty paw, and Aunt Sarah stares longingly at her pets. The imagined voices in Belle's head continue, synchronized: She's your only friend. Won't even help a friend, that one. Insane girl, insane girl, insane girl…
Belle turns her head sharply away to consider this prospect (fool the landlord?! Surely no one will notice the cats, if just for a while...) without distraction. Sure enough, the chanting (...insane girl! in your head, all in your head!) stops.
A lesser person might find Aunt Sarah pretentious and dramatic. But she has always struck Belle as being a deeply lonely individual, a situation Belle fully understands. Belle hesitates, gazing at the two purring cats, then back at their owner—who, despite claims of having a large extended family, has never shown proof of such—and she decides then that she won't let the old woman, as disagreeable yet well-meant as she can be, be forced to live alone without her sole companions.
Belle sighs and agrees to help the woman from 206. Aunt Sarah only spares a moment to look relieved before she starts nattering away about proper food and care and "I don't suppose you'd like to meet my youngest nephew?" followed by Belle's swift "don't trouble yourself, please!"
A mere half-hour later, the half-baked plan is formed—strangely enough, Aunt Sarah is suddenly inspired with this scheme after talking about a former role of hers, many years past. Belle doesn't like it, but she has to admit it's a passable idea. But what will she tell Dr. Hopper...?
.
.
She takes to the streets two days later, Dr. Hopper having assured her numerous times that getting out and meeting people is important to her full recovery. The front-door deliveries of groceries and other necessities must cease. She gives him her tremulous agreement, and it is only when she reaches the door that she suddenly stops in thoughtful pause. Dr. Hopper, hands politely clasped as always, quirks his head, ready to hear whatever it is she might have forgotten.
"Oh," Belle starts, "there is something I didn't mention…"
Archie Hopper ushers her to perch again on the edge of the sofa, motioning for her to continue.
"You remember the lady I've told you about, the old woman next door who visits sometimes?"
Dr. Hopper's eyes light up in remembrance, and his eyes contain a sudden professional curiosity. The man is ever-eager to help. "Yes, you haven't mentioned her for a few sessions, other than saying her visits were regular and didn't differ much from time to time… what about her?"
"I've offered to do her a favor…I think it might help me settle into the outside world without everything about me…coming out."
Belle explains the plan. When she finishes, Dr. Hopper's face is beyond troubled.
"I can't condone that," he says, "while it might be beneficial for your relationship with Aunt Sarah, it sounds a bit too…"
"It would only be temporary," Belle presses, "just long enough for Ms. Felton to get on her feet. She's been planning on moving for a while, and I don't know that many people. Which could make this work, especially if you help! People don't know me, and those that have heard of me only know I came from the hospital. Not why I was in the hospital. And it may be wrong, but I don't want everyone to have some sort of preconception about who I am just because I came from the mental ward."
Dr. Hopper sighs heavily. "It seems you are concealing some pressing inner issues, Belle: you aren't motivated entirely by charity. I can understand your need to have a fresh start, but these things will out eventually, whether you like it or not."
"I do understand that," Belle replies fervently, "I just think it would be easier to meet new people if they don't expect someone straight from the loony bin—and if I get to know them enough, I can tell them what really happened. Also, I'll be helping my neighbor. Just for a week or two? It's not like this is entirely selfish, you know. She says she has a huge family, but I only ever see her spend time with her cats. It would be terrible if she had to give them away. So, a white lie. I can say that I've just had eye surgery."
"I'm not calling you selfish, Belle. I'm just not a fan of dishonesty or you pretending to be what you're not," her psychiatrist states. Belle looks at Dr. Hopper expectantly, head tilted to the side. He caves a little too easily under her distraught gaze.
"Alright," he exhales a little, running one hand through ginger hair, "I'll help you with this nonsense—but only because it does service to the both of you, regardless of ulterior motives, and with you being a special case and all. I don't expect any more trouble in the future. And it's a good thing for you and this devious charade that eyesight recovery can be swift and unexplained." His forehead wrinkles in displeasure.
Belle beams at him. It's been a good day, the threat of being forced to meet Sarah's endless nephews and fourth cousins finally obliterated. "Thank you, Dr. Hopper—this really will help make me ready to finally go out."
She suspects she still might be a little crazy.
.
.
Belle frowns in the mirror.
She can't really tell that she's frowning in the mirror. The glasses cover half her face—she decides that they have to be fairly old.
"I can't see anything."
"That's the point, Ms. Avonlea," one intern snorts, checking his watch.
"We were just told to get you some extra glasses, don't really care otherwise," the other intern mumbles, sorting through the other pairs in the dim supply closet.
Rude.
"…And here's a white cane." A long, thin pole is handed to her, and she grasps the ropey tether at the top.
"See ya later, blind lady," the first voice says, and with that they walk away, leaving her with the guide stick.
I really dislike this hospital staff, Belle thinks, but again, I hate the hospital in general. Don't know what I'm doing, volunteering to come back here.
She looks around, and even when she gazes where she knows the light source to be, doesn't see anything. I guess this is good practice, anyhow…I have to learn to look realistic about it…
Belle sighs, tips off her huge dark glasses to pinpoint where the door is (she gets the feeling she'll be remembering such things in the future), replaces them, and begins feeling her way in the correct direction.
With a whoosh of sliding doors, the heat of the clammy hospital leaves her, and Belle is grudgingly satisfied to notice that she can actually see through her glasses, but just barely. Belle shudders as she leaves the hospital, and not because of the sudden cold.
Shut up, she tells the mocking voice that threatens to rise from within her, and don't come back! And then, her mantra: not insane, not insane, not insane…
It's a hazy late afternoon and there's a cat lounging on her lap when she hears the double knock on her apartment door. Strangely enough, the twin creatures seem to loathe and love her equally in turns—and in this moment, they hate her. The cat doesn't even take time to stretch before leaping away with a hiss.
Belle swiftly pushes on a pair of her special glasses and yanks the guide stick onto her wrist, feeling her way towards the door and nearly tripping over the other cat. Unhappily, he yowls—and Belle grimaces.
She scrambles at the door handle, squinting through her shades at the sudden release of light coming from the window at the end of the hall. She really should take down the curtains in her room, come to think of it. Barely enough light as it is. Her visitor is male, Belle decides as her eyes begin to adjust—on the short side, but definitely a man.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asks quietly, shifting her weight away from the wall. Better to appear demure and disabled if it's the landlord. People just don't tend to evict the disabled without more than a little guilt, which was Sarah's plan. Belle takes this moment to wonder if pretending to be visually disabled, even for a good reason, makes her even more of a terrible, awful person. But then again, she isn't lying about being disabled, just falsifying exactly how. Her moment of pondering is cut short as she realizes she hasn't received an answer.
There's a terribly awkward, breathless silence, and Belle figures that whoever it is—a thin, well-dressed man, by the not-really-there looks of it (goodness these glasses are hard to see through)—must be a bit shy, or possibly hard of hearing. He doesn't seem to be moving much. She realizes who stands at her door as soon as she spots the faint outline of a cane. Better to feign ignorance, though.
"Sir?" she repeats the inquiry, widening the door (and her light-deprived eyes) as one of the smug cats pushes between her calves to stare saucily up at the fellow. Belle adjusts her dress self-consciously.
"No…pets…rule." He stammers out in a Scottish brogue, fixated for some reason on Belle's shoulders, face, hair—lingering especially on her dark glasses. He doesn't bother to spare a moment for the cat at all. In fact, Belle has the distinct feeling that she could kick the screeching, unappreciative feline behind her in this moment and he might not notice.
His hand darts out as if to touch her, and then stills, dropping it to his side forcibly. Belle wonders how this could be any more uncomfortable.
"Have we… met, Ms.—?" finally, a touch of normalcy. Or perhaps this is how everyone acts nowadays: Belle wouldn't really be in a position to know.
"—Avonlea," Belle finishes, holding up her free hand for a handshake, which he doesn't take. "And I'm assuming you're the infamous landlord Aunt Sarah warned me about. Maybe I'm wrong, though. I'm sorry—who are you?"
The man's (hopeful? Why?) face crumples into a more subdued—pained—expression.
"Mr. Gold." Belle is about to retract her hand, but he abruptly grabs hold of it very tightly, "and it is so, so good to meet you, dearest."
He actually sounds sincere, Belle marvels, not unreasonable at all. So why was Sarah having extensive issues with such a sociable—if a bit shy—man?
He tilts his head sideways, and whispers. "Are you sure you don't mean Ms. French, though?" She doesn't get the chance to correct him indignantly, or even to wonder how he knows her or of her.
Belle's hand is jerked free of her visitor's when the other cat decides to make an appearance, clambering onto Belle's shoulder with a sudden heavy jump and twitching tail. Belle falls halfway against the wall, then feels behind her in order to stand up straight again. In a moment, Mr. Gold is there, asking her if she is alright, far too concerned and close for Belle's comfort. She feels the temptation to swat his hand away as he gently grasps her upper arm and helps pull her up, except for the fact that his hand feels very nice where it is.
She gives the man a dazzling smile and steps back clumsily. He still hasn't stopped asking her if she hurts at all, and if she needs to sit down, and the poor man sounds quite frantic. Belle is a bit amused (it was barely a tumble!), and gently coaxes the cats away from her feet.
"I'm not that fragile," she tells him. "I'm just a bit unused to the apartment, that's all. I'm always falling over things, down things, on things. The cats don't make it any easier. Good thing I don't live anywhere big enough to have stairs. I mean, I don't use those ones much." She points down the hallway at the shared lift and staircase that leads the outer exit.
For some puzzling reason this statement gives Mr. Gold cause to look absolutely heartbroken. Belle wonders what his issue is and decides that this is as good a time as any to breach The Important Subject.
"A-hem. Speaking of the cats, I assume you're here to address them and the no-pets rule? Actually, you still haven't confirmed: are you the landlord? Because I've just been mailing in my checks for the whole short time I've been here…"
"Yes," Mr. Gold replies, apparently still looking her up and down for potential injuries. He seems to realize that he probably should say more, and seizes the opportunity to speak only after he seems satisfied with his once-twice-eight-times-over injury check.
"We do need to talk about the cats, dearest. You might be a new face around here"—he flinches—"but those are clearly Ms. Felton's cats. I don't appreciate having the wool pulled over my eyes"—he almost winces, and his lips contort up strangely—"even if it get a lovely surprise"— is he… flirting?—"so I think it best that we sort this out now." His meaning is harsh, but his accented voice goes impossibly soft as he gazes unblinkingly at Belle. It's a bit unnerving. Is this how much people stare when they think they can't be seen?
"That's just fine," Belle gives Mr. Gold a gracious smile and shoves her door open fully.
"Do come sit down," she ushers the landlord in to the best of her ability, "and turn on the overhead lights if they aren't on already."
"They are on." He speaks as if in a daze.
"Good then!" she says, as if this astonishes her.
He follows her tripping, awkward steps reverently, and his gaze only sours the slightest when it focuses—for once!—on something other than his russet-haired tenant.
Namely, the patched and worn furniture.
"I'm sorry, please pardon the mess," Belle babbles a bit, experiencing sudden and extreme discomfort at the state of her cramped apartment.
"It's not really the best set-up for company, but I don't really get any. Would you like some tea?"
All at once Mr. Gold's gaze snaps back to Belle, and she has the feeling that even if she were blind, she might still feel the heat from his intense, sudden change of focus.
"Tea?" he inquires hoarsely, and Belle wonders if perhaps it's not the sort of thing one gives to one's guests (Aunt Sarah is at least ninety, for all Belle knows offering tea or coffee is a thing of the past. New vogues for hosting. Or maybe he's just a strange person, strange like her. Hmmph).
"I apologize. Would you prefer something else, or—"
He interrupts her swiftly and in earnest. "No, please. Tea would mean the world to me, Ms. Avonlea."
She raises her brows visibly over her glasses' frames, and heads slowly towards the tiny kitchen area.
"So, the cats…" she leads the conversation while stirring the teabag in. Mr. Gold happens to be peering through the open door of her tiny bedroom at her rumpled sheets (isn't he familiar with the layouts of his own buildings?), and his eyes travel back to regard her as soon as she addresses him. For what will not be the last time, Belle wishes that she could see him better through her thick light-impermeable shades.
He clears his throat "Yes. And why you have Ms. Felton's cats."
"It's quite simple, really," Belle explains, peering unnoticeably through the cloudy spectacles, "she's lent them to me as seeing-eye cats—unusual! I know!—until she moves elsewhere. I was thinking of getting a therapy dog, until I heard you in the hallway sounding most displeased about the notion of beasts in the building" (Mr. Gold, quite surprisingly, flushes…) "This way we both have our needs met. And," Belle tacks on at the end, "I'm quite sorry I didn't read the renting contract closely enough, or I might have known beforehand about that clause. I've not been in the best... state of mind, as of late." Ha-ha, her subconscious voice jeers unpleasantly, that's a joke only you can get. Insane girl, insane girl, crazy… she spills hot tea on herself and yelps backwards. At least it gets that part of her to shut up. Mr. Gold is staring at the closed curtains, and doesn't notice her frantic attempts to wipe away the spill while half-incapacitated.
"In that case," Mr. Gold says stiffly, tugging at his tie with delicate unease, "I'll consider a lift of the clause necessary for your special circumstances. I do apologize for the commotion, and hope I haven't been an inconvenience…" he mutters unhappily, and is suddenly interrupted from his moodiness by the prompt approach of a tea-bearing, beaming Belle, stick freely swinging from the arm where it has been hung.
"Thank you so much!" Belle exclaims, aiming one cup of tea in the direction of Mr. Gold's hands and landing the other on the settee successfully. Mr. Gold has but time to properly grasp the cup and saucer before her arms fall on him tightly in a happy hug that Belle herself didn't know she had in her. Stunned, he tenses for a few moments, but soon melts under her touch with an almost-imperceptible sigh, closing his eyes. Belle withdraws her arms almost as soon as she realizes where they've gone. She prepares to apologize for her reaction, but Mr. Gold quickly sets his tea down with a startled clatter, interrupting her easily-scattered (insane, he knows you're insane!) thoughts and causing the both of them to jump the slightest bit.
Even with thick shades separating her from him, his tremulous, disbelieving smile is visible. "You're certainly welcome, Ms. Avonlea. Thank you for the tea."
"Oh, I spilled some!" Belle says regretfully, and without a breath of pause Mr. Gold is quick to assure her. "No matter, dearest!" He turns from her, and Belle realizes with frustration that she can't see him properly anymore. She scoots nearer to him on the sofa, trying to spy that thing about him that seemed so…familiar a few days back. He tenses again, but readily accepts her nearness. Doubtless an assumption that she doesn't know how near or far she is from him.
Belle impatiently wishes that there were more light.
"Are there enough lights on? Are the drapes open?" she can see (amazingly enough) that the lights are on, but the curtains are closed.
"The lights are all on, but the drapes are closed. Do you want me to…to open them?" Mr. Gold offers, twitching when her hand brushes his in an attempt to reach the sugar.
Mr. Gold stays her hand, and, with his own, drops two cubes of sugar in Belle's teacup, stirring it around. Belle wonders how he guessed her tea preferences. Perhaps she has common tastes, or that's the polite thing to do, socially.
A warm, firm hand guides her gently towards the handle of her teacup, and she misses the feeling when her fingers find its edge and he moves his hand away—not far, but not touching. The other moves up towards the window at his back, and with a smooth motion and audible swish, the room is flooded with light.
"Thank you," Belle smiles.
"Why bother having lights on? Why the drapes?" Mr. Gold eyes Belle unabashedly. He thinks she can't see him, of course…
"Well, I'm not all blind," she explains as she's practiced a dozen times before. "I can see colors and, every now and then, a tiny flicker of light at the edge of my vision. And I can feel warmth, even if I can't see it" Belle sips her tea cheerfully. "My vision is improving all the time, Dr. Hopper says. Besides, the cats can see, and so can other visitors."
Mr. Gold nods, and, realizing she can't see his visual cue, gives her a sound of agreement. Then, as if some idea has struck him—
"Dr. Hopper?" his voice has taken on a intense edge that reminds Belle of the first time that she heard him speak. Gracious, the man has mood swings more than she does. "Why Dr. Hopper?"
Belle realizes her mistake too late. "Well, he's—he's backup staff for the hospital, and I was there so long that I know most everybody…there isn't a specialist for optometric recovery, but I do have movement therapy sometimes, and he is fairly well-informed all around."
"I see," Mr. Gold says, and turns to study her. She reciprocates, even though he hardly can know it.
"May I ask you something?" He searches her face.
"Go on."
"What do you miss most about your sight?"
Belle laughs. "That's under the assumption that I wasn't born blind, but I don't mind. In fact, I've only had an accident rather recently." Mr. Gold seems to realize that his question could be taken offensively, and rips his gaze away from her uncomfortably. This time, he scrutinizes his cane. Belle isn't bothered, though, and to prove it, she thinks honestly about the question. What would I miss the most? Why haven't I thought of these things?
What comes out is, she supposes, a half-truth. "I miss reading the most. I used to be able to travel far away, you see, and have company all the time, but I can't read a book, so no vicarious thrills for me."
He's silent at that. She can't imagine her life without books: they were what kept her sane all those years in the sanitarium, since…since her father had her committed. Books were, are her escape. Her key to the world outside the asylum. What a nightmare to be truly blind. You're a monstrous, morally-corrupt lunatic, her inner voice reminds her.
"Another question?" the quiet voice interrupts her thoughts.
She nods.
"It's…a bit personal. I confess that..." He is struck wordless for a moment, and swallows. "That you—happen to remind me of someone that I knew, a long long time ago."
"M-hmm," she says. Go on…
He still hesitates, worried he will offend her.
"Could I—that is, would you let me see your eyes?" Not what I was expecting. Still, harmless so long as I don't focus on him…
Wordlessly, she lifts the thick shades from her eyes, being careful to fix her eyes over the landlord's shoulder. Now the room just seems overly lit. She wonders at the fact that Mr. Gold didn't complain. (Mr. Gold is far too anxious to complain.)
She can't see it, but his hands start to tremble, and his jaw works. What she can see in her peripheral vision is that he has the nicest brown eyes. The world looks strange, suddenly having regained a lot of color. Just as before, he reaches out to touch her (because she can't see, of course)
The impatient mewing of one of the bored cats seems to wake Mr. Gold from his concentration. Belle remembers that she needs to feed the cats soon.
"It's all real," he whispers with emotion, and stumbles to his full height with the help of his cane.
Belle replaces the sunglasses over her eyes, wondering what on earth that means.
"I must be going, Ms. Avonlea—it seems I have an appointment with our mayor." There's something rather nasty in the oddly high tone he uses on that last word, and Belle can't really place the reason his knuckles on his teacup suddenly clench and whiten. He turns towards her, and his voice softens. "But it was an absolute pleasure to meet you, dearest. Do have a lovely day…"
Belle angles herself towards him, smiling. "Thank you for being so considerate about the cats. Do show yourself out, you'll do it far better than I. Oh, and feel free to drop in anytime for tea, or…anything, really." She can't stifle the hope that he will come back: his company is more interesting than Aunt Sarah's. Belle wonders what exactly the man is hiding. Not that she should be one to talk.
"I'll come again soon," Mr. Gold states, and it's a promise. He fixes her with such a stare that she feels she can't move from where she sits.
What is that indescribable look he gives her—hopeful, mournful, longing? Belle can't give it a name. He shuts the door with the almost-noiseless whisper of a closing crypt. Belle, all at once, feels trapped behind her glasses, behind the walls, behind this immense lie she can't rid herself of soon enough. She clenches at the sofa and feels so utterly trapped by walls. She immediately rips off her glasses, looking out the window at the world beyond.
Perhaps she would feel a little better if she had only asked him to stay a bit longer. Mr. Gold made her feel…somewhat more real than she did when she was sitting and chatting with Aunt Sarah…
Her hand is clenching, and soon enough, she realizes precisely what it is that she grasps between her fingers.
His handkerchief…he left it.
It's embroidered: 'R.G.'. Belle realizes she doesn't even know his first name. Perhaps she is the slightest bit blind, she considers. At least when it comes to social mores. Or maybe that's a facet to being mad that she didn't know before…
.
.
Mr. Gold (Mr. R Gold, Belle Avonlea reminds herself), the landlord, returns two days later in the middle of a rain shower, looking remarkably more controlled and having obviously spent the days between thinking of ways he can assist her, despite needing to borrow one of her towels. He towels off his hair, messy and fluffy, and anxiously finger-plaits it neat. This time, he makes the tea. He scoffs when she starts leading him to the sofa and instead catches her hand (nervously, he fidgets the entire time) to guide her around the squeaky toys the cats have left in her path. It would be incredibly sweet if she actually were blind (and it's still incredibly sweet, even when she isn't). This is the first time Belle truly regrets her lie: he tells her he admires honest people, and that she seems remarkably outspoken with her inner thoughts (she isn't particularly; he merely inspires her to share them). She would take it as a compliment if her stomach didn't start to knot a little at the thought that he's only helping her because she happens to remind him of some blind friend he once had (for that is the conclusion she has drawn). When he leaves, she remembers the handkerchief and tries to give it back: he insists that she keeps it, and she once again surprises the pair of them with a sudden, brief hug. However, with those dark glasses on and the roaring rain smattering the window with heavy-handed raindrops, she steps on one of the cat's tails and spends a good minute apologizing and coaxing the cat from under her armchair. Her insistence on cleaning the scratches on Mr. Gold's ankle inspires in him an intense blush.
"I'm terribly sorry," she swipes the peroxide over his scratches, and laughs a bit, because the whole thing seems a bit funny.
Aunt Sarah isn't so amused. "Don't let the landlord hang around, Belle!" she hisses: "he'll start to suspect something, soon enough. He's a regular reptile, that one. Take my word for it—I've lived in this town for a long time."
Belle ignores Aunt Sarah, and feels guilty when she finds herself thinking of who would make better company. After all, Aunt Sarah knows the truth about her. And Belle finds out, more and more every time, that she doesn't want Mr. Gold to know the truth, not if it means he won't look at her so softly anymore.
What if other people are less forgiving of her insanity? What if he never comes back because he's so disgusted with the fact that she's lived most of her life in a padded cell? No, she'd rather play at being blind forever if it means an end to rejection.
.
.
Dr. Hopper asks her at their next session if anything has been troubling her, and whether she needs to talk about anything, and all Belle finds she wants to talk about is her father (there's a reason she calls herself Belle Avonlea, and not Belle French anymore. It was her mother's maiden name). Archie Hopper prods her further, and Belle discusses how she has met more people, recently, due to a brief accidental excursion into the local diner. Granny, Ruby, Mary Margaret, and Emma…it's nice to have people who call out a hello to her as she walks the cats in the side lawn of the building, even if they don't know her that well yet.
You're really terrible, aren't you? Daddy issues, insane girl, lying to everyone you know…
The part of her that she hates is almost always smirking at her now. At least the voice is a bit quieter nowadays. Thank goodness that Aunt Sarah has finally left apartment 206, having found some nephew or other willing to put her up. Belle is sick of this charade, and the cat-sitting adventure will end in a mere three days. When she goes home, Mr. Gold is just coming up the stairs, a ready smile on his face. He tries to surprise her (because, of course, he's a bit playful and still thinks she can't see) and fails, and she assures him it's because her hearing has been honed in the absence of another sense.
She dreads the day that the truth comes out.
.
.
On the following Monday, she is taking the cats out for a walk on the lawn (even harder to put them in the leashes than one might think, but for the fact that they actually seem to understand that they'd better be seeing-eye cats if they want to have a nice home). This time, it's Jefferson and his daughter Grace that she nearly slams into, and Grace squeals happily when she realizes who exactly they've run into while rounding the corner.
"Missus Belle!" Grace exclaims through a chocolate-chip cookie. She barrels into Belle's side, and they greet each other happily. "Daddy says he's stopped bringing you groceries, and they only let him do boring things now! What has happened to you?"
"I'd like to know that too." Jefferson's eye twitches, and he cracks his neck; "well, no hug for me?"
Belle concedes, and wraps her arms around Jefferson and the still-giggling Grace. Grace squirms, and she releases them both. Grace hands Belle a chocolate bar to unwrap, and upon doing so she hands it back to the girl. The cookie has vanished. Jefferson eyes Belle skeptically.
"Whoa. What's with that get-up?"
He spots the cats (currently ripping mouthfuls of grass from the ground with wicked glee) and raises a brow.
"Those things look crazier than the both of us. No really, let's talk about this. Does Archie know what you're up to? If he has, he's not mentioned a thing! Client privilege, something something. Crazy, crazy cats." One of the cats begins licking his tail, utterly absorbed in ignoring them.
Belle's fingers instantly go to her temples, and her eyes close. "Please don't use that word, Jefferson," is her irritated response. Jefferson has a knack for driving her from her happy place. "If you really want to know, we can find somewhere less open to talk. Otherwise, please leave me alone. It's been a tough day."
"I see."
Enter Mr. Gold, eyes wide and furious as he stalks towards them…
"Is someone harassing you, Ms. Avonlea?"
Grace squeaks in surprise and hides behind Belle's skirts, taking a huge bite out of the chocolate bar in the process. The cats squirm at their leashes.
"Not hardly," Belle retorts with amusement. "More like a pair of clowns than just 'someone'."
Jefferson's smile slides quickly from his lips, and he turns to Belle and bows.
"My darling lady Grace," he addresses his daughter, extending his hand to the tiny child, "Methinks it is time we bid our friend adieu and waltz home."
With that, he grasps Belle's hand, kisses it swiftly, and totes Grace onto one shoulder.
"Oooh, let me, let me!" she cries, and Belle, entertained, proffers her wrist to Grace's general direction.
Grace gives it a chocolatey kiss, and Jefferson skips away around the corner, giggling quite madly.
"G'bye, Miss Belle!" Grace hollers, "we're off to the Land of Loonies! Stop being blind soon!"
Mr. Gold scowls after them, and turns to Belle with a curious look on his face.
"What did she mean, 'stop being blind?' Did you know them?"
Belle won't answer, except to say that when she was still a shut-in, Jefferson brought her groceries. In her peripheral vision, as Mr. Gold exhales and holds her arm gently in his to guide her along the sidewalk in a way that more than comforts her (as he looks at her like she's his reason for getting up every day), Belle sees the white-frocked hospital matron lead Jefferson and Grace away, and the start of the inevitable fight that happens whenever their mandatory separation occurs. Strangely, her glasses are very reflective on the inside. Belle can see the things directly behind her perfectly.
She shudders, and tugs at Mr. Gold's arm.
"Belle," he breathes reverently, her name a word he was afraid to use before. Strange that, with all his eccentricities, he'd never formally asked to use her first name. Pretty strange she'd never asked for his. But she doesn't really hear it; in fact, she doesn't even notice for a day or two that his name for her has changed. Her focus is on only one thing, as she sees Grace's arms tugged from her father's leg.
She's never going back there.
Ever.
.
.
Then the cats are taken away. Packed off to cream and canned salmon twice a day, off to the twice-removed third niece's house. Belle feels the end of this saga is drawing near. And she looks forward with much trepidation. Sure, she has aided her lonely neighbor. And she can miraculously recover from laser eye surgery, one of these weeks. But she has also yet to tell her new friends—and, perhaps, your new more-than-friend?—that she is quite mad.
The leashes disappear as well, and all that separates her from the real world is a single pair of half-inch-thick glasses and a guide stick. And to think she would ever miss those cats and their furniture-rending habits.
Belle remembers that, quite a while ago, she wanted a dog.
And then comes the dog, and the day it all comes crashing down about her ears like—well, like curtains with too many cats climbing them.
.
.
She dreams of colors, winding around each other like layers of fabric, each with the vague impression of time and place. Then come sounds, sounds that are utterly unfamiliar—a distant roar, like a thousand people shouting at once, and a gentle, hypnotic creak, and finally, the hellish, heavenly silence rushing in her head until it is crushed by waves upon waves of voices that break her skull open.
Upon waking at noon, Belle Avonlea's hair is a mess, and she has a cold. She feels funny. Her glasses are taken off, and she rubs her eyes twice, deciding that A) she is running a low fever and B) her headache is awful.
And then, she smells the tea (a miracle through a stuffy nose), and looks up with fluttering, crusty eyes.
Mr. Gold is inches away from her nose, examining her face with fond eyes and holding his breath. The tea is in one of his hands, the other just a brush away from cupping her face (she could lean into it, but that might reveal too much). Belle is careful to let her eyes wander, and she has to wonder what it is with him and never-quite touching her. It's not like she'll get him sick…oh wait, she might.
"Nice try," she says, and he retreats a bit. Belle regrets not waiting a few moments more. "How did you get in here?"
He waves a key in front of himself triumphantly before pressing the shape against her palm so she can feel it.
"Ohh," her brows raise delightedly, "spare key, I feel. You ridiculous man!"
He confirms this. "You must have slept in for quite some time, Belle dearest," a note of concern enters his voice. "I do hope you're feeling well?"
"…Well enough," she states, and Mr. Gold promptly orders her to lie down. She doesn't bother to put the shades on. Hateful things.
The tea is unfortunately scalding today, and she burns her tongue violently, dropping the teacup on Mr. Gold's suit. It splashes the both of them and rolls to the floor, quite undamaged.
"You have a penchant for breaking teacups, I gather," Belle quirks her eyebrows quizzically, and Mr. Gold's smile fades.
"It's not made of porcelain, you know," she makes a show of scrambling for the teacup, and feels it over for cracks or chips before Mr. Gold can protest. "Melamine. Doesn't damage that easily. See, completely whole."
"Completely whole," he whispers, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes, and his face falls a bit as she rubs her eyes again, trying to get the crust out of the corners.
"Let me help you," he advises Belle, and shifts awkwardly closer to her. Belle is glad that she's so remarkably good at staring contests, for she doesn't blink as his hand brushes at her eyes and eyelids delicately, faces near enough for his breath to ghost over her cheekbones.
Belle realizes, with a start, that she'd very much like to kiss him. This is a horrible thing to realize.
She jerks back as far as possible, and so does Mr. Gold.
"Have I hurt you?" he demands desperately. "Belle, are you alright?"
There's a long silence. At least it gives Belle time to think.
And that's when she decides. She's sick of this. Belle Avonlea is not a born liar, and she doesn't want to become a made liar, either.
Mr. Gold is still waiting, petrified at the other end of her scraggly sofa.
"I'm fine, quite fine. But that's the trouble, you see."
Mr. Gold looks equal parts clueless and terrified.
Belle sighs. "I have a request to make of you."
Mr. Gold answers fervently. "Anything, dearest."
"Hear me out for, oh, about five minutes before you decide to evict me and ignore me for the rest of our natural lives. And don't say anything. Not a word, that's the deal."
And then her eyes cease to wander near the windows edge where the flies buzz, stop gazing at that boring old lamp that only works half the time anyway, and she looks directly at him.
Just stares, like she's wanted to from outside of the protection of those horrid glasses for weeks now.
Mr. Gold looks back at her, utterly quizzical. He hasn't gotten it yet, but he will, soon enough. And then he'll be all too ready to believe she's a nutter, and happily push her away just like her father did…
She can see, can absolutely see the moment of epiphany in his eyes. Perhaps it's when she sniffles, and it's not just because of her blocked-up nose.
He doesn't resist it, doesn't hover this time.
His hands clasp either side of her face, and he stares at her, searches her eyes for light and understanding and sees it there.
He sounds so hoarse, so disbelieving. "You can see me?"
And again, "You can see me! You're fine! You're completely whole!"
She has to stop him, because he's terribly wrong. "I said that you mustn't say anything."
He doesn't, apparently, feel like saying anything. Instead, he hugs her, clutching her to his chest and shaking with excitement as he mumbles something into her shoulder blade. Belle can pinpoint the moment her heart starts to falter, can pinpoint when the voices begin to creep out from the darker shadows in her mind. She's stiff and unconforming, even with the warmth she craves surrounding her. Mr. Gold notices, and releases her.
She doesn't allow him the chance to start talking again.
"I can see you. And I'm sorry, because that makes me a liar, and I hate lying."
If she hadn't already told him to be quiet, he'd still be speechless. "So I can understand if you never want to see me again," Belle explains patiently, "because I'm a more than a tad insane, and besides that being enough of a reason, I did lie to you for a month about, um—about being blind."
Mr. Gold makes a strangled noise, wrapping his hands around hers tightly.
"I should be held completely responsible for my actions. It was because I didn't want Aunt Sarah evicted, of course. She was my only friend there for a while, and she didn't have anyone but her cats, not really—and she thought up the strangest idea. And, um, Dr. Hopper said the truth would out—and it has. I could have pretended to get better, but…it wouldn't be right. Once I started to meet more people, people who were introduced to me as a blind girl, I hated lying. But it was an obligation, and I'm a bit terrified of what people will really think of me if they know the truth. They'll have proof that I'm, um, I'm..."
Mr. Gold's face is expressionless, waiting. She stares at him, he stares at her.
Belle sighs. "So, since you'll be the first to hear the truth, it'll be a good indication of everyone else's reactions…I suppose. Well, the truth is that I'm not out of the hospital because of medical issues due to an accident that left me blind, but that I'm out because kind Dr. Hopper took the time to prove me legally sane after noticing I wasn't gibbering in my padded room anymore." She mutters sardonically, "although I guess this might undo all his hard work, as soon as word gets around that I've recently been released from an asylum and managed to fool the general public. That will certainly change people's opinions of me."
Belle laughs bitterly, startling Mr. Gold, who is still clutching her hand with white knuckles. The rest comes out in a rush. "...So, no, not completely whole. More like cracked and lying all over the place. But at least you know the truth now, and I can stop feeling so awful about myself. And again, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was afraid you'd be so mad you'd never talk to me again. Which I do have a track record of happening, so don't feel unjustified in doing so. I just guessed you, um…must have had a blind friend or something similar, and were merely taking pity on me. That's no excuse, though."
Belle glances at the dusty clock-face, and the voices are roaring in her ears again. She ignores them.
"That's it, my confession. Four minutes up. Nothing to keep you here, and you can talk now if you like. Or yell, if that's your preference. I promise not to be offended, and I don't—I don't expect any forgiveness."
Belle forces herself to make eye contact with Mr. Gold, motionless as ever. She feels the beginnings of indignant tears forming in her eyes.
She sighs furiously; the torment of waiting is killing her. "Please, please tell me you were paying attention. Don't make me say all those things again. Just react already!" Belle sniffs thickly.
He stands up, swiftly—paces around her somewhat-cleaner living space.
"Let me think, let me think," Mr. Gold mutters, and just as quickly resumes his seat. He grabs her hands and begins stroking them in his concentration: it's terribly distracting for Belle.
"I've known something was the matter since that run-in with the Hatter," he says to himself, "but this is it? That's all?"
He cups Belle's cheek and scrutinizes her before she has a chance to wipe away her tears.
"I'm terribly mad at you dearest, but I'm also a bit overjoyed you can actually see me. And there are things…" he pauses, "…that you may not remember, which are far worse things you must forgive of me. Which you may choose not to. And I've thought long and hard on it, and if there's any chance you'll ever forgive me once you remember, I'll happily suffer anything you manage to throw at me until such a time when you will face a decision far harder than any you—as you are right now—will likely throw my way. I decided a long time ago that if you—if you were ever with me again, I would do anything to make sure…well, that you'd not be leaving again." Mr. Gold gives her a watery smile.
Belle is still trying to puzzle that out when he suddenly turns and kisses her abruptly. It's a decent kiss—it could be a lot better if only she'd not been sick and about to cough up mucus. She jerks away from him, and that frightened face she's swiftly becoming familiar with reappears on Mr. Gold's face.
"Am—I—" she hacks out, "—forgiven?" her coughing fit still hasn't ceased.
"Very," he says in a heavier brogue than normal, and swoops in again to be stopped by an abrupt hand.
"I'm sick, you idiot!" Belle announces when she can talk again. "Do you think I want to get you sick?"
Mr. Gold actually ponders this for a long moment.
"Don't care, I've waited long enough" he replies, and this time, actually manages to kiss her. Belle gives up fighting, and gives in. Soon enough, her fingers are brushing at the hair at the back of his neck, and this is really very nice, don't you agree, voice in the back of my head? Voice? Voice? Silence. Thank heavens.
They are interrupted by a bark at the door, and a bit of knocking. Belle remembers that the door won't be locked, and calls out "come in!" before other persons have an opportunity to object.
It's Jefferson at the door. He glances between Mr. Gold and Belle smugly.
"Hello, crazy girl!" Jefferson greets Belle, who decides she was very punctual in telling Mr. Gold the real story. Truth will out, after all.
The barking continues, and in flounces a tiny cocker spaniel puppy.
"Delivery for Belle Avonlea in 207," Jefferson announces to the slightly flushed pair, making a snide comment in his head about how incredibly awkward the two are.
"And there's the little lady right now."
Jefferson gives them an amused, considering look, waggles his eyebrows, and exits.
"Well," Mr. Gold sighs, "here's the real reason I was mad at you."
The minuscule cocker spaniel wags her short tail and darts towards Belle, panting.
"She's a bit small for a companion dog, but she reminded me of you."
Belle gives Mr. Gold a disbelieving stare.
"Are you quite serious?"
"Absolutely."
"I forgot to tell you something. I quite adore you, you know," Belle tells him, "even if I haven't the foggiest idea of what your name is." The look he gives her is one she won't understand until months later, after the curse is over and Belle realizes that she was never really that insane to begin with. But it does prompt him towards that bittersweet, reminiscing look that she'll soon discover inevitably leads to the same words, whispered in reply like the ghosts and voices that will one day cease to haunt them.
.
.
.
A/N:
Ms. Sarah Felton, her cats, and the cocker-spaniel puppy (Lady) are all from Disney's Lady and the Tramp.
Aunt Sarah is never given a last name, but I chose Felton in honor of her VA. The cats are named although I never found it important to mention. Since ABC is a channel operated by Disney, and several Disney-but-not-fairy-tale characters have already appeared in the show (coughHookcough), I thought it was all fair game under the House of Mouse. Belle's last name is given as Avonlea due to her anger and estrangement with her father. Avonlea was chosen because it is the fairly-accepted name of Belle's demesne/home area and was seen on a map during the episode 'Skin Deep'.
Pardon my formatting, I don't have a beta and I don't even know what I'm doing. Title from Shakespeare's sonnet 148:
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head
Which have no correspondence with true sight;
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then Love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
How can it? O how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then though I mistake my view:
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!