A/N: A little interlude from Broken Heart's and Cabbages! I was toying around with the idea, and man - all your writers who do prompt stuff almost exclusively, my goodness! DEEP respect and highest of fives, cuz this was nigh impossible! But, even still, I present my first prompt based fic from kisaraforever. The prompt was essentially a story in Storybrook verse after Gold and Emma find Belle and she is at his estate. This is what I came up with! I don't own OUaT, nor do I own "Mack the Knife."
The arrangement was designed because her father couldn't pay a dime for treatment, and the one-room apartment was suffocating. She didn't want to go back to the hospital, she couldn't live on her own, and worse, she had no friends, and no one with the resources to provide what she needed.
After a week of panic attacks and night terrors that left her breathless and clutching onto the railing outside of the apartment at three in the morning, it was decided staying with her father was a non-option. Her father tried, but he was incapable, and Belinda was petrified – she couldn't go back, she wouldn't let herself this time…
Then he waltzed up, offering his help; it was done. She brought what little she had, was given a room and a bathroom – and though she had been determined to be miserable, she was somewhat comforted – there were no locks. And there were no curtains. And the best part was, the only rules she had were on her terms: take her medication; go to her sessions; that was it. She was free to do whatever else she liked.
So she took to reading – reading everything she could get her hands on, and then everything he had in his store. He allowed her to borrow, on the condition she didn't dog-ear the pages, and she held her end of the bargain. Then, there was, of course, the cooking. Amongst the things she found, there was a cook book. It quickly became her favorite experiment, and he let her keep it – she never even had to ask. It just found its way onto the shelf in the kitchen.
It was a sublime escape.
She threw herself into preparation. There was independence in it that she didn't anticipate. She got to buy things, had her own credit card (though it didn't really count, it still had her name on it), and the store wasn't far – she liked to walk there, even if people didn't really talk to her, she liked to see them, and walking past the elementary school made everything worth it. It felt so nice to hear laughter, and soon enough she was orchestrating all of her walks for the middle of the school day, right after lunch when the children flooded the schoolyard and filled it with the sounds of play and fancy.
Then, she carried her bags back and she set upon the kitchen; it was like her home base. She liked her bedroom, but it felt so small – so… square. The kitchen was open, and with a huge picture window over the sink, and several more around the little breakfast nook, if one could call it that, with the window seats – so perfectly New England. Then there were the open door frames – no actual doors, it was as though it was meant for her - so free and full of light, and she could open the back door and let the breeze come in through the screen.
Then, then she'd found the radio amongst the gadgets and trinkets he amassed in the messy house. After a little fiddling with it – Belinda was surprisingly handy –it played out whatever she wanted it to on any given day: country, oldies, top 40, classical: whatever suited her mood.
In this place, with the windows and the music, she felt light, happy, and free – up to her elbows in ingredients, and with the burners going and the oven heating – she felt powerful. She could create, and do whatever she pleased, and the best part was there were no rules.
Her recipes were guidelines, but she could dictate what she followed and what she didn't. There were natural rules, like one did not mix red wine with fish because of taste, but even then, Belinda was adventurous. She pushed, and really prided herself on her creations. They were welcome on the table too, and Belinda always smiled at the empty plates she deposited in the sink.
Her latest attempt was going to be a rack of lamb. She had teased him the day before, one of the rare moments they interacted outside of cordial pleasantries, and she called him a sheep in wolf's clothing. So, she decided dinner would be tongue in cheek. It was at least a semblance of normalcy. She told Dr. Hopper about her idea and he encouraged it, albeit in that nervous way he always did.
She assured herself, and him, that it would go perfectly well, after all, the weather was an omen enough! The sky was bright blue and there was a spring breeze so delicious she could have just taken a mouthful of sunbeams and wind and have been nourished forever. Her freckles were coming back, the more time she spent outside and walking, and she even wore a sundress today, sunny and yellow, just like how she felt. She couldn't remember when she felt so good.
Maybe it was just a bit of mania, but her medication had been working, and she didn't feel manic. She felt… like she had no worries in the world. It was the most glorious feeling she could have ever imagined. So, she threw the kitchen windows open, propped the back door, and mingling with the music from the radio and her voice were the typical kitchen noises, clanging and banging with intense preparation.
After having deposited the main course in the oven to cook, Belle reached toward the window and picked up the little radio, spouting commercials – she hated commercials. Twisting the tuner, she brightened considerably as she came upon one of her favorite songs.
"Oh the shark has pearly teeth, dear," she belted, despite the fact she was not actually Bobby Darin, "And he shows them pearly whites," and laughed brightly at herself, swaying to the gentle swing, it was just meant for dancing, and she twirled herself, coming to a halt with a gasp as the tips of her fingers were latched onto.
She hadn't even heard him come in. She had been so busy preparing, and a bright blush crossed her face. "You looked as though you could use a partner," he grinned, almost too suave for her to believe it was actually him. His cane was abandoned and he stood free of the literal crutch, perhaps the sunny day was benefitting everyone.
He had always been so… halted near her, like he was truly uncomfortable to see her. But now, he was smiling at her, and it was so… real. It reached the pit of her stomach and her eyes were glassy for a moment before she nodded and clutched his hand back, "Thank you," she dipped into a playful curtsey and let him put his arm around her waist, surprised at how muscular his arms felt under the layers of his suit, and adjusted their already joined hand.
They did not exchange any words as they swayed, to the swinging rhythm. It seemed so natural when she swung out and then straight back into his arms with an embarrassed laugh. He just smiled at her, non-judgmental as she blushed and held onto his lapel a little tighter.
"I didn't know you could dance," she laughed, still pink in the cheeks, as he lifted her hand up and released her waist so she could spin again, letting her enjoy herself.
When she was back in his arms, he dipped her just slightly more than she expected and raised his eyebrows, "There is a lot you don't know about me, dearie," he grinned, and Belinda saw the row of white teeth behind the – was charming the word she was looking for? Maybe – smile. There was, notably, one gold tooth that she could see.
"Maybe," she grinned back as they resumed being fully upright, "my earlier assessment was wrong."
"What assessment was that?" he asked, amusement clearly present in his more pronounced accent. Belinda was suddenly very aware of how close they were, and she strangely found she didn't mind.
It was her turn to be cheeky, and she smirked at him, feeling bold – bolder than she had felt in ages. "You're not a sheep," he seemed pleased, but she added, "You're not a wolf either." He frowned at this, though not seriously, and Belle giggled.
"What am I, then?"
She stepped out from the tight embrace and swiveled her shoulders playfully, giggling and holding onto his hand a little tighter when the hand that had previously been on her waist fell – almost defeated. "A shark," she announced as the final notes of the song played and she tripped forward, over her own feet – so clumsy, and he wrapped his arms around her, steadying her.
It was a pregnant pause. She breathed heavily and he did too. Their eyes were locked on one another and Belinda was so… it felt so familiar! It would drive her mad! She regained her footing after several tense moments and gulped. She still hadn't removed her arms from around his neck, and he hadn't taken his off of her waist.
She was the first to release, and his arms immediately dropped. "Clumsy me," she bit her bottom lip with a bout of nervous laughter, running her hands over the skirt of her dress, sure that her face must have been the brightest shade of red that ever existed. "Sorry," she mumbled, fumbling for something else to do in the heat of moment.
"No matter," he half coughed-half spoke and reached for his cane like it would save him from the awkwardness of that tense moment.
Belinda played with the corners of her robin's egg blue apron, "I'm making lamb for dinner," she blurted out, unsure of what else to say, if there was anything to say. She still felt that strange knot at the bottom of her stomach, and felt too embarrassed to meet his golden-brown eyes.
"Chum might have been more appropriate," he pointed out as she looked down, and her eyes snapped up, as though asking him what on Earth he was talking about. "Just a quip, dearie," he smiled softly, and the sentence hung in the air for a moment, as though she was supposed to respond, but she came up empty.
He shook his head. "I'm sure it will be very good." It was halted. They were back to halted. "I'll be in the office," he informed her, "I'll join you when dinner is finished." And he limped across the front room to the door that hid his books and work desk – and the oldest desk top she had ever seen; apparently he was not interested in upgrades.
She sighed, watching him walk away. His limp was more pronounced, and her eyes traveled down his back, lingering before sweeping back to the radio. She huffed and went about turning it off in the most frustrated manner. She hated commercials.