Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: The evening of the Miner's Day Festival, there's a knock on his door. He's expects candle-bearing solicitors; what he finds is something rather different.
Prompt: Start Wearing Purple by Gogol Bordello, for the Rumbelle Special Attack Prompt Sunday Challenge over on Tumblr
A/N: Crocus—often purple, the flower is known to survive even during winter. It can grow up through light snow, due to it's waxy exterior, and is often thought a signifier of the changing seasons.
"this is the time of year that's apt to put
a hammerlock on a healthy appetite,
old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,
and buried ambitions rise up through the floor
and pin your wriggling shoulders to the wall;
and hope's a reptile waiting for the sun."
— February by Bill Christophersen
Mr. Gold sits inside his house, counting, as he does many nights, while sipping on a cup of Earl Grey tea, decaffeinated—this life does have its few advantages. Sleep is hard enough to come by as it is; he doesn't need to exacerbate the problem, just for the simple comfort of a nightcap.
The balancing of the books is a weekly, nonnegotiable. Down to the penny. So tonight, as he tracks down the two cents he's lost somewhere along the way, Gold's temper is already at its boiling point, when at the sounding of the doorbell, he loses count.
Setting down his pen with a tense arm, he makes to stand, livid. Who the hell is at his door at this time of night? The whole damn town is at the Miner's Day Festival, so that rules out the largest possibility of Regina. The mayor couldn't be absent from such a prominent, if inane event. Sheriff Swann? Also unlikely.
Perhaps French is back to exact some sort of revenge. Gold smirks, as he limps to the door—Moe French too is unlikely, seeing as how he is still on crutches himself.
Then, Gold realizes, it was probably the damn dwarf back, about the nuns and their candles. He opens the door, with a hand to the bridge of his nose. "I though I made myself more than clear, earlier today. If you're here to sell me one of those bloody candles, I can save you the trouble right now—" Then he actually sees the person to whom he is speaking.
It is a French, but not the one he had been expecting.
"I'm sorry," she says, but there's an edge to the phrase. "I don't happen to have candles. I just need to use your telephone."
This is a dream. Belle is standing on his front porch. Which means it is a dream.
He's going to wake up any second now, drenched in sweat and regret, in his four-poster bed up too many stairs, with too many memories. He says nothing. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, trying to make it last, because these dreams never do.
She looks at him strangely. "You see, my car," she gestures behind her to the street, where there's a beat-up junker pulled over to the side up the road a bit, "broke down and I need to call for a tow truck."
He blinks and finds all he can do is open the door a bit wider. Gold clears his throat and gestures for her to enter, "Come inside."
"Thank you," she says, eyeing him closely, but once past the threshold, her eyes find many, many other objects to entrance them.
Dream or reality (well, as real as reality gets these days)? The better question: does it matter?
She's wearing jeans and a button down oxford, in light blue—she's always in blue in his dreams. Point for Dream. "My dear, where's your coat?"
She's examining one of his many curio cabinets in the entryway foyer, touching this trinket and that. Not a scared bone in her body, that one. She doesn't look up to answer, instead turning an object over in her palm, a tiny figurine of a mounted horseman. "Didn't think I'd be outside at all today."
Unafraid and impetuous, at least she was acting real—point for Reality. "You weren't planning on going to the Festival then, I take it?"
She scoffs, setting down the glass figurine, just as it had been, "No. Where can I find the phone?"
He motions with his cane, "Just around that corner, on the right; it's in the kitchen." Gold follows her with his halting steps. He's standing in the kitchen entrance, watching her flip through his phone book, though where she got it, he has no idea—point for Dream. She picks up the phone and dials on his outdated landline, when it comes to him, an idea for a proper litmus test in this case of Dream vs. Reality, "Why don't you use your cell phone?"
Belle turns, "I don't have one yet. I'm still just settling in and all. It's a long story, I—" she cuts off as the recording presumably begins.
Hello, you've reached Tillman's Autobody; sorry we can't come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number and we will get back to you as soon as possible. Press 1 to leave a voicemail. Press 2 for hours of operation…
"This is Isabelle French," she pauses however, shaking her head, and continues after a sigh, "without a number to be reached at." She hangs up, clearly frustrated. She groans, pressing redial with an unnecessary amount of force.
All the while, he's been standing there contemplating whether or not to ask a very pointed question, curse be damned. It's now or never—because he's been alone for so long, and to hear his name from her mouth is just too tempting. She's got a hand to her forehead, as he asks, "Do you know who I am?"
Belle looks at him straight on, never wavering. "Of course I know who you are."
He takes in a small gasp, and waits the agonizing minute for her to continue.
"You're the man who bludgeoned my father week before last."
Match point for Reality; painful, ruddy Reality.
Either that or it's one of those dreams, where she lists and catalogues all of his sins—those always last the longest.
She taps her foot impatiently. "No, you're not sorry and I will not leave my name and number because you're all at that stupid fundraiser Goddamnit." Suddenly with a growl, Belle hangs up the phone with a bang that startles even Mr. Gold.
She continues to grumble, unintelligible mumblings that he can't make out—point to Dream and Reality. She closes the phone book and puts it back (presumably) from the cabinet from whence it came, shutting the door a little too sharply for Gold's liking. He bites his tongue to keep from censuring her.
She pastes on a large and insincere smile. "Thank you, Mr. Gold. I'll just be leaving now."
Because it's a dream (possibly), and because she's acting in a way that he's never seen before and has no corresponding response prepared, he questions her further, "If you knew what I did to your father, why did you come to my house for help?"
Belle crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back on his kitchen counter—her actions are reminiscent of his favorite type of dream, the kind that are supposed to stop once you reach a certain age, which surely he's reached it by now, if the color of his hair is any indicator, but her attitude tells him it's not that kind. "Because yours was the only house with a light on. Much like Mr. Tillman," she gestures to the telephone, "everyone seems to be at the Nun's party tonight, which should have been entirely expected, because that's just the way my luck goes." She shakes her head and pushes herself away from the countertop. She turns to go, slipping past him, into the entryway, close enough that he takes in a bit of her perfume (and by God he thinks he just might pass out).
She's almost to the door when she turns back, "All I ask is that you don't have the car towed tomorrow morning, before I can do it myself. I really don't have the time or the flexible income to be making a trip down to the impound station." When he doesn't say anything, she just shakes her head. "Fine. Goodnight, Mr. Gold."
Then he knows it's real, because dreams are either altogether too happy or entirely tragic, but this—this stunted, monotonous reality—well it just screams real, as well as torturous. So it's not quite so terrifying for him to say what he's wanted to for the past decade.
"Wait!"
Belle stops on his porch; she had just been about to shut the door.
"I'll drive you."
Her eyes dart about slowly in confusion, "That's alright. I can walk. It's not far."
inaccurate. He knows the way to French's; it was rather far and she without a coat. He wouldn't have it. "I'm quite set on this, Miss French. You're not likely to convince me otherwise."
"Convince you otherwise? I'm not going to stand here and argue over my rights to walk home. Just who do you think you are?" She takes a step forward, back into the glow of his porch light, likely not noticed through the angry retort.
If he answers her honestly, he should say he doesn't think he was anyone—just the man who's loved you for the worse half of my life. "I think I am resolute, if you must know. I simply will not be taking no for an answer, Miss French. If you continue to resist, I'll just have to make you."
She steps back inside to make her point, switching from defensive to offensive, "Won't take no for an answer? Are you serious? You can't make me do anything."
On the contrary, he could. He could if he wanted, but instead he says, "In that case, I'll just have to follow behind in the car, if you insist on being a stubborn ass in the face of my kind offer," he smirks at that, "just to ensure your safety, of course."
Belle looks at him exasperated, but a cold breeze blows through the door and he sees her shiver. "Fine." She throws up her hands. "Congratulations, you win. Drive me."
Doesn't feel much like a win. Belle (or Dream-Belle) follows him to his car, which is parked behind the house. He hears a whistle, starting high and descending fast. Well, at least something of his impresses her.
They both get in and she begins examining the car, with as little movement as possible, but he's used to people staring. He knows how to recognize when a person is sizing him up. "Seat belt?" he inquires, when she fails to strap herself in.
"Right, forgot." She clicks it shut. "The ones in mine, well, they don't work quite properly, at least the ones on the driver's side."
"You should get that fixed, dearie. I don't dare think what might happen if you were in an accident."
"I can tell you that," she whispers, oddly reverent, as the pull out of the driveway. "Ambulance. Hospital stay." She shivers and he wonders why, because it isn't that chilly in his car, "but as I mentioned earlier, I don't have a very flexible income."
Gold frowns. All he wants is to impress her (well and frighten her, but he hasn't wanted to do that in quite some time, now), not remind her of their startling differences.
They drive through downtown in silence, until Belle pipes up, "You're going the wrong way."
"No, I'm avoiding the traffic from the festival," he answers with a smirk.
"I can see that, but you're still going the wrong way."
He sighs, tightening his grip on the wheel—he doesn't like to be told he's wrong, even (especially) by her. "Look, you said something about 'settling in.' Trust me, I've been here a while."
"Yes, but you're assuming I live with my father. I don't."
That takes him by surprise. "You don't live with Moe? Why ever not?"
She laughed, "Yes, if anyone should find it odd that I don't get along with my father, it would be you."
He waits, but apparently that is all she is going to reveal to him. "So, if that is the case, then where do you live?"
"Do you know the complex off of Madison, called The Mines?"
He chuckled. "I own The Mines."
"Right. I should have guessed."
As he turns the car around, the gears of his mind start turning. "Dearie, however do you find yourself living at The Mines?"
"Generally speaking, the usual way one finds an apartment." Belle looks at him with impatience and sarcasm dancing high in her eyes. "There was an opening. I took it."
"You mistake my meaning," he says, but the words are broken up. How can she do that to him? Why must she drive him crazy, even in this half-world? "What I mean to say, is that it is impossible for you to live at The Mines, because I don't have a contractual agreement with you." Because he'd damn well remember that.
"I sublet from the Hermans."
"You live next to the Boyd girl?"
"Yeah, how did you know that?"
He sighs, more than put-out, "Because the apartment in question was taken under the false pretense of converting it into an extension, to serve as a nursery, The Mines being rather small, as they are."
"So they changed their minds; what's the problem?"
"The problem is that I don't abide subletting. I like to know just exactly who is using my property." Because he didn't like not being in control, because when he isn't in complete control he misses things, he misses things like this. "I wouldn't bother getting anymore settled, Miss French, if I were you." The words come out before he can stop them and test them and pre-measure her reaction—though he'd have difficulty guessing this Belle's reaction to anything.
She shook her head. "Typical."
"What?"
"I said, typical. My car breaks down, and I end up getting help from the man who is going to evict me. That, for my life, would be typical."
He mildly shakes his head. "Don't be overdramatic, dear, doesn't suit."
Gold breaks at a stop light. Suddenly, he hears her unbuckle her belt. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving," she says and grabs for the door handle.
He grabs her wrist before he registers that he's even moved. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Are you trying to kill me?
She pulls against his grip. "Funny you should ask that, actually." Then she laughs. Odd, Gold thinks, but then he remembers that here, life generally tends to be stranger than dreams—point for Reality. After the laughter subsides, she's doesn't pull against his hold again.
"If I let go, you won't jump out, correct?" She sighs and does not answer. He tightens his grip, causing her to inhale sharply. "I'm waiting."
"No, alright." He let's go and she rubs her wrist. "That hurt, you know."
"Less than an oncoming vehicle, I assure you."
He reaches over to redo her seatbelt. She only jumps a little. As he pulls back, Belle points to the road, "It's green; go."
They drive in silence again, and again, she's the one to break it.
"You know, I'm just wondering, if you are so damn insistent on driving me home, for some outdated system of chivalry or liability or whatever, answer me this, why do you even bother talking to me, if you aren't going to listen?"
"I am listening." What's she getting at?
"No you're not. I can tell when someone's listening and when they're inside their own heads. I've had enough practice." She sighs, "And you have hardly listened to a word I've said all night. Are you really so shell-shocked that the daughter of man you had some fist fight with came to your door, or are you always like this?"
She takes her voice up a notch. He's never heard her like this; it's completely foreign—well not entirely, because he's heard this voice before, just not from her. Belle sounds like him. "Because I just can't seem to figure out how the town pisses itself at the sight of you, when you seem like nothing more than an erratic, well-off recluse."
She leaves out old, thankfully, Gold thinks. However, that's where he stops thinking, and instead lashes out, because that's the only way he knows to react when she hurts him—intentional or otherwise. "And you my dear, sound like a dried-up, bitter old woman, whose had her heart broken and just can't seem to find how to trust again, am I close, love?"
She scoffs. "Not quite, I've just run out of patience for optimism."
"Well, that's one way to put it."
"Put what?"
"Being bloody-well jaded, dearie."
Belle stares at him and he thinks for an instant that she's going to slap that smirk right off his face, but then, of all things, she laughs, "What a pair we make."
He smiles at her words, loaded with double meanings she can't know. "Indeed."
Suddenly they arrive. He parks without asking her number—he remembers the Herman's two apartments. She doesn't get out of the car. "So, you really are going to evict me?"
"I don't have much of a choice, and," he looks at her sideways, but he's forgotten this banter of theirs and she doesn't seem eager to play her role. "You've done nothing to try and enter into my good graces tonight, frankly."
She shrugs. "Well, can't really argue with that, can I?" Belle gets out of the car, and three seconds later he realizes the great and utter bastard he is being. He jumps out of the car. "Belle!" He looks around and she's nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.
Frantic heart palpitations set in. He keeps looking, but deep inside, he already knows—so it was a dream after all. He sighs and thinks he just might cry, for the first time in who knows how long.
"What did you call me?"
And there she is, peaking her head around the front of the car, real and underdressed, and crouched in the small patch of grass on the other side, by a pile of left over snow.
Gold limps over to her, his heart still playing Mozart's Rondo all Turca at full speed, "What on earth are you doing?"
She points, "Crocuses; spring's coming." Belle plucks a few more and adds them to the two she's already holding.
"Yes, well," He's flustered, so he watches her pick flowers in the dirty snow and finishes with the resounding, "quite."
She stands, "Why did you call me that?" Her question is brave—this he remembers.
Gold takes a moment to compose himself, "I'll tell you, but it's going to cost a small price."
"Surprised it took you this long to start in with your infamous dealings." She looks hesitant, but perhaps just a touch less defensive. "Alright, what do you want, Mr. Gold?"
"I want the story of why you're just now 'settling in' as you say."
She laughs and then of all things, smiles—spring indeed. "That would take some time."
"You did say it was a long story." He remembered. She looks between him and the front door to the small apartment complex. She's about to ask him in, before he cuts her off, "Why don't you stop over at my shop tomorrow morning and you can tell me. I need you to come by in any event to sign your new lease forms."
His words take a moment to sink in. "Really? You're serious."
"Seems that way, doesn't it."
"Why?"
And there it is again, that defensive streak. He'll have to find out just exactly where that came from. "Oh now, not so fast. Just one question at a time, I think."
She smiles; he can't help but to mimic the action. "I can live with that."
"Then it's a deal." The wrinkle between Belle's eyebrows appears, but she pushes it back and replaces it with a cordial mask. He turns to leave her—not for forever, just a night—but turns back. "And do remember a coat this time. It's not spring just yet."