A/N: Still not sure about this, but I felt like I should contribute something to the Rumbelle war effort. I'm still playing around with this fandom and trying to get back into writing because it's been a while, hopefully this isn't too boring.
The Salt in Our Wounds
He should have felt it. He should have felt the twist of the queen's lies as she stuck in the knife (She died). He should have searched for her, in every shadow, every ghost at the corner of his eye. He should have found her and carried her home, even if all he found was a corpse, a broken little bird, with matted hair and blistered skin and splintered bones. But he was a coward.
This time, in this town, he cannot drag her home with him as he once did, centuries ago. He limps lamely behind her down Main Street, his eyes fixed on her curls as they bounce against her shoulder blades with every quick, sure step. He observes her quietly, keeping tallies in his head of the ways she is the same, and the ways she is altered. This girl bites her tongue where his Belle would have boldly stuck out her chin. There are storm clouds in those eyes that were once so clear. He counts the ways in which he will hurt the one who did this to her. But he keeps his distance, afraid she will startle away into the wide grey sky if he gets near her.
He soldiers on behind her, his knee aching in protest of each step. He should not follow her, like a desperate alley cat, jealous of the smiles she gives to passing acquaintances. Here she is called Ingrid, but with every tap of his cane against the pavement, every throb of his weary old heart, Gold hears, Belle, Belle, Belle (She died). If she could remember their history, she would turn on her heel and call him a coward.
She steps to the curb, glancing at the oncoming traffic as she prepares to cross, and her eyes fall on him. Anyone else in this town would throw an arched eyebrow or a pair of pursed lips his way, but she smiles. He nods back, and though he knows his face is cold, that smile lingers on her face as she crosses the street. It is precious; he locks it in his mind. He watches her go. He is a coward still.