Belle clutched her pillow and took deep breaths as her sobbing subsided. She was finally calming down, after hours and hours of these insufferable tears streaming down her face.
How could she have let herself get to this place?
She had never quite understood or felt close to Regina. In fact, she'd always had a sort of disdain for the woman. But now, she felt an impulse to talk to the woman. Regina was more tainted than her, certainly, more mired in awful past decisions and regret. But that meant that she understood the burden of regret better than anyone. And there was another thing that she knew Regina might understand better than anyone else: being manipulated by Rumpelstiltskin Gold.
She had heard rumors that Gold was the one who had taught Regina magic. There was more to the story too, snippets she'd heard here or there, but she needed to figure out the truth, and figure out where she stood in the realm of those who have things to regret.
Unlike Regina, she hadn't done anything truly bad herself, but – she had felt love for someone, made exceptions for someone, who had done things so unforgivable that to think about them made her want to vomit.
Did she truly bring out the best in him, as he had so often claimed? There was a part of her that felt she had ignited the worst in him. That "Lacey" part of her. It had always been there; Regina had just brought it out of the woodwork. That spell, that she had felt so much disdain and reproach at Regina for, was really a blessing in disguise – or at least a learning experience. In the sense that it forced her to reckon with the part of her that was attracted to that which repulsed the rest of her. Lacey wasn't a creation out of Regina's imagination. She had always been there, underneath the surface.
Belle had always told herself that she only stayed with Rumple because she believed he could change. But what if she had stayed with him for another reason? What if – her stomach heaved – what if a part of her had liked his darkness? No. No- it couldn't be. But at the very least, what if there was a part of her that had believed she deserved someone like him? Ever since she'd realized Lacey was within her, she'd had constant self-doubt. Maybe she was a bad person too. Maybe being with Rumple was her fate.
She was jerked out of her thoughts by a creak of the front door. A flutter of panic arose in her chest, and she immediately dried her tears on the inside of her pillowcase – not the outside, to conceal the mascara stains – and took several measured breaths to calm herself and restore her usual complexion.
Rumple hated to see her cry. He said it made her weak.
She hated how he blamed all his darkness alternately on being the Dark One and on being mistreated by his own father. Those things were awful to contend with, sure, but 1) he had chosen to become the Dark One, and chosen time and again to stay the Dark One and 2) a bad childhood, though understandably traumatic, could only go so far in justifying abusive behavior.
She should've known from the moment she met him. From the way she met him. Since the very beginning, he had treated her like a servant, like an inferior, had objectified her and screamed at her and put her through all his mood swings and irrational impulses. In fact, the beginning of their time together had been some of the worst. It was as he had gradually begun to get real feelings for her that he had started to change.
Or so she thought.
Her eyelids fluttered as he entered the room. She pretended to have been asleep and just woken up – it would account for any remaining puffiness around her eyes. He sauntered over to the bed, sat down next to her, leaned in and planted a possessive kiss on her lips, his tongue probing her mouth, and she sucked just like she knew he liked. He pulled away and stared at her, his eyes dark, his hand wandering up and down her ribs and tummy, feigning tenderness. She forced a smile.
"Why don't I make us some dinner?" she tried using her cheeriest voice.
The corner of his mouth turned up and the look in his eyes became softer and darker all at once. "That would be lovely."
"What are you in the mood for?" she asked, sitting up, shaking on the inside, but shrugging off her frightful emotions by immersing herself in this wonderfully mundane conversation (and hoping it didn't take a turn for the worse.)
"Pasta," he said after a moment of thought. She smiled at him and rose from the bed and made her way into the kitchen, still in her slip (he liked her underdressed.)
As she went about preparing the food, she became lost in thought. She was immersed in her memories of Lacey, how being Lacey had awakened something in her that had always been there, that she just hadn't admitted to herself, couldn't admit to herself even as she thought about it.
She remembered the time he took her out to dinner as Lacey. How she had been bored with him, and coyly snuck out the back of Grannie's to make out with that other man – how Gold had found them, and beaten the other man until he was crying for mercy. How it had turned her on. She shivered.
She tried to remind herself that even as Lacey, she would never ever have condoned the absolute worst things he had done. The torture and violations he had afflicted against others as Rumpelstiltskin were too dark even for Lacey to get on board with.
But, a small voice said to her, you still stayed with him. Even if you told yourself you were staying with him because you believed he would change, you always knew deep down he wouldn't, that he couldn't. That even if he put his most harrowing acts far in the past behind him, he would always be haunted by them, and that the bad energy would always find its way out – even if not in as severe ways as in the past, it would still find its way out of him and into the world.
She was shivering uncontrollably. She stood closer to the hot steam coming from the pasta pot.
When it was time to strain the pasta, she called for him to come into the kitchen. Much to her embarrassment, she had barely the upper body strength to hold the pot of pasta in one hand and the strainer in the other. Either one would always fall, or her arms would be shot through with pain from the effort. It was just easier to ask him to help her.
She vaguely recalled having more upper body strength, once. But these circumstances had weighed on her already fickle appetite – she barely ate, unless it was around him, for show, so he wouldn't be worried or chastise her. Even before she had met him she'd had her issues with eating too little. The years of that had taken their toll on her, and she felt it in the physical strain of her limbs and her joints and the pressure on her heart and head when she went too long without food.
He held the strainer and she poured, trying not to get flecks of hot water on him – secretly triumphing when she did.
After she'd mixed the pasta with the sauce and vegetables, they sat down to dinner. She asked about his day, and got the usual comments – flagrantly unspecific. He always concealed things from her, or simply refused to elaborate and talk about his day, and yet when she tried to fill the conversation with her words he would grow bored or call her self-centered.
She had realized, the longer she got to know him, that he wasn't actually very smart. He had gotten all his abilities – his magic, his foresight – from outside sources, but the man underneath was still woefully uneducated, uninformed, and unreachable. He didn't like her talking about intellectual subjects because it reminded him of the one way in which she was superior to him.
She had forgotten this rule tonight, filling the empty space between them with idle conversation, not fully expecting him to be listening but, well, also not having expected to be interrupted. She was talking about plants – they'd fascinated her lately – and she was just about to end the conversation, just wanted to finish one more quick sentence, when he interrupted – not to bring up his own topic of conversations or add to hers, no – to start jeering at her, teasing her, talking over her every time she tried to make a sound.
Then, of course, he turned it around on her. "No, no, tell me, I truly want to know." Belle mentally rolled her eyes (she dared not roll her eyes in reality either, for that was something that immediately made him angry) and told him that it was fine, it was stupid, it was just some little fact, it didn't even matter. This, apparently, also made him angry. He demanded to know what she had been trying to tell him. She replied fearfully that it truly didn't matter, she was over it.
She tried to choke down tears and keep eating her pasta. The air between them had turned sour. In a stroke of courage, she said to him quietly, "I just don't like the way you interrupted me."
That set him off.
"Oh, why, because you never interrupt me? You interrupt me all the time, deary, and I never say a word of it. Besides, I thought you were 'over it.'"
"But – it's not that – it's just the way you were – I felt like you were making fun of me."
"Oh, did you now? Well I wasn't making fun of you. You see me in such a negative light. You're crazy, deary."
She faltered at this. Was he just gaslighting her? Was she truly crazy? He'd often prodded at her in this way before and insisted when she got angry that she just "couldn't take a joke." What about being the Dark One made him such an asshole? Or was it more to do with his father, maybe he was repeating behavior that had been directed at him? Or maybe it was just how he was, how he always would've been, no matter what. She had no way of knowing. But she only knew that this didn't feel correct. She knew she wasn't in the wrong. But who was she to reason with an angry Dark One? She couldn't.
He stood up abruptly and tapped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "I'm leaving."
"Leaving?!" Panic. "But – you've been gone all day! Where are you going?"
"I don't know, deary, wherever I don't have to see you."
Her heart sank. Why did she always feel so crushed at the slightest loss of his affection? All the times she'd been called pathetic – by him, by family, by others – rang through her head. She felt she truly was what they called her. Still, she couldn't help it – something about him made her desperate.
"Please – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Please stay. You promised you'd change. You promised that when we fought, you wouldn't leave anymore, you'd stay and talk about it and work it out, like a healthy couple is supposed to."
He made his way toward the door.
She flung herself in front of it. She knew that if he wanted to he could still get out – he was four times as strong as she was physically, plus with the added power of his magic he was nigh unstoppable. But still, he reacted as though she were the one holding him hostage. "Let me go!" He bellowed.
She looked at him with all the love and pleas that her heart could muster. She softened her voice. "Please, please stay." He responded by picking her up and flinging her against the wall. She yelped in pain – she'd hit her shoulder and her head.
But he didn't leave. He muttered under his breath and walked into the other room. She wondered if she should let him cool off, but – no. She knew him. If she waited for him to come back out to her, he would be calmer, yes, but he would also want to put the whole fight behind them like nothing had ever happened, without talking about it, without hearing her out or thinking about what he had done to her feelings or emotions. He'd promised he wouldn't be that way anymore. Maybe it was safe to talk to him—
She followed him into the bedroom and gently shut the door.
Big mistake.
"Are you trying to hold me hostage in here deary?"
"What? No- No! I just wanted to talk to you!"
"My father put me in a box, is that what you're trying to do to me?!" He was getting angrier, more irrational by the second. She realized, as he said that, that she had triggered a past trauma of his. She immediately opened the door and started to exit the room, apologizing profusely.
But his anger was ignited now.
He followed her back out into the living room and grabbed her by the throat, pinning her against the wall. He squeezed until she felt something pop, until the corners of her vision grew dark and blurry. Then, he seemed to come to, to realize what he was doing, and he abruptly released her and she fell to the floor, gasping for air.
"Oh Belle, I – I'm – I'm so…" he backed away from her slowly, horror dawning on his face as he realized his own actions. "I'm so sorry Belle. Please forgive me."
Belle could barely think. She nodded to indicate that she did forgive him. Her throat hurt and she was afraid to speak. As she stood up shakily off the ground, he came over to her and enveloped her in a warm, possessive embrace.
"I'm so sorry I did that to you. But you evoked my worst memories, Belle. And you tried to speak with me when I didn't want to be reasoned with. That's why you get hurt. Do you understand?"
Again, she nodded, and melted further into his embrace. He breathed deeply and soothingly, stroking her hair and the small of her back. She shivered and clung to him for warmth and comfort. Because, after all, she didn't have anyone else. He may be the source of her pain and misery, but he was also the only cure.
This was what she got for being Lacey. She deserved this, every bit of it. She had liked his vicious side, and now it had turned on her. She had believed he could change, had made him repress his awful instincts so much that they came out directed at her. It was all her own fault. And she had been wrong to try to reason with him when he was angry. She should've known better. That's why you get hurt. That's why you get hurt.
The next day, she breathed a sigh of relief when she woke up to an empty house. Her throat felt raw – like when you fall and scrape your knee, that feeling, only on the inside of her esophagus. She got a sick, creeping feeling in her stomach.
She had to talk to Regina.