Summary: Sometimes, Mr. Gold dreams of Belle.
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What Dreams May Come
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Sometimes, he dreams of Belle.
He dreams of rescuing her, imprisoning her, refusing to let her go free in the first place. But most often he finds himself placing her in Storybrooke, living an ordinary life.
Sometimes she's a librarian – she always did love books, was holding onto one like a lifeline the first time they met – who needs a donation to their rare books collection evaluated. Other times she comes into his shop to make a deal on her father's behalf – a familiar tale, to be certain. A few times he simply sees her from afar. And one heartbreaking time, she was a schoolteacher leading Bae – forever fourteen in his mind– across the sunny quad and into a classroom.
Sometimes, they are nightmares.
Regina lurks around the corners like some demon wraith, always poised to cause ruin. He'll make the mistake of turning his head away from Belle for only a moment to find her snatched up by her highness. He may be more powerful in the waking world, but here he is at the mercy of his own worst fears and – coward that he is – he has always had so many of them.
He finds, however, that he can keep Belle safe as long as keeps his focus solely on her, never wavering no matter what else occurs. So when he hears a familiar voice swearing softly behind him – she knew a surprising number of swear words for someone who used to be a noble, though she never broke them out when she thought he might be listening – he turns around immediately to get to her.
"I was hoping to surprise you," she says sheepishly, shoveling the half burnt eggs onto a plate on the kitchen table. "I can make something else if you want."
"No need," he replies, slipping into old, familiar patterns. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
There's never an alias for her in these dreams. To him, she will always be Belle. But this time, she wears a new surname like a half-mask; with the impeccable logic that comes with dreams, he knows that this time she's his wife.
She watches him like a hawk, perching on the edge of the table as he eats and chattering on about their plans for the day. An inconsequential, ordinary conversation that allows the sound of her voice to wash over him and soothe him as nothing else can.
As she reaches forward to smooth the lapels of his suit, his breath catches in his throat. She notices – of course she does, she always noticed everything – and smiles. He reaches up to remove her hands, but doesn't let go once he has them.
"Someone has to take care of you," she tells him.
"I suppose you are the only one qualified," he says, only half-teasing.
When she kisses him – a quick, distracted peck on his lips, the follow-up and precursor to thousands upon thousands of uncounted kisses in their lives – he doesn't have to worry about making a choice between her expression of love and his power. He's only a man here. And for once in his miserable existence, nothing goes wrong.
He hates those dreams most of all.