Summary: Gideon teleports from the cabin in anger, rejecting his parents, and Belle and Rumplestiltskin face each other and their fears.
A/N: I was inspired to write this angst and hurt/comfort "bridge" fic; it's meant to immediately follow the deleted cabin scene from 6x11, Tougher than the Rest. I felt like it helped set up the Rumbelle conversation at the well better, so there's not such a sudden jump from strife to accord. Let me know what you think.
Deleted scene for reference: /KcrwYX7o8lY
Their son vanishes into thin air once more, rejecting them both, and when Belle looks at Rumple, the despair choking her heart is reflected in his eyes.
A defeated sigh escapes her lips. She knows it looks as though she came here spoiling for a fight, strong-arming her way into the cabin and using Zelena, David, and Killian as a means to an end. Oh, she's learned a thing or two from being Rumplestiltskin's wife. But the last thing she wants is to be her husband's enemy.
No, she didn't come here looking for a fight. She came here looking for hope.
All she wants Rumple to say is that he'll help her stop Gideon from descending into darkness. She can't bear to watch their son suffer and repeat their mistakes; he's so young despite his gangly appearance, so tender and impressionable. Too innocent to be filled with such unbridled hatred.
Head down, Belle peeks at Rumple through lowered lashes, wondering what he's thinking. There was a time when they wanted the same things for their children. Nights when they used to lie in the dark together and dream of making a home and a family, talk about raising their babies to become people of love, courage, strength of heart. Those hopes and plans are dashed to broken shards now, and they're stumbling on separate paths through an endless nightmare of their own making.
A wave of dizziness comes over her, buzzing in her ears like a swarm of angry bees, and she staggers toward Rumple. His arms come out to steady her, his hands warm and sure against her shoulders. She's uncertain of her footing, of everything, really. Again she falters, the edges of her vision shadowed and blurry, and she catches the faintest hint of worry in his eyes. A moment later the emotion is gone as he watches David and Killian through a cold gaze and a haughty jaw.
Gideon and Rumple are right to be furious with her for bringing them here. "Good people" indeed; they've helped her do more harm than good today and she wishes she'd never involved them.
"Belle."
David's voice from behind her is laced with regret. She doesn't turn around to address him, doesn't want to hear his halfhearted, mumbled apologies. Now she knows that where her family is concerned, the others can never really be trusted. When it comes to her child, there are no heroes and villains.
"Just go," she says, at last turning around to face David and Killian as Rumple drops his hands from her shoulders. Killian's eyes are glued to the floor, but David's cheeks are mottled with embarrassment; at least he has the grace to look ashamed for the double-crossing stunt with Zelena. Belle tilts her head toward the door in dismissal. "Please."
"If you're sure." David glances at her and his gaze narrows toward Rumple, as if fearing he will devour her like a rabid wolf.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up at the absurd circumstances, and Belle swallows the discordant sound. She's grown weary of everyone's repeated insinuations that she needs protection. No matter what shocking thing he may do or say, she is not afraid of Rumplestiltskin. She shifts closer to her husband.
The door closes behind David and Killian with a soft thud of finality, and Belle sways again, this time stumbling backwards, her back coming in contact with the strong wall of Rumple's chest.
"Belle?" His voice is soft now, a warm whisper against the back of her neck, even warmer than the fur coat and hat she wears to keep the frigid air at bay. He'd given her the set for her last birthday and wearing them makes her feel powerful, like she's perfectly fine that it's over between them. Armor takes many forms.
She turns around and steps away, love and attraction warring with common sense. Rumple has cast her aside to flirt with darker temptations. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, blocking out the image of the Evil Queen keeping him warm at night. The room spins, and Belle tries to focus on a far spot on the wall, afraid to meet Rumple's eyes, terrified to see his contempt.
Nausea makes her gut churn and she fights against her tight chest for a clean breath of air.
"Are you all right?"
Her gaze flies to his face. Rumple's mouth is set in a grim line, his closed expression revealing little of his true feelings. He's always been most comfortable wearing a mask, and the realization that he wears one for her now makes her teeth chatter despite the cozy warmth of the cabin.
"Yes," she manages through parched, trembling lips. "I'm sorry…"
The last thing she remembers is his urgent brown eyes hovering above her.
xoxo
She awakens in their bed—now his bed—at the cabin, a cool, soft cloth draped across her forehead.
Rumple is perched on a chair beside the bed, fidgeting. Her coat and hat are gone and the top three buttons of her shirt are undone. With trembling fingers she closes the gaping blouse. The tattoo of his name beneath her breasts scalds her skin, and she traces the inked scrollwork beneath the fabric. She wonders if he spied the mark on her body when he loosened her clothing, an impulse decision when he left for the Underworld. Before everything went wrong, she couldn't wait for him to discover it; to watch his eyes to grow wide with pleasure at the knowledge that she'd branded herself as his. The tattoo has become a searing reminder of her misplaced faith in their love, but she can't bring herself to regret it.
"You fainted," he confirms, and averts his eyes from her body.
"I forgot to eat today." She flushes. The excuse sounds lame and silly.
He'd called her a hypocrite, and denial leaped to her lips because she knows he's right. She'd been fooled once again; David and Killian had aligned with Zelena against her. Pathetic, gullible Belle. All alone in the world. No friends, no husband, and thanks to her rash stupidity, no son.
He hands her a packet of crackers, insisting she take one. She nibbles, allowing the bit of food to melt on her tongue. It tastes like sawdust.
"Better now?" he asks.
His tenderness makes tears spring to her eyes, and she purses her lips and nods. It's a lie, of course. Nothing is all right. The air between them is thick with bitter tension, and she crushes the cracker in her hands to crumbs, not knowing how to bridge the chasm.
"Do you still intend to use the shears to cleave our son from his fate?" He rubs his fingers together, staring at the bedspread.
"No. But I don't know what to do," she croaks, struggling against the dryness in her throat. A moment later, he presses a cool glass of water into her hands, and she props herself on one elbow to take a grateful swallow. She looks at him for a long moment, then says, "Why do you want to keep Gideon on this dark path?"
He chuckles, a rueful, hollow sound. "All you care about is making sure our son is nothing like me."
The words are a pained, feeble whisper, and she grasps his hand, more desperate than angry even though he evaded the question. This man she loves is so much more than mere darkness.
"No. No, I want our son to be like you in all the ways that matter. I want him to have your intelligence, your wit, your humor. I want him to be like the real you." She pleads with him to understand. "Not…not like this."
"What if this is the real me?" The steel is back in his glare, challenging her. Fathomless eyes that have seen too much and borne such pain, wrestling with the demons within.
In spite of all the hurt he's caused, she cannot allow him to believe so little of himself.
"You and I both know that's not true."
xoxo
He looks away from Belle's searching gaze, focusing instead on the delicate pattern of her hair fanning out across the pillow at her back. "Even so," he chides. "You don't trust me to do what's best for our son."
"I-I want to trust you. If you could just give me a straight answer. Do you want Gideon to kill Emma?" she asks, sitting up in bed.
Sheer stubbornness causes him to hesitate before answering. Belle won't believe him no matter what he says, and although he cannot blame her, he's tired, so tired of explaining himself. "I want him to fulfill his destiny."
"What if that means…" A lone tear slips down Belle's cheek, causing his already broken heart to splinter.
His disgust at her arrival at the cabin was aimed at the pirate and the prince, but he'd taken it out on her and tried to pit their son against his mother. In his anger, he'd reminded the boy that Belle was the one who had given him away and allowed the Black Fairy to steal him. As though he had been innocent. As though his intentions had been honorable.
When Gideon had arrived and announced his plans to kill Emma Swan and become the new Savior, he was the one who suggested working together, and then they'd both stalked off to find Gideon on their own. Not once did they ask each other for advice or input, but if they have any hope of helping their son, they both need to bend.
Belle fainting scared the hell out of him. She was only unconscious for a few minutes, but each ticking second felt like an eternity. He worries for her health and safety, but the terror he feels is mostly for himself, of how much he still loves her. Loves her kindness, her brave spirit, her unfailing optimism. He knew she would come here, had wanted her to seek him out not only for Gideon's sake, but for himself. His instinct for self-preservation is long gone—like a wayward child who lashes out at his parents for attention, he would rather endure her wrath and angry words than never feel the sun again.
Belle is crying in earnest, her face covered by her hands. She drops back onto the pillows and curls onto her side, sobbing and shaking as tears roll down her fingers and patter onto the bedspread. He rises from the chair next to the bed and removes his overcoat, then walks to the other side of the bed and lays down. He opens his arms.
She needs him now, just as he needs her. Not as a lover or a spouse, but as a fellow parent, a friend.
She scoots toward him, burrowing against his chest and tucking her head under his chin. He holds her close as she cries, splaying his fingers across her narrow back to cover as much of her as possible, as though eclipsing her body with his own will protect her from the pain.
They cry and rock together for a long time, and it feels so good, this giving and accepting of solace. Finally, she lifts her head from his chest and stares at him with wet, bloodshot eyes. A watery smile curves her lips.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He returns the smile. "I needed this, too."
"Our son has your eyes." She sniffles and curls her fingers into his damp shirt.
"So he does." He strokes her back, not ready to let her go. Not today. Not ever. "Do you mind?" Do you hate being reminded of me when you look at our child?
She shakes her head. "Of course not. I've always loved your eyes."
Relief floods him, and something more—the desire to promise her that somehow, some way, he'll steer Gideon back toward the light.
Before he can speak, Belle's phone rings, and she pulls away from him, sitting up to take the call. He can't hear the voice on the other end, but the alarm in her wide blue eyes tells him the news isn't good.
She ends the call and drops the phone into her lap. "That was Granny. Gideon is in the town square," she says. "Waiting for Emma."
"All right." He nods his head, resolute, and gathers her coat as well as his own.
It's time to dry their tears and rescue their son.
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