"Oh, you sneaky little bastard," he yelled out, feeling along the wall. "So the magic did work, but you just made sure, didn't you. Couldn't let me have my way, I would've been perfectly fine leaving you with this world if you just let me leave with what belonged to me. But no! Had to make sure that I couldn't leave!"

He punched the door.

"Bastard you are," he murmured, once again touching the walls as if a secret door was hidden along them.

After falling out the window, thank you very much Snow White, he was sure to ask for an extremely long apology later on, whenever it was, the hat had gained enough momentum to open the tiny trace of magic that Emma had managed to lace into it, despite her unbelieving nature.

He'd also like a wordy apology from her later on, too.

He expected it to be written, ten pages long.

…Maybe eight.

"I'd really like to talk to you now," he yelled again, knocking on the door as if it would open and someone would offer him tea. "I'm not very happy right now, at least change the color of paint on the walls, it's very distasteful."

"Stay quiet."

And he listened. To the voice, that is, not to the unbroken memories running about his head and picking apart every wrong thing in this messed up world. The voice was soft, tired, and merely a breath. It sounded sweet, but had a grating sound of not having gotten enough to drink. He expected that in the right conditions, the voice would sing beautifully, but back tracked, thinking that it already was singing, that if it even tried to sing, nothing would change.

"Why," he asked to the voice, looking around for the voice, wherever it came from. Maybe a mouse was in the room with him, they had fantastic tales to tell.

"They will get curious, and bad things will happen," the voice said, and he pinpointed its location.

A grate, above the hard cot that his head was inches under when standing on top of the cot, that seemed to once be part of an air conditioning unit but now was just used to let air flow from another room and to his own room and back.

"Who are they," he reached his hands up to the grate, tugging lightly, but unable to see if it will ever move as it was terribly rusted.

"I…I don't know."

He leaned his head against the wall under the grate, keeping one hand on it as if he was touching the voice.

"Have they hurt you?"

"Yes."

He ground his teeth. The queen obviously put him here to keep him out of the way, and if she kept someone else here and was hurting them, then he expected the same treatment.

But he had finally put the gender to the voice. A girl, who sounded younger than him by probably a good ten years, but of course the curse fiddled with age so he might have been wrong about that, and sad. So very sad, as if nothing had mattered to her in years.

He swallowed, lifting himself up on his toes, trying to see into the voice's room, but couldn't get high enough. He huffed, realizing that even if he could, the grate was so tiny he wouldn't be able to see much.

"What's your name," he asked her, sadly, carefully, as if he was speaking to a broken animal.

"I… they tell me it's something different, but usually I forget what it is. I think they say my name is a flower… but that can't be right. I don't think I'm a flower."

"You could be," he tried to say with as much enthusiasm as he could. "I've met some flowers, course they weren't usually that very nice, but maybe you are the nice kind."

She was silent, before he heard a chuckle.

"You've spoken flowers?"

"Oh yes, of all kinds and colors. Not the very best of chatters, all so very vain of course, but you know it's not their fault, everyone going around and telling them how beautiful they are, it's bound to go to their heads eventually."

He liked her laugh. It was tired and seemed almost forced, but still nice.

"My name is Jefferson," he told her, smiling against the wall. "It seems that I'm going to be here for awhile with you, so I suppose we should become friends."

"Friends… friends with me?"

"Yes. If that is alright with you."

She was silent, and he was worried she was ignoring him now, or she was just a hallucination.

"Yes. That is fine. My name… is apparently Rose, according to them. I don't like it."

"Mm, rose's, very beautiful aren't they," he sat down carefully under the vent, prepared to speak for days on end to try and help the girl, Rose, get her energy back, her life back, not just because he knew it would anger Regina, but because he felt that he owed this little girl something.

Because she sounded like his daughter, his Grace, on days she was sick and he worried to no end, running to the market and trying to get the best medicine, trading all he could from his neighbors for good food.

"Yes, very beautiful," he could hear her slipping off into sleep, or maybe they had drugged her, that could be it.

"Stay awake, sweetheart, we have a lot to talk about. Now, you don't really like your name? Well, no matter, get a new one. I'm sure no one would mind, it's only the two of us."

"A… new name?"

"Yes, something just as pretty."

She took a long time to answer.

"Belle," she whispered finally. "I like Belle. Belle… is right."

"Belle then. It's nice to finally meet you Belle."

He heard her smile in her answer.

"It's nice to meet you Jefferson."

He cried out as they threw him back into the room, but he still managed to spit on the large man's foot. The man glared, slamming his door shut as he shifted into a sitting position, wiping the sweat of hiss forehead and checking himself for anything that needed his attention. Finding nothing, a blessing indeed, he dragged himself on the cot, while it was hard it was softer then the ground.

"You shouldn't keep talking back to them," Belle whispered, scared at the sounds of his screams.

"Ah, where's the fun in that, sweetheart? Besides, they are ignoring you more, am I right."

She was silent.

"I don't want you hurt because of me."

"It's not because of you. Haven't been properly beat since I was just a lad, don't you worry. It's good, soon I won't feel the pain. Besides, doing the brave thing leads to bravery, am I right?"

Oh yes, he had figured out who she was quickly, the name a quick give away, her apparent love of books another. He had heard of Belle, the one who fell in love with the Dark One, a man he was pleased that he had managed to get out of ever doing deals with him.

"I… I suppose. Where is that line from, I've heard it before."

"I bet you have, but that's not important! What were we talking about before I left."

"I… don't remember, the nurse gave me some medicine. I can't remember now… you were gone for hours."

He didn't say he was gone for two days, in a separate cell, no food or water, beaten regularly, because it would make her worried and he couldn't do that to his poor girl now, could he?

"Well then, new conversation, clean cup and all. What would you like to talk about, or shall I see what I remember of some books."

He had recited Alice in Wonderland many times before, having memorized it in a mocking manner at how wrong the story had gotten it.

"Tell me… about your daughter?"

He didn't answer, smile frozen on his face.

"What was her name? Please, I think you need to say it."

Oh, how dare she be so witty, how dare she be so brave, how dare she be able to pull things away and get him to confess in a moment of pain that made him drunk and ramble about loosing his daughter.

"Her name," he choked out, closing his eyes. "Is Grace. Of course, she's called Paige. But she's Grace. My Grace. Always my Grace. Has her mother's eyes, you know? Sadly one of the few features from her mother she kept, I always hoped she'd look more like her father. Got my hair, oh the first few months I just kept chopping her hair off because it would get as tangled as mine."

He laughed, and she laughed with him, before he started to cry.

"Oh god, Belle. My Grace. I miss my Grace," he sobbed, the first real time in twenty eight years, shoulders back, head slammed against the wall, hands curled into fists, bruises screaming painfully as he curled tightly into himself.

"Shh, it's ok," it was as if she was in the room with him, stroking his arm, his hair, his back, wiping away his tears carefully. "It's ok. I know Jefferson, I know. It's ok."

He cried a bit longer, her repeating her comforting words over and over again. Eventually, he stopped crying, and they were silent.

"Would you like me to read to you Alice in Wonderland," he always said read, even though he was merely saying the words he memorized. He was reading his own mind in some way.

"Yes. The part where Alice meets the Hatter."

And he began, the words flowing out of him easily, as the tears of his daughter was washed away with stories and laughter.

"Do you remember what I told you."

"Yes. Jefferson, does it matter…"

"Belle, it matters. Trust me, we won't be here forever, but we need a proper story."

He heard her shift, worried about her. He knew her arm was broken, and he felt horrible he couldn't protect her from the blow, he hadn't spoken out enough to get the wrath turned to him, and now she was in pain and broken.

"I… ok Jefferson."

"Now, tell it to me."

She breathed out, and he felt her reach for his hand. They had never seen each other, touched one another's hand, breathed each other's air, in the months since they had met. But they could feel each other, know every movement they made, everything they wanted to do, and it was enough for them.

"If the Sherriff-"

"Emma. Her name is Emma."

"Emma. If Emma-"

"It's when Belle. Keep saying when, sweetheart."

"When Emma comes and saves us, she's going to ask what you are doing here."

"Because she thinks I'm not a good person."

"But you aren't a good person. Not entirely," she points out. He hid no lies from her, except the one about the curse. Her mind was to fragile still to comprehend it, and it was the kindest thing he could do for her now.

"No, I am not. But she has to think I am so I can protect you."

"I don't need protecting."

"So we can protect one another then."

She seemed to like this idea, her phantom hand tightening on his.

"And you are going to tell her that the people who put us here forced you to kidnap her and…"

"Mary-Margaret. It's ok if you don't remember her name."

"Ok… and that if you didn't oblige, I would be hurt."

"And what is your name."

She didn't respond.

"Belle, you have to tell her what your name is. We can say Belle is your middle name, or what you preffered to be called later, because your real name is to much of a reminder. But you need to tell her what your name is."

"Rose…"

"See, not to hard?"

"I don't like it."

"I know, Belle's so much nicer, but we need to make sure things go smoothly."

"Jefferson?"

"Yes Belle?"

"What if she never comes? What if we don't get rescued?"

"Then we'll rescue ourselves. Being beaten every so often does build up my strength, and if you notice I'm getting some fantastic muscles if I say so myself," he smiled at her giggle. "I'll make sure we get out, and we'll be safe."

"I like that."

"Getting out?"

"No. Being safe together."

"Tell me about him."

He knew it wasn't right. She had just been given her medicine, and she would have more of her walls down, but he knew her heart was shattered, and that she needed to get it out eventually.

It was the only secret left between them, except for the one about the curse.

"He… he's funny. Everyone is afraid of him, but he just seems like a funny man," she slurred slightly, and he could see her eyes, sometimes brown in his mind's eye, sometime's green, drooping slightly. "He always seems to make me laugh."

"How does he look like?"

"His skin, it's covered in the smallest in scales, the smallest scales, smaller then lizard scales, and they change color depending on his mood. He looks best when they are gold. His hair is a mess, it took me forever to convince him to get out several horrible knots."

"Is he powerful?"

"Oh yes, ever so powerful, but also kind when he wants to be. He was always kind to me."

"What was his name."

She stopped, and he wondered if his window had closed, if she had dozed off, or somehow pushed through the medicine and would refuse to speak anymore.

"I can't remember. I barely said his name. It started with… an r I think."

"Well, that's a start."

"Yes, indeed. It's just a chipped cup of course."

His head tilted to the side, curious about the change of conversation suddenly.

"Is it now?"

"Yes. You can barely see it."

"Yes, it barely masks the beauty of the cup," he was humoring her drowsy self now, giving her kindness again after all the bad that was happening to her.

"All he has left is an empty heart and a chipped cup," she murmured, and he knew she was slipping into unconsciousness. "Not enough to live a good life."

"No, not at all."

He knew when she was asleep, her eyes that were sometimes brown, sometimes green having closed in his mind, and he sat there, straining to hear her soft breaths in order to comfort him.

"Sweet dreams, dearie," he whispered. "Go find that man in your dreams you love so much."

He heard commotion, and Belle was screaming softly, scared at all the noise and commotion, he put his hand to the grate.

"Easy, sweetheart. Don't worry, you won't be hurt. I'll make sure of that."

But she kept screaming, and he tried to shush her, till he heard his door open, and he turned to it, prepared for the worst.

He wasn't expecting little miss Emma Swan to be staring at him with an open mouth stare.

The day to be saved had come earlier then he expected.

"Emma," he breathed, and Belle stopped her screaming.

"What are you doing here," she stood away from him, apparently the memories of their last visit still present.

"Here? This is my real home, where they keep me," he ground to her. "And I'd say I'm sorry about all that happened, but right now you need to get my friend out."

She continued to stare, but he pushed past her, working on the door next to his handle.

"Open. Please open. I need to get her out. I promised her we'd be safe," he found himself rambling, hands trembling. For some reason, opening the door now scared him, more than fists, more than days without food.

"Jefferson, move aside. I have the key," Emma gently took his hand, taking it as she inserted the key and opened the door.

She opened it for him, and he stood back, his courage gone as he could no longer move his body without falling down.

He saw movement. He let out a smile.

"Sweetheart?"

"Jefferson," Belle whispered, struggling out, her legs shaky from disuse.

She wasn't what he pictured, she was always blond or a red head, sometimes dark skinned sometimes olive. Her eyes were usually brown but sometimes green when she teased him, or if it was raining outside.

Instead her skin was pale from years of no sunlight, her eyes a piercing bright blue. Her hair was brown, a slight wave hinting at more dramatic curls long gone. Her lips were pink, but he was certain they should be a bright red.

He understood now why she was called the Beauty.

"Belle," he whispered, stumbling toward her, grabbing her shoulders. "Oh Belle. You have just as messy hair as I do."

She laughed and cried, hugging him tightly.

"You led me to believe that your hair was more messy then it is. You liar."

"Never Belle. Never a liar. I just sometimes stretch the truth."

Emma stood in the doorway as the two friends, not lovers they could never be lovers, held each other and cried and laughed and talked and traced each other features, and properly said hello for the first time.

Mary-Margaret fussed over them, after being properly explained that he didn't want to kidnap her and that he was being forced to, no need to tell her that wasn't the truth. Belle watched the short haired woman with wide eyes, having no memories of this much caring in one person, this much love, that she had to stare.

Jefferson made sure to hold her hand. He wanted to remind himself she was real. He wanted to feel her real hand, not ghostly images of entwined fingers.

"Emma is filling out the paper work now," Mary-Margaret explained after the alarming ring and her explaining calmly to the two it was just a phone.

How silly. They knew what phones were, it just was they hadn't heard one in such a long time.

"For?"

"Police stuff. To make sure you won't go back where you come, and that you can stay with us for now."

"Stay with you," Belle asked, eyes wide. "We get to stay here?"

Mary-Margaret smiled.

"Of course Rose. Emma already cleared this with me, I'm thinking of putting a bed in the study, hardly ever use it anyways, and Jefferson you can use my bed till I can get another bed, unfortunately I never pictured myself housing more than three people at a time."

"No, please," he shook his head. He still knew about the curse, knew who she was, but he wanted to pretend he was sorry for what he did, because he was in some way. "I can take the couch. It's much softer then what I have had, and I couldn't take you from your bed."

She pursed her lips, smile flickering on her face.

"Well, we'll discuss that later, when it comes time. Now, what would you like to drink?"

"Tea," they both said, Jefferson because it was the only thing he could drink without hacking anymore after years in Wonderland, and Belle because of lost memories of chipped cups.

She brewed it, which Belle thanked and sipped, and Jefferson spit out to the surprise of them both. He cleared his throat, fluttering his hands at Mary Margaret as he took over the tea pot, quickly making a new batch.

"No offense, but you're a better cook then a tea maker."

She laughed at that, and Belle gave a wavering smile.

She was only use to laughing with Jefferson, so he laughed to, so she would know it was ok.

They chatted, Belle slowly came out of her shell and even pointed out a few tips in Mary-Margaret's cooking. Emma came home and pulled Jefferson aside, eyeing him.

"So you really were put against your will."

"Yes," he breathed, itching to go back to Belle, to the smiles and laughter.

"For her."

"Yes. I already said this."

He was confused. Where was the conversation going?

"Are you two…" she didn't continue, waving her hands slightly.

"Together? In love? No! We're friends, and I care for her deeply, that's all."

"Really?"

"I would never hurt her," he said resolutely, fixing her with a glare in the eye. "Unlike others. I promised her that I would never hurt her."

He wouldn't hurt her like those horrible people at the hospital. He wouldn't taunt her like Regina had. And he would never break her heart like that man, that man that he couldn't even bring to himself to call by his name.

She stared at him.

"Alright. Well then, let's get back to your Belle."

His eyes widened. He had assured her that he knew her name was Rose, he just had called her Belle to comfort her and keep her apart from the bad memories.

Apparently, the savior understood.

"Of course. She's far too curious about some movie called Peter Pan. Who has the last name pan?"

Emma shook her head, leading him back to his friend and her friend, slowly falling into a pattern that would stay for the weeks to come.

Belle still wouldn't leave Mary Margaret's apartment. They understood, she was the worse off of the two, Jefferson had survived through sheer will and determination to keep his promise. Belle had barely hanged on off the edges of him, and she was there longer than him, but only he and she knew that.

It had though taken him a week to leave, the light was to bright, the sounds too loud, and once he actually broke down in an attempt to help Mary Margaret to go out and get groceries.

It was too much, and took time.

Eventually, he was fine, but he worried about Belle. She wouldn't leave, despite his reassurances that it was fine, nothing was going to hurt her, he'd be there always. He had barely gotten her outside the door before she'd rush back inside, hastily cleaning every surface and he'd have to explain why everything was suddenly alphabetized to Emma.

And then he found the old bookstore. He stared up at it, the boards and newspapers on the windows glaring at him for even thinking of looking. The clock ticked cheerfully, mocking him for every second he was here, because time now existed here.

Time now began to move.

He stared up at it, then went home.

The next day he asked Emma.

"The bookstore?" she raised an eyebrow, drinking a cup of cocoa which he looked at in disdain, carefully guarding his precious tea. "It's been closed since I came here. Not sure why, sort of sad, only way to get anything to read is the newspaper or from the school, they actually keep a large range of books."

"Who owns it," he watched Belle from the corner of his eye reading a book, watching incase she got another paper cut, a common occurrence as she paid hardly any attention to the pages and her fingers.

"Not sure. Probably Mr. Gold."

And that's why the he was standing with Mary Margaret and Emma, both bemused and sort of horrified, as he asked Mr. Gold for the shop.

"You want to reopen the shop," the man raised an eyebrow. "I can't see why."

"It's for a friend. Besides, I could make part of it into a good tea shop, to many coffee drinkers in this town."

Mr. Gold sighed, tapping his fingers. He seemed bored with this.

"Of course, I can't give it to you for free. What will you give me?"

"The town has agreed that Mr. Jefferson needs to get his life started again," Emma interrupted, holding out a paper. "They have agreed to pay for half of the shop, and Mary Margaret will pay for the rest."

Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you did come prepared," he looked over the paper, lips turning to a straight line. "Who is… Rose?"

Jefferson stared at him. Didn't he know? How couldn't he know that…

No. He didn't know. She had a different name, she didn't even have her father's same last name, changing it immediately at the memory of what he had did to her.

He didn't know that his love's new name glared right at him.

"She's Jefferson's friend," Mary Margaret finally spoke, playing with the ends of her sleeves. "She's been having some difficulties going outside, so Jefferson had this idea to get her outside more."

"Of course," he smiled, all teeth and daggers, but Jefferson knew from Belle's stories that there was nothing to be scared of. "I'll have the paper work drawn up by tomorrow. Shall I come by your apartment tomorrow?"

"She doesn't like strangers," Jefferson muttered, nervous about the two meeting.

"Bring them to the station, Mr. Gold. It'll be easier to get out any legal difficulties there."

"Of course."

And that's how he got the book store. It took a couple more weeks to prepare it, cleaning it up and working with the school to get a donation of books, shelving the racks with so many books in the back, setting up tables in the area where he would make tea.

And he made a sign. David, who he had met when looking at the hardware store for something to yank off the boards, had helped him with it, becoming easy friends quickly.

He smiled at the sign.

'Beautiful Books and Mad Tea'.

Not exactly poetic, but it fit.

She tugged him along, thrilled with the idea of the bookstore, letting her fears go as they ran to the store, laughing like children as they went. She bounced up and down by the door as he unlocked it with a flick of the hand, sweeping open the door with a bow, which she responded to with a curtsy before running.

"It's gorgeous Jefferson!"

She was running her hands over the books, looking at the desk that had a plate with her name on it, spinning around his work place to make teas.

"I can't believe you did this! It's fantastic."

"Well, simple really. Now don't you slack, I hope to pay back Mary Margaret and Emma for pitching in to get this, which means we need to sell a good amount of books and tea."

But she wasn't listening. She found the radio that he had set up, ready to play soft, upbeat songs that Emma helped him choose, and hit play, bouncing up and down. When the first tunes crooned out from the ancient speakers that somehow still worked, she began to twirl, laughing, her blue eyes sparkling for the first time with true, unguarded, joy.

She took his hand, and he laughed as they spun around the cozy bookstore, not very coordinated as all they did was hold hands and spun.

"I take it the bookstore is a good buy."

Jefferson stopped, Belle hidden behind him, as he smiled at Mr. Gold, forgetting what he meant to Belle and what Belle meant, or maybe did, to him.

"Yes, we are quite happy with it. Thank you again, Mr. Gold."

"It was my pleasure. And this must be your friend, Rose," but his words died and his smirk left his face as Belle peeked around Jefferson.

"Hello," she said shyly, clutching Jefferson's arm tightly.

"Hello," he swallowed, his hands going white on his cane.

"Rose," Jefferson interjected, "This is Mr. Gold, the man I told you about. Don't be shy."

The three of them met in the middle of the room, and Belle awkwardly held out her hand.

"Hello Mr. Gold," she whispered, looking at the ground, anywhere. He was a stranger, he was different, he scared her by merely being someone she didn't know.

Or at least someone she didn't know anymore.

He stared at her, before a mask slammed down on his face, and he smiled, his breaths shallow and unsteady, taking her hand and shaking it.

"A pleasure to meet you, dearie," only Jefferson saw him cringe at slipping at the endearment, "I'm glad you enjoy the bookstore."

"Yes, thank you again," she smiled slightly at him.

Jefferson broke the tension quickly, not wanting it to get stale and scare Belle again.

"Mr. Gold, there's a few objects I found that I think are yours. Shall I bring them over tomorrow for you to look at?"

Mr. Gold looked at him, as if he forgot he was there, and nodded stiffly.

"Of course. Excuse me, I need to go, things to do and such. Jefferson, good to see you again. It was nice to meet you… Rose."

"Please," she whispered, tugging her hair. "It's, it's Belle. I don't like Rose."

Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow, looking to Jefferson, who smiled and nodded, and the older man smiled slightly back.

"Belle. Means beauty in French. Fitting."

Belle flushed, and Jefferson began to feel as if he shouldn't be there.

"Good day, Belle," and Mr. Gold was gone, and Jefferson and Belle went back to dancing, the moment quickly forgotten in Belle's mind as just merely meeting a man who once owned the shop, but forever remembered in Jefferson's mind as the moment they started to fall in love all over again.

Belle wasn't there, but he needed someone's hand to grab, so he grabbed Emma's, who paused in eating her ice cream cone at the pressure.

She glanced at him, then at what he was staring at.

It was a mistake to come with her to pick up Henry. He forgot that Henry went to a school, a school with many children, to many children.

A school with Grace.

She was on the swings, laughing with her friends, and he could only stare. Emma glanced at him.

"Jefferson…"

"I know," he ground out. "You're going to tell me she's not mine. That I made it up, that she never was my daughter. But god damn it Emma, I was told she was. They said she was mine. I believe she's mine still."

"She's your daughter."

He glanced at her sharply, and she smiled softly.

"Apparently, after you disappeared, she was adopted. She is your daughter, she just doesn't know it."

He clutched her hand tighter, biting his tongue before taking a large bite of ice cream.

"Where's Henry, we should leave," he murmured.

"It'll be alright."

"You know what," he stood up, shaking his head. "I think I'll walk home. Clear my head. Belle was talking about some new books, I should check that she hasn't over extended herself."

He let her hand go, rushing away, hands clenched, the ice cream pouring down his hand as he shattered the cone, but he ignored it.

He ignored the sticky sweetness sliding down and onto his clean shirt.

He ignored the thought at Mary Margaret being horrified at his best shirt being ruined.

He ignored the cold wind blowing through him.

But he could never, ever ignore, his daughter, his Grace, his wonderful little girl, his Grace, smiling and laughing as she lived a good, happy life without him.

The bookstore was open. So was the tea shop. And while the first couple of days were tough, things got better.

Granny came and bought a book, smiling kindly at Belle as she asked if she'd like it to be decorated with a bow.

Archie sat for an hour and sipped tea while reading the newspaper.

Leroy asked advice from both of them for advice in gardening and tea.

And they soon had regulars, many people bought books, people began to love tea.

And then Mr. Gold came in.

"Mr. Gold," Jefferson acknowledged with a smile, already getting a cup out. "How would you like your tea?"

"Jasmine, please," he gave the man the money, before sitting down, trying to hide that he was staring at Belle as she talked to Ruby, giving the more outgoing woman a book of romance stories.

Jefferson smiled a secret smile, making the tea, bringing it to the man and smiled some more.

"Anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure? And sorry about the cup, it has a chip."

Mr. Gold's gaze snapped to the cup, and it did have a chip, but on the handle, not the rim.

"It's just a chip," he muttered, taking a sip.

"Of course. She's fine you know."

Mr. Gold stared at him.

"Who?"

"Belle. It's kind of you to take so much interest in her, I often worry she won't get along with people. But if she's taken a shine to you, she will be fine."

"Of course fine."

"Anything else, Mr. Gold?'

"No, Jefferson. I have all I need."

Belle and Jefferson spent their days like that, working every day of the week, taking breaks on the weekend to spend time in the sun or stay home and read books and listen to music.

Sometimes Belle woke up screaming at her fears and Jefferson got no sleep.

Sometimes Jefferson saw his daughter and clenched his hands so hard they started to bleed that Belle had to bandage them again and again.

Sometimes Belle would grow shy and hide from the world and Jefferson had to coax her out.

Sometimes Jefferson would forget who and where he was, not believing anyone till Belle touched his shoulder softly or his head and reassured him carefully.

It wasn't perfect. It was far from perfect.

But they had each other. The mad man and the beauty. They would have each other forever, they would be best of friends forever.

And eventually, everything would be fine.