This is how it will always end.
He watches her pack her suitcase, hastily stuffing clothes and items into the ugly blue thing. He sees it is a relic of the beginning of the curse. Nothing like the sleek black luggage he has stored away in a closet on his third floor. The handle of hers is worn and smooth from use.
Though who used it to such a state, he couldn't fathom. He never thought to replace hers.
He thinks he hears her voice and he glances up from the ugly suitcase to see beautiful blue eyes staring at him. They glare and accuse him of breaking their owner's heart. They seem watery as if a moment from opening up a floodgate of tears.
"Are you even listening?"
He focuses again. This time he sees the whole of her. Her hair is haphazardly pulled back into a ponytail. Her lips tremble with each short breath. Her skin is pale and blotchy at some bits. She is still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, the day they defeated the Snow Queen, the day Anna arrived on shore, the day he failed to separate himself from the dagger…
The day Belle Gold found out about everything.
"I am," he says. His voice is raspy from disuse and fatigue.
"I'm leaving. You can be happy alone with your power."
"Belle—" He tries to find the words he needs, pleading.
"Don't, Rumple. Please."
"Belle," he tries again, "don't do this. Don't leave me."
"You kept this from me." She practically snarls as she points to the dagger lying on the dresser.
"It wasn't what you think—"
"What was I supposed to think? That you actually trusted me? That you let me worry and stress out on what would happen if the dagger had fallen into the wrong hands? What the hell was I supposed to think, Rumple!"
He tries to reach for her, his hands working on their own. She raises a hand to ward him off.
"Belle, I was only doing it because I wanted to protect you," he starts. That almost sounds true. The words drip from his lips, each weakening before they even make it out.
"Don't come any closer!" She warns and takes another step back. "You lied to me, and continued to lie to me even after I—I admitted to being wrong. Why didn't you tell me then, Rumple?"
"Because I didn't want to burden you with it!" he snaps. "You were already feeling guilty about Ana, what was the use in telling you? That bloody mirror already had you insecure enough!"
"So it's all my fault? That mirror didn't lie to me!"
"I was only doing what I thought was right."
"You chose your power over trusting me. Again. I can't—I can't…"
She reaches for her suitcase and tugs it off of their—his—bed. He stiffens as she walks towards him, but she gives him a wide berth as she moves past him and out into the hallway. It takes him a moment to react before he hurries after her.
"Belle, I'm sorry!"
She stops abruptly and he almost walks into her. He takes a step back so he can ignore the smell of roses and tea coming from her.
"Sorry isn't enough anymore. Nothing is with you." Her words tear into his flesh and burrow their way into his black heart. It falters and takes the breath away from him.
"Goodbye, Mr. Gold."
He cannot say another word as he watches her turn and walk out of their—his—front door.
He cannot remember how he destroyed his home. He wakes up in his bed, miraculously saved from the rampant destruction around itself. The walls are scorched. Nothing breakable has survived. He eyes the glass shards glittering faintly in the morning light. When he gets up, the rest of his house is in a similar shape. None of his windows are intact. His kitchen glassware decorates the floor in strange mosaic patterns. His leather couch is shredded, the stuffing hanging out of it like intestines. His front door is barely holding on by a hinge.
The whole house reeks of magic.
Taking a deep breath, he senses new wards he has placed on the area. He tastes the metallic burn of magic and dryly swallows. His books look like shot birds on the floor, their pages flapping listlessly in the breeze. Some are charred and others are shredded. Ash finely covers the entire floor.
He winces as his knees hit the floor. All of his centuries of living fall crush down upon him and smother them in their endless wave of despair. He is still immortal. The dagger still controls him and alters his life. B—she is no longer in his life. His son is dead.
He wanders the town the rest of the day, eager to get away from the rumble that used to be his home. The town is out in force cleaning up the mess the Savoir and Evil Queen has made yet again. The clock on the library tower is missing a hand. Granny's is missing her fence. Cars are overturned and trash litters the street. His shop is untouched. He avoids it and continues walking.
No one greets him.
No one meets his eye.
He is truly alone, friendless and hated.
He stays at the cabin now, his home still in disrepair and holding too many haunting memories. He cannot tell how many days and nights have passed since he has taken residence in the isolated cabin. Only on one day he has had a visitor, but it was only the Prince checking to see if he was alive. He lives off of his magic, not feeling hunger nor pain. Not feeling much of anything anymore. He glances out one of the windows and sees snow on the ground; natural snow from the elements, not a destructive queen. He guesses it is winter and six months have mindlessly passed. He scratches at the beard covering his face. It isn't very long, since he only stopped shaving recently.
Recently having no real intrinsic value though.
Today his magic is awake and crackling at his fingertips. He doesn't know why he feels… antsy? Restless? He cannot describe the feeling though it feels like something calling him toward the town, an itch he cannot ignore. He wants to refuse the call with every fiber of his being. He does not want to step back into Storybrooke proper ever again. He wants to linger in his silence, his stale peace in the middle of the woods. He doesn't bother with a jacket.
He wears only a suit, the cloth faded with wear. It hangs from his thin frame. When he arrives in the town, only a few people spare him glances and look away. He must look like a vagrant, he thinks. No one really pays attention to him nor do they walk away in fear.
He appreciations no recognition.
It is only an hour into his wanderings that he hears her.
Her voice is strong and clear. His heart reminds him that it is still there, buried deep in his chest with its sudden, furious beating. He spies her walking along the pier with someone. She looks much better than he has seen in a very long while.
Her skin glows with health, clear and porcelain-looking smooth. Her hair is down, curled and shinning in the weak winter sunlight. Her clothes are new. He has never seen her in pants and a sweatshirt. The look is relaxed yet fits her. She laughs freely at whatever her companion has said. His eyes immediately dart to the man next to her when she reaches for the stranger's hand, the familiarity readily apparent.
The man is tall, thin, and dark headed. There is nothing striking to him yet he is classically handsome. He cannot remember ever seeing this man.
His heart stops as he sees their hands entwined.
Belle had always been tactile with him, touching him, bumping into him as they walked, brushing his hair back from his face. He watches as she nudges her shoulder into the man's side and they continue to stroll back towards the center of town, back to the library he realizes.
He does not know this man and cannot remember if Belle had any male friends other than Prince Charming and the grumpy dwarf, whatever the hell is his name. His chest tightens and his breathing stops in his throat.
He stalks behind them, hiding in an alleyway when they stop in front of the library. Belle's smile is breath-taking, happiness gushing through every gesture she makes. The man squeezes her hand before stepping away with a deep laugh and wave, walking away with a smile gracing his face.
A million thoughts race through his mind.
A friend? Yes, that's it. She's only made a new friend. Only that. Friends held hands, right? They invaded personal space and shared laughter with each other. True?
He couldn't remember what it was like to feel such things. He felt more beast at that moment than any in his life. He didn't know how to react. Jealously surges through his veins and the last, traitorously thought—a thought he does not even want in his head—pops up and confronts him like a slap to the face. He fights it back before he jumps to conclusions.
He watches her enter the library and moves forward. He sees new signs embellishing the front doors.
Belle French….Librarian
The library's hours are displayed below her name. Her maiden name. He peers through the glass and sees her rearranging something at the front desk. Her nameplate there has been changed back to her old one, also. His fists clench. He pulls himself away from the library before someone becomes suspicious of the grizzled man loitering in front. His shop is the only place where he can take abrupt refuge. The dust chokes him when he opens the door. The entire shop is grey with it. Everything is as he left it all those months ago. The back of the shop is in the same sorry state as the front but not nearly as bad. A manila folder is the only thing out of place. He approaches his work bench and opens it carefully, fear of the unknown making his hand shake. A packet of stapled paperwork is inside. He sees but cannot comprehend. His feet take him to the cot behind him and he lifelessly slumps onto it. Her signature possesses all the right spots he noticed. His mind finally acknowledges that deadly thought.
She has moved on.
The divorce papers lying on his table the final proof.