A/N: So this story isn't something I ever thought I'd write - I came up with it just for fun - but the more I thought on it, the more similarities unfolded and the more interested I got. So...yeah. Here. Have the first chapter of a two-chapter Chuck AU (with maybe more one-shots to be added down the road), and I hope you all enjoy it and take it in the fun it was meant! Chuck and OUaT are two of my favorite shows and combining them was a pleasure. Please enjoy and let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: Both Chuck and OUaT belong to others; no copyright infringement is intended. Also, I don't know just how ALTERNATE this world is, but I'm assuming a lot, because names like Rumple don't occasion a second thought and people with Scottish or Australian accents can serve in the USA intelligence without any explanation whatsoever. :)
The Man Versus The Dark One
If there was one advantage to living a life of tedious monotony, it was the lack of surprises that came along with it. Rumple had grown to depend on the surety of routine, the steadiness of boredom, even to take comfort in it, the knowledge that he and his life would never change again. It only stood to reason, then, that it would be Darkin who ripped away normality and surprised him—or scared him, really, but this was Darkin, so that actually wasn't surprising.
"It was your birthday," David told him when he mentioned it at breakfast the next day. "The man probably just wanted to make amends."
"For framing me for forgery so I'd lose my shop and get tossed in prison?" Rumple scoffed bitterly—and he hated being bitter, hated the cynical note in his own voice, but life was what it was and he'd long since given up fighting it. "He's going to have to do more than send me a letter with a puzzle and a knife inside."
"At least he tried—" Charming began, but Mary Margaret cut him off by bustling over with more pancakes. She set them down on the table with a bit too much force, the resulting clang silencing both David and Rumple.
"Enough," she said with a strained smile. "He tried, but it doesn't matter—it's all in the past. Right, Rumple?"
Rumple gave his younger sister a smile every bit as fake as hers and hid his hand under the table. No need to worry her with the long gash the knife had scored along his palm when he'd solved Darkin's puzzle and felt the knife grow searing hot. "Right," he said grimly. "The past."
And it was. Five years was a long time, and he shouldn't be wallowing in the mistakes he'd made then—namely, believing Darkin to be his friend and thinking a woman as smart and beautiful as Milah could ever really love him. But he had trusted Darkin—trusted him with his keys and his papers and his passcodes—and he did love Milah—even though she'd ripped his heart out—and it wasn't so easy to leave all that behind as if it didn't matter.
It did matter. Five years, and it still mattered more than anything his life currently held.
But Mary Margaret had been good enough to take him in after he'd been released from prison three years before, and she and her husband were letting him stay in the extra room for next to nothing, which was all he could afford on his current salary, and he hated to burden them anymore than necessary when he knew he couldn't pay them back. So he ate a pancake to be polite, steadfastly ignored the flirting going on between his sister and her charming husband, and he headed off to catch his ride to work when the doorbell rang.
"Hey, Bae," he greeted, his smile immediate and real despite the feverish ache of his bandaged palm.
Bae sighed and rolled his eyes as he led Rumple to the company car they shared. "I've told you, it's Neal now."
"Neal, right." Rumple tried his best to hide his discomfort with the name and the familiar assertion. He slid into the passenger seat, tucking his cane next to him, before Bae could reply. Five years wasn't long at all, not to him, but to Bae, his closest friend since high school, it was five years too long. He'd been infuriated on Rumple's behalf when he'd gone to post bail for him. He'd been willing to confront Darkin and Milah for what they'd done, force them to confess and be brought to justice. He'd been so sure that everything could be set right.
But Rumple had just wanted it—still wanted it—all to be over, had wanted to crawl into a deep, dark hole and hide, so he'd stopped Bae from doing anything but letting it go. And he'd curled in on himself and hid, refusing to move on—because what was there to move onto?—when Bae had tried to get him back into the antiques business. And he'd settled himself into a life of tedium and few surprises with no complaint while Bae had gown quieter and sterner and more cynical than even Rumple. Now, it was hard to remember, sometimes, how close they'd once been, before the debacle had managed to sour even their friendship.
"Anything special happen on your birthday?" Neal asked after several awkward moments. It was a peace offering and Rumple wanted to grab hold of it, wanted to recapture some of his old bond with Bae, but he couldn't mention Darkin's letter and that was really the only thing of note that had occurred. Nothing else, nothing to spark that wanderlust Bae had always burned with but now tried to pretend he didn't have. Nothing at all from Bae himself, or from Milah, or from the contacts that Rumple had once developed to make his shop the thriving business it had been.
So all he said was, "Not much," and he stared out the window and pretended that he'd enjoyed his birthday. Beside his knee, with the smooth feel of his cane against the back of his hand, he dug a thumb into the red cut on his hand and tried to turn the white bandage red with blood.
"Yeah?" Bae looked over at him, obviously not quite content with that.
Rumple shrugged. "Mary Margaret bought me some new wool and a few models. Charming invited me to go to the horse races with him sometime."
"Of course he did." Bae let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. "You couldn't have picked a better name for him, huh?"
"Yeah, well, David's a regular Prince Charming in everything." Rumple smiled shyly at Bae, loath to let this moment go even though he knew that the minute Bae pulled into their usual parking space, everything would go back to the way it'd been since Darkin had told him he'd called the police. Outside, out of the corner of his eye, Rumple could see the parking lot ahead. A bit desperately, he said, "Still, he's much better than Mary Margaret's first boyfriend, right? What was his name again?"
"Lance," Bae said easily, parking and shutting off the engine. "And don't pretend you didn't know that—you remember everything."
Rumple scowled. "Unfortunately," he muttered, and was both surprised and pleased when that provoked a laugh from Bae.
Bae seemed just as surprised, the laughter falling away. "Well." He took a deep breath, paused as if he had something to say, but then he opened the door and swung out of the car. "Time to get to work, I guess," he said, once more in that neutral tone of voice that had become the norm when Rumple had finally told him to his face that he wasn't going after Darkin.
"Yeah," Rumple said quietly, getting out of the car much slower and leaning on his cane. "Time to go to work."
Clothe More wasn't the most prestigious place to work—in fact, it was probably one of the worst—but it was all Rumple was good enough for anymore, and it was all Bae seemed able to find, so they were stuck with it. It was nothing more than a huge square, filled with racks and racks of clothing set in something approximating departments, and staffed by employees who knew next to nothing about clothes at all.
Rumple headed up the tailoring department, which mostly consisted of just him, and occasionally Jefferson and Viktor when things were busy. Once, Bae had assisted him, eager to learn the tools of the trade, soaking it all in as quickly and adeptly as he did everything, thirsty just for knowledge and experience. But Bae had stopped helping him after only a few months, and now he stayed up in the front of the store with Ruby and the handymen janitors—or as Bae called them, the seven dwarfs.
Bae gave a slight nod of farewell at the doors—maybe a bit slower than usual, but otherwise just as he did every day—and then he was gone, off to the customer service desk. Rumple let out a quiet sigh and turned to the counter in back where his sewing supplies were.
"Look who deigns to honor us with his presence!"
Despite the familiarity of this too, Rumple couldn't help but sigh again. "Good morning, Viktor," he said wearily. He didn't need to glance over to know that the dapper, blonde Brit was shadowed by the dark, dour gentleman who was always wearing a hat. If he'd known when Archie first hired them that the outgoing womanizer, Viktor Whale, would get along with—and find a co-conspirator for all his crazier schemes in—the crazy Jefferson, Rumple would have insisted they be kept separated. But he of all people knew that hindsight was 20/20, and who would have ever guessed the two would even get along?
"Good morning?" Viktor's brows rose, his British accent as pronounced as always. "I wouldn't call it good, would you, Jeff?"
Jefferson crossed his arms on the counter and bent to rest his chin atop them. "Definitely not. Not when you left us three orders to complete on our own."
"Three orders?" Rumple studied them flatly, provoked into looking straight at the troublesome duo. "There were six back there to be done."
"Three for you, three for us," Viktor said with a frown. "That's called teamwork, Rumple."
"Teamwork." He felt a bit of vindictive pleasure when they shifted under his thin smile. "So when I go talk to Archie about why we're behind, you're both going to go with me, right?"
"Uh, yeah. That's your job," Jefferson said hastily while Viktor backed up behind him. "Don't make us your scapegoats."
"Right." Rumple scoffed and turned away from their graceless retreat to look over the order forms, trying to figure out which three—or, more likely, four—they'd left for him.
"You shouldn't let them get away with leaving all the work to you," Ruby said, coming around the counter to lean back against it, her eyes intent on his face.
Rumple shrugged, not even sparing a glance to the young woman's bared midriff and tanned legs. Ruby came with her own set of pitfalls and snares, but she was less abrasive than most everyone else besides Bae, so he didn't mind her occasional foray into his corner of Clothe More.
"I don't mind," he said softly when she nudged him with an elbow. "If I do it, I know it'll get done right."
"Has anyone ever told you that you work too hard?" she asked with a roll of her eyes.
"Archie certainly hasn't," he said pointedly.
"Welllll," Ruby drew the word out, "I guess that means you'll want to know about a potential customer wandering around over by the vintage dresses?"
Rumple frowned at her. "Why isn't Bae dealing with her?"
Laughing, Ruby gave him an incredulous look. "Because he's currently in a meeting with Archie." When he only stared at her, she gave a sigh of exasperation and straightened. "He'd interviewing for the assistant manager position? The one he's wanted for months? The one that might let him travel like he wants? Seriously, Rumple, I can't believe you forgot about it!"
"Forgot," Rumple said numbly. "Right. Of course."
"So you'll see to the customer?"
"Customer," he repeated again, on autopilot. "Yes. Of course."
Ruby gave him a strange look. "Ooookay, then. Vintage, remember."
"Right." And he stared after her even after she moved out of sight, his eyes not really seeing what was there, his thoughts swirling chaotically.
Bae in a meeting with Archie. Bae wanting to move up. Move on. And Bae was talented, and he could be ambitious when he wasn't dragged down by regrets, and Archie was always willing to let other people take charge so he didn't have to worry about the stress and guilt of making decision, and…and that meant Bae was going to get the position. And he was going to leave, to travel to other Clothe More places, their warehouses and their meetings. He'd be gone, and Rumple wouldn't even get to see him for those few awkward, painful moments at the beginning and end of each shift.
Rumple didn't really think he was in a fit state to talk to customers, but he was vaguely aware he'd told Ruby he would see to it, so he wandered toward the vintage department. The store seemed too big and open and echoing, but at the same time, it was closing in around him so fast he had to take rapid sips of air to keep from hyperventilating. His hand squeezed his cane so violently that he felt his bones protest. And yet, when he turned into the correct aisle, all that disappeared.
He had time only to notice, briefly, dark curls and the color blue—blue shirt, blue pants, blue coat, and a white scarf that registered oddly brilliant against all the blue—before the woman reaching for a gold and green scarf on the top shelf wavered and fell backward.
His breath whooshed out of him when he dropped his cane, staggered forward, and caught the woman in his arms. The store—large and echoing, small and claustrophobic—vanished next to the sensation of warm skin draped against him, hair tickling his chin, an arm wrapped around his neck, and bright, diamond-sharp eyes staring at him, wide and astonished.
The breath was trapped in his chest, his hands were numb—except his wounded palm, which was on fire—where he touched her, and still he couldn't move, frozen for a long paused moment that seemed trapped on the edge of a precipice. All he could do was stare at her and wonder why he'd never noticed the way the sun poured through the skylights to fall in golden swathes upon bundles of rainbow-like fabrics and aisles of white pathways…and the blazing edges of blue eyes.
"Th-thank you!" the woman stammered, and like a spell broken, he could move again, the store returned to normal, the breath released from his lungs in a pained grimace. Hastily, he dropped his arms from her waist and took a few shambling steps backward. His ankle hurt, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his palm.
"Thank you!" the woman said again, her voice chiming and melodious, slightly accented. As if that wasn't bad enough, she unleashed a blinding smile on him. "I'm not usually clumsy, but...well, I'm so glad you were there."
"It's…" Embarrassingly, he had to pause and clear his throat, his free hand fidgeting against his side in an effort to rub away the memory of the feel of her, clean and warm and soft. "No matter. Can't have customers falling all over the place, now can we?"
"Oh!" Her eyes widened as she took a look around them. "Do you work here?"
"I do," he said, almost not even embarrassed at the admission anymore. Belatedly, he asked, "Can I help you with something?"
Her smile turned mischievous so quickly that Rumple had to blink rapidly to clear the sparks from his eyes. "I think you already have," she murmured before raising her voice to speak more normally. "But yes, I was looking for a dress, maybe in the color gold?"
"Ah. Special occasion?" he asked, knowing he was only torturing himself. She was beautiful and had a lovely smile and a voice that seemed to caress him, but she was younger than even Bae and just a customer, and even asking the question, trying to find out more about her, was nothing more than opening himself up to disappointment. But he could still feel the heat of her, trapped against his shirt, against his hands, and torturing himself was something of a daily habit for him anyway. So. He asked.
She flashed her beautiful smile at him again. "No, not really. I mean, I want it to be a dress good enough for a special occasion, but I don't have any planned. Yet."
He had a very good imagination—a curse almost as great as his perfect memory—so he was fairly certain he only imagined the flirtatious look she gave him after that startling statement. Easier to ignore it than to hope so futilely, he knew.
"Well," he said, allowing himself a tentative smile because she was smiling at him still and that was hard to combat. "I think I have just the thing. Though it might have to be altered a bit."
"Is that what you do?" she asked innocently, intently. As if she actually cared about the answer. She kept perfect step with him as he led her into the next aisle, not seeming to notice or care about the limp to his step and the cane in his hand. "Make things fit? Fix things?"
Rumple missed a step, which was fortunate both because it kept him from gawking at her and also prompted her to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. Of course, it also ruined whatever little bit of manly competence she might have thought he had thanks to him accidentally catching her, and turned him into what he really was—an aging cripple with no future. No chance she could miss the cane anymore.
But she only kept her hand on his arm and looked up at him with an open expression. Gleaming eyes, a quiet curve to her lips that could so easily become a smile, and looking at him so intently that it was as if there was no one else around at all. No one that mattered anyway.
"I-I'm the tailor," he stammered, "if that's what you mean. Though perhaps I should start putting it as you did—might make it harder for customers to hate me."
"Hate you?" Her bright blue eyes studied him as if he were a complex mystery. "Why on earth would anyone hate you?"
"The man with the measuring tape?" he reminded her with an arched brow. Her hand had fallen from his arm and she had stepped back a bit and he was on familiar ground now, so it was becoming easier to find his words. "No one likes the person telling them they're a bigger size than they'd like to think."
She laughed, which was even better than her smile. "Well, I'll try to take it well when you tell me my verdict."
Her verdict…? Oh. The dress. Of course. Rumple gulped at the thought of measuring her. Just a job like any other, he told himself. He'd never had problems measuring anyone or the closeness involved in the task, not when they were just breathing mannequins, more irritating in that they moved and talked and expected him to please them. But her...well, if he didn't know exactly what they were like, he might have asked Jefferson or Viktor to handle it.
But she was looking at him, waiting for a response, and even if he was working in the most ignominious of positions for a man who'd once held the largest antiques business on the East Coast, he could still be professional. "I'll try to go easy on you," he said aloud with a smile that turned a bit easier when she laughed again. "Not that I think you have anything worry about," he added, then immediately flinched. It was only the truth, but it definitely sounded like he was flirting with her and she surely wouldn't appreciate—
"I'll trust you," she said, her gaze meeting and holding his. He was glad they were in the right place so that he had an excuse for coming to such an abrupt halt.
"Well…good. Good." Stupid, he thought, but it was all he could think and say at the moment, with sapphire eyes fixed on him like shining lights from the darkness.
"I'm Belle." She stuck her hand out for him to shake, her grip strong but her fingers delicate, a juxtaposition that made him feel self-conscious and awkward reaching out with his bigger, more weathered hand.
"Belle," he said quietly. She had to arch an inquisitive brow to prompt him to let go of her hand—quickly but with inner reluctance—and introduce himself. "Rumple Gold."
"Rumple," she said, and smiled, as if just his name were enough to make her happy. "It's nice to meet you."
"Yes," he breathed, then inwardly kicked himself. "I mean, you too. Or, I mean…here's the dress." He turned, a bit desperately, and pulled out the evening gown, gold and sleek with off the shoulder sleeves and intricate embroidery detailing a heart-like shape along the bodice. "Perfect for any occasion—party, dinner date. Bowling too, I suppose, assuming you can find appropriate shoes to go with it. All a matter of taste, I suppose."
Her laugh, this time, was almost surprised, and she partly smothered the tail end of it by biting her lip, as if she had startled herself with the reaction.
Rumple stared at her. Humor was better than bitterness, self-deprecating jokes easier to bear coming from himself rather than cruel mocking from others, but usually all his teasing garnered were rolled eyes and longsuffering sighs, if that. Certainly not laughter. Not happy eyes and quirked lips and a slight crinkle in her brow as she studied him right back.
This had to be a dream. That was it. Just a dream, a vivid fantasy conjured up in his sleep because he'd drunk that coffee too late the night before. That was why Bae had actually spoken to him, why he was applying for a job he'd never even mentioned wanting before—one that might take him away from Rumple and Storybrooke and the remnants of their friendship. That was why his palm burned and stung as if enflamed from that little cut he'd gotten from Darkin's strange gift. And that was why a beautiful, dark-haired, silver-voiced, kind woman was seemingly flirting with him as if she found him…well, charming.
"Uh," he said intelligently, more to break the moment than anything. "Would you like to try the dress on?"
"I would!" she exclaimed. "It's beautiful! Not at all what I had in mind, but…very fitting." And with an extra warm smile, she accepted the dress from his lax grip and disappeared into the fitting room.
Rumple let out a long breath and turned away. He'd really like to believe this was all a dream, but it all felt so real, and the gash in his hand pulsed in time with his heartbeat, more painful than seemed possible for a dream. Besides, Rumple thought ruefully as he readied his supplies, even his imagination wasn't enough to make up Belle. And life was just cruel enough to show him something completely perfect just to prove how completely and utterly it was beyond his grasp.
But all thoughts of Belle were shuffled to the corners of his mind—warm, light-filled corners—when he caught sight of Bae escorting a black-haired, black-eyed woman down an aisle, then leaving her with a nod and a few words and heading purposefully to the back of the store where the breakroom and storage areas were.
"Bae!" he called out before he could think better of it—or remind himself to use the name Neal.
Bae's shoulders tensed, but he stopped and waited for Rumple to join him in the aisle, throwing a conciliatory smile back toward the dark-eyed woman watching them with suspicion sharp on her features. "What is it?" Bae asked, but even Rumple could tell his impatience was a bit forced.
"I just…" Rumple took a deep breath, pretended he didn't care. "I heard about the interview. Thought I'd ask if it went well."
"Yeah." Bae shifted uncomfortably. "About that. I…it's not that I didn't want to tell you or—"
"It's fine," Rumple said hastily, that ever-present guilt rising up to suffuse his whole being with dread. "You of all people don't have to explain anything to—"
"No, I want to." For the first time in a while, Bae faced him fully. His shoulders were rounded, his hands in his pockets, but at least he wasn't darting his eyes around in search of an escape. "I wanted to tell you, but I didn't…I didn't want you to think it was because of you that I wanted the job. And talking about it just made it seem too real, like I was jinxing it or something. So I didn't say anything. Not that it matters." He did look away then, but it wasn't to get away from Rumple. "Archie said he couldn't afford to hire anyone for the position right now—me or anyone else."
"I'm sorry, Bae," Rumple said quietly, and hated himself for the immediate relief straightening his spine and letting him lighten his grip on his cane.
"Yeah, well. Anyway." Bae looked over Rumple's shoulder and forced another polite smile for the woman impatiently tapping her foot, her eyes narrowed. "I have to go get a specific belt for this customer. But, well…well, see you after work."
"Yeah," Rumple said, nodding uneasily. "After work."
Assuming this still wasn't all a dream.
"Everything all right?"
Rumple turned at the question but came to a stumbling, flabbergasted halt at the sight that greeted him.
Belle stood in the fitting room door, the golden gown draping her curves as if realizing how deserving she was of a close embrace, sparking auburn glints in dark hair, adding sunshine to bright blue eyes. But better than all that, more astonishing, was the look on her face—the quiet concern, the hint of compassion, the interest—as she gazed at him.
"Hey," he said, then had to pause yet again to clear his throat. "It…it looks amazing."
She bit her lip, her eyes dropping. "Thanks. Do you think it will need any altering?"
Altering. She expected him to be looking at her as a Clothe More employee, as a tailor concerned with measurements and sizes. Not as a man looking at a woman and concerned about things that had very little to do with measuring a dress.
This definitely wasn't a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but not a dream.
Right. He breathed in deeply though his nose, let it out through his mouth. He could do this.
Digging his fingers into his injured palm and welcoming the white-hot clarity the pain afforded him, he started forward. "Let's see, shall we?" he said, and was proud that only someone who knew him well would have been able to hear the strain in his voice.
He did manage to get through the next few moments, mainly because he kept a finger digging into his throbbing palm whenever possible and also because Belle was kind enough to refrain from speaking or moving. She was as accommodating as one of his mannequins, but oh so much more entrancing.
"Truthfully," he said when he was finished and could finally step back, suffused with relief that he hadn't made a fool of himself while so near her, "it doesn't need much. I can take it in a bit here and here, adjust the sleeves so you have a bit more maneuverability, but it's up to you."
Belle nodded, glanced up at him rather than the mirror, and said, "Maneuverability is always good. How long would it take you to make the changes?"
He was supposed to say it would take ten to fourteen business days, but that would mean he wouldn't get so see her again for weeks.
"A day or two," he heard himself say, and only then realized that the quicker he got it done, the quicker she'd be out of his life forever. Probably for the best, he told the sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Perfect." Belle smiled at him, so brightly he had to smile back, and slipped into the fitting room to change into her own clothes.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Rumple muttered to himself, thumping his cane against the floor and pretending his hands weren't shaking.
"Talking to yourself?" Jeff popped up behind him, startling enough to make Rumple jump if he wasn't so used to the strange man's abrupt appearances and disappearances.
"Why, worried I'll steal your trademark oddity?" Rumple snapped. Belle would be coming out of the fitting room soon, and the last thing he wanted was Belle being subjected to Jefferson, and Viktor, who was never too far behind his accomplice.
"Only room for one in my padded room." Jefferson waggled his brows suggestively and leaned his elbows back against the counter.
Rumple gave the taller man a flat look. His hand was positively steeped in flames now, probably due to all that poking he'd done at it, and if he weren't afraid to look away from Jeff when he was near enough to reach out and tough, he would have looked down and made sure it wasn't bleeding through the gauze bandage. "What does that even mean?" he asked when Jeff just kept looking back at him blandly.
"I've found," Viktor said, ambling around the counter to come up behind, boxing Rumple in the middle, "that it's usually best not to ask Jeff questions. He either makes no sense at all or makes sense in such a twisted, illogical way that I, for one, would rather not understand it at all."
"Like I said," Jefferson interjected, "room for only one."
Well, Rumple thought, even in the usual things of his mundane life, he could still be surprised, because Viktor was actually making sense and that wasn't something Rumple was comfortable with at all.
"Rumple?"
All three men turned in the direction of the soft feminine voice. Rumple would have taken a sort of vindictive pleasure at the sight of Viktor and Jeff both staring at the vision of loveliness coming toward him with the golden gown slung over her arm like real, molten gold, but unfortunately, he knew their astonishment would wear off soon and they'd be circling her like vultures.
Belle offered him the dress. "The gown?"
"Ah, yes." Rumple hastily took the dress and laid it neatly on the counter—risking a quick second look down at it to make sure he wasn't leaving hot, vivid bloodstains where his hand touched it. Then, swiveling on the point of his cane, he daringly cupped Belle's elbow and guided her forward, away from the motionless Jefferson and Viktor. He was probably more shocked than they were when Belle willingly followed his lead.
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
"Or the next day."
"Well," she smiled up at him mischievously, "just in case, here's my number." She reached into her pocket, oblivious to Rumple's mute disbelief, and pulled out a card with her name—Belle French—and cell-phone number. "Here." She pressed it into his hand. "Call me. For the dress or...you know. Just in case."
"Call you," Rumple repeated. "Yes, of course. I mean, when the dress is ready or—"
"Or," Belle said with finality. And so much more meaningfully than Rumple had said the word. "And thank you again, Rumple, for saving me."
"Of course," he said, which was a ridiculous thing to say, but before he could come up with better, she was giving him a last dazzling smile and walking away. Out of the doors. Out of the Clothe More. Out of his life, with nothing to prove it wasn't a dream.
Nothing except a golden gown and a white card held in his pulsing hand.
The temperature in the car was actually pretty warm, especially for Storybrooke, but Rumple didn't think he was imagining the slight coolness between him and Bae. He wanted to say something, to try to get back to even the tentative easiness they'd had that morning on the way into work. But that hadn't been real, had it? It'd just been Bae's guilt at his secret, maybe even a bit of nostalgia for what he and Rumple had once been as he contemplated leaving him behind. It had been more of a goodbye, actually, Rumple thought, which made it even harder to try to broach the gap between him and his best friend.
So he only looked out the window at the passing scenery, his hand beating out a heartbeat of pain, Belle's card a significant weight in his breast pocket.
Bae stayed silent, too, even though Rumple could sense him darting sidelong glances at him, shifting uncomfortably as if he wanted to say something. If so, that would be quite the change, Rumple thought bitterly. Bae had talked a lot, once, just after Milah's abandonment and Darkin's betrayal. He'd been full of angry denunciations and zealous plans and earnest sympathy, all fury and justice and protectiveness and even a bit of desperation leaking in there, all of it spraying out in every direction. But gradually, he had quieted, stopped talking or planning or venting, his fire and hurt crystallizing into a grim shell, a casing that kept him and Rumple separate. And now he didn't try at all, and Rumple's own silence—though he'd grown so tired of it—was too engrained a habit to break so easily.
So here they were. Silent. Separate. Stilted and sitting in the same car only because they had echoes left of their friendship. But only echoes, and soon even those would be gone when Bae left him to travel and see the world, moving on to bigger and better things.
When Bae pulled the car up to the curb in front of Mary Margaret and David's large, salmon-colored house, Rumple took a deep breath. But his hand flared in sudden, sharp pain, and his hard-won breath rushed out of him in a single gasp.
"Rumple," Bae said then, decisively, angling in his seat to better face him. "I know you think—"
Rumple wasn't sure what was worse—the pain in his swollen hand, the fear of what Bae was about to say, or the way Bae so suddenly stopped, his mouth still open, his eyes locked on something over Rumple's shoulder.
Venturing a crooked smile, Rumple said, "Don't leave me in suspense, Bae."
"Rumple." Bae pointed past Rumple's shoulder, a frown overtaking his face. "Who is that and why are they wearing a mask?"
"What?" Rumple swiveled in his seat and stared, mouth tight and eyes narrowed, as a figure dressed all in black slipped out the open front door, its movements quick and fluid. Behind it, there was a crash, and Rumple was out of the car and hobbling toward the black figure as fast as he could move anymore. Behind him, Bae called his name; in front of him, the figure cut across the lawn and leapt into the next yard over. Inside him, though, all Rumple could feel was fury. Cold and raging, like invasive oil, entering his bloodstream in sparks and flashes, then attaching itself to his blood cells, clamping on tight, demanding, controlling, blinding him in a haze of fury that someone would come after his sister and brother-in-law, the best people he'd ever known, so giving and accepting, encouraging him and taking him in even after he'd spent time in prison.
His cane slipped in the wet grass and was torn out of his hand. Rumple staggered and almost fell but caught himself by way of a hand reaching out and grabbing a hanging branch in a stranglehold. He thought he'd surely lost the masked figure, but when he got his balance and looked up, he found himself facing a path dead-ended by a fence. And the figure, a form hidden in a rather sophisticated set of…was that body armor?
Rumple froze. His blood was still fizzing with his anger, his bones were crackling with strength, and even his injured hand had stopped screaming at him. But. He clenched his hand into a fist, felt the slight line of the scar, and even though he should have been afraid, should have been petrified with terror that this crazy thief might kill him, all he could think was that he'd never felt so powerful. So strong. So capable.
"Rumple!" The sound of Bae calling his name, enough fear in his voice to make up for Rumple's lack of it, broke the moment.
The black-garbed figure leapt into motion, making a jump that seemed nearly impossible to catch hold of the top of the fence and then vaulting over it, disappearing from sight. But not before Rumple noticed a gleam, sharp and serrated, glinting from the figure's belt.
The knife Darkin had sent him.
But why? Rumple thought distantly. It was shiny and maybe somewhat valuable, but he knew about antiques, knew how to assess value, and the knife wasn't worth breaking into a house in the middle of a neighborhood and in broad daylight.
"Rumple! Are you all right? You okay?" Bae grabbed Rumple's shoulders and yanked him around to face him. He peered into Rumple's face, eyes searching, his hands heavy and almost too warm on Rumple's shoulders. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice accusatory and angry. And scared. "What if that thief had had a gun?"
"I…" Rumple paused, then, not sure what he'd been going to say. Not even sure, truthfully, what Bae had said. He felt like a fog had encased him and was only now clearing, leaving him disoriented. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "What…why was a thief here?"
Bae gave a heavy shake of his head and dropped his hands. Rumple didn't even have time to be disappointed at the loss before Bae was kneeling and picking up Rumple's cane, placing it in Rumple's hand and not letting go until he was sure Rumple was steady on his feet. "I have no idea," he said. "But next time you see a real-live ninja, you might want to not run after them like some kind of hero."
"That's not what I was—" he started to say, but he couldn't finish because suddenly all he could see was Charming's truck parked in the driveway, visible just past Bae.
Charming's truck.
Charming was here.
And it was past five, which meant school was out, which meant Mary Margaret was here too.
This time, when he started running—or the closest approximation he could come to—Bae was only a second behind him, reaching out a steady hand to keep Rumple upright when they hit the steps to the front door and the staircase up to the second floor. And this time, there was no anger, no haze, only fear, deep and gaping, about to swallow him whole just as it had five years before. He'd already lost so much—his business, his respect, his agility, his chance for love, his future—but he'd still had Mary Margaret and her husband.
But the thief had come from inside the house, and maybe he hadn't had a gun, but he'd had a knife, and David was a cop, he had guns, and all the thief would have had to do was find one and pick it up and pull the trigger, and Rumple would have lost even more. So much more that he couldn't afford to lose.
And all for what, a useless knife sent to him by the friend who hadn't spoken to him since framing him and turning him in for forgery?
"Rumple!"
Rumple and Bae both came to a stop so abrupt it almost became a fall in the doorway of Charming and Mary Margaret's bedroom. In a flash, Rumple went from terror to embarrassment that was saved from being complete shame only because at least his sister and brother-in-law were still fully clothed.
"What are you doing?" Mary Margaret exclaimed, tugging at her shirt as she sat up. David sat up too, but he kept a hand on her shoulder.
"Am I interrupting something?" Rumple asked, because the only way to escape this situation without anyone being completely humiliated was by laughing at it.
"There was a thief!" Bae blurted before Mary Margaret could explode at Rumple. Apparently, not everyone thought this was a laughing matter. "He was running out of the front door, masked and everything. I don't think whoever it was is a good thief," he added with a roll of his eyes. "Your brother here decided to chase him, but he went over a fence and disappeared."
"Rumple!" Mary Margaret cried again, this time in concern, but Charming was on his feet, brushing past Rumple and Bae to head down toward the living room.
"You went after him? What did he look like? What kind of build? Any distinguishing characteristics?"
"I hardly went after him at all," Rumple said dryly, though his palms were still clammy against his cane. He was grateful for Bae's discreet assistance down the stairs. "He was all in black with a mask, a small and slight figure, and he ran fast, that's all I know."
Charming knelt to examine the front door, careful not to touch anything. Mary Margaret wasn't being nearly as careful; she tsked over the mess where the thief had apparently rummaged through the leftover detritus of Rumple's antique shop, clutter usually kept in a halfway manageable state by Mary Margaret's tidying nature. She bent and picked up a fallen stand lamp, collected some books that had been tossed aside, and swept together a handful of dropped knick-knacks that had once been worth something.
"What a mess!" she said distastefully. "And you know it's going to be hard to figure out what was taken out of all this."
"I think he was after something specific." Everyone turned to face Charming as he stood. "This lock had to be picked, and in such a way that it didn't leave any marks behind. Despite the mess, this was a professional, and they must have wanted whatever they're after bad, to risk coming in here not only in daylight but also while we were home."
Mary Margaret crossed her arms over her chest, clutching her cardigan tighter around herself. "Well, do you think they'll be back?"
Charming hesitated, clearly wanting to reassure her but not wanting to lie. "It…it depends on whether he got what he wanted or not."
Rumple went cold.
The knife. He hadn't picked it up just because it caught his interest, then, not if he'd been after something specific. He'd been looking for that knife especially, and he had gotten it.
Frustration, thick and suffocating, crashed down on him and made him feel claustrophobic. Not enough for Darkin to ruin his life once—now he had to send him something to cause even more trouble. Only this time that trouble was spilling over onto David and Mary Margaret, and that was not acceptable.
"I think it was Darkin," he said aloud, and refused to shrink back when they all turned to look at him. "The thief had the knife he sent me."
"Was it valuable?" Charming asked.
Rumple straightened a bit, unable to deny just how good it felt to know that David didn't doubt that he'd know the answer. "It wasn't anything special," he said. "A kris dagger, inscribed, maybe a hundred years old. It would be worth a few hundred, maybe a thousand, but without a known legend in its past to give it instilled worth—and there isn't one I've heard about this sort of knife—it's not worth all this."
"So…" Bae frowned. "Is it a carrier then? Got drugs or gold or something hidden inside it?"
"They can do that?" Mary Margaret raised her brow.
"You've seen what kids can hide in your classroom," David pointed out. "Adults can be just as creative."
But Rumple was shaking his head. "It wasn't tampered with. I checked it over pretty closely to try to figure out why Darkin sent it to me. I didn't see any signs of hidden compartments."
"Then why did the thief want it?" Bae asked.
Charming sighed. "I don't know, but I need to call this in, warn the neighborhood there might be a thief around. Mary Margaret, don't move anything else until I get someone out here to—"
"No." Mary Margaret shook her head. "I'm not leaving this mess. You do your thing, and I'll do mine. A couple pictures aren't going to make or break this case."
"Mary Margaret," Charming began, that half-conciliatory, half-frustrated note in his voice that he always got when he and Mary Margaret argued.
Rumple exchanged a look with Bae, and they both quickly headed out of the living room, ducking into Rumple's room. Bae chuckled in relief when he closed the door behind them, cutting off the rise and fall of the married couple's voices, and Rumple grinned in reply.
"Close one," Bae said, flopping himself down on the bed. Carefully, afraid he'd scare off Bae and ruin this chance, Rumple sat in the chair at his desk. "So," Bae said, "Darkin sent you a knife, huh?"
"Yes." Rumple gave an awkward shrug. "I didn't know what to make of it, and I wanted to forget it, which is why I didn't mention it this morning."
Bae let out a mirthless laugh. "I can understand that."
Digging a finger under the bandage on his palm and fingering the scab there, Rumple studied Bae. "You can?"
"Yeah." Bae looked around the room, taking in the first and most important antiques Rumple had collected, the ones special to him, the ones he'd been able to keep when his business was taken away from him. All of them items Bae had helped him acquire. Rumple let him look and hoped he wouldn't take the wrong message from them.
"I don't hate you," Bae said quietly, reaching out to run a finger over the leather ball, the woven shawl, the notched walking stick—Rumple and Bae's very first acquisitions, back in high school just after they'd met. "And I don't blame you for what happened. I just…I need to move on. To do something with my life."
For a goodbye, it was much more gracious than Rumple had expected. His throat was dry, his head pounding, his heart racing, which seemed odd considering his hand felt just like normal, the swelling heat gone. Maybe the infection had spread inward and that was why he felt sick.
But Bae—no, Neal now—was watching him, waiting, a curious look of trepidation making him look younger.
It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but Rumple managed a small smile. "And you should," he said gently. Softly. Just as a goodbye was supposed to be spoken. "You're capable of great things, Neal, and you deserve them." He thought there was probably more to say, but it'd been hard enough getting just that much out, so he reached out a hand instead and was unspeakably gratified when Bae took it and shared his smile.
When Neal dropped his hand, it felt cold and lifeless. Healed but alone. Safe but left behind.
In other words, it felt just like Rumple felt inside.
He'd thought that would be the end of it, but things were never that easy. Neal stuck around a while longer, avoiding David and Mary Margaret and Deputy Graham Humbert when he showed up to document the scene. Rumple had tried to appreciate the extra time, the conversation and familiar jokes and smiles, but it felt more painful than cathartic, reminding him of all the reasons he didn't want to let Bae go. Eventually, he'd had to turn on the TV just to escape the awkward lulls in conversation. It hadn't really been much better, though, not when the news had shown an important General arriving in Storybrooke, and a blinding headache had formed behind Rumple's eyes, leaving behind a host of images of the General and security details and pictures of files marked 'Confidential.' The flash had come and gone so quickly Rumple wasn't sure what to make of it. It seemed too strange to even begin to process. Strange enough even Neal had had noticed and turned the TV off. He'd helped Rumple stumble to the bed and left with a quiet "Hope you feel better in the morning," and then he'd showed up in the morning to pick him up with a concerned "You doing okay?"
Even worse, he kept checking in with Rumple all day long, which meant Rumple could never relax, never let himself feel the crushing disappointment he felt or give into the hopelessness eating him up from the inside out.
It also meant Jeff and Viktor let Neal know all about Belle and the card she'd left with Rumple.
"Whoa!" Neal exclaimed. He turned to Rumple with a huge grin on his face. "When are you going to call her?"
"I'm not," Rumple said shortly. Usually, whenever he pretended to be hard at work, everyone stayed away, afraid he'd expect the same from them, but this time, it wasn't deterring Neal—or Jeff or Viktor, or even Ruby, watching from afar—in the least.
Neal stared at Rumple, moving around the counter so he could study him even closer. "You're not? But she obviously wants you to! She was, from all accounts, gorgeous and she liked you—so why on earth wouldn't you call her?"
"Because," Rumple snapped, glaring at Neal, "she's beautiful and sweet and young—and I'm none of those things. I'll call her to let her know when her order's ready. Other than that, she's better off without me bothering her."
"Rumple," Neal whispered, and there was something uncomfortably close to pity in his eyes.
"I suppose you're going to call the woman you waited on yesterday," he said caustically before Neal could tell him just how sorry he felt for him.
Neal, however, gave him a look that made Rumple wish he'd said nothing. "That dark-eyed woman? She'd sooner kill me than give me her number, and that's not the same thing at all. Besides," he said with the hint of a forced grin, "she's not my type at all. Maybe if she had a sister…"
"And what are the chances of that?" Jefferson interjected.
"Far too astronomical to calculate," Viktor replied.
Rumple sighed. "Don't you two have work to do?"
"Not as much as you," Jeff retorted, but he and Viktor finally got the hint and faded away, more likely because Rumple had mentioned work than because they'd suddenly learned what it meant to be circumspect.
"Forget about them," Neal advised, and if Rumple didn't know that Bae was planning on leaving soon, he'd have been filled with hope at the friendly note in his voice.
"Sure, forget about them," Ruby said, sidling closer now that Viktor wasn't around. "But I wouldn't forget about calling that girl if I were you. She really did like you, trust me."
With a roll of his eyes, Rumple threw his hands up in the air. "Thank you. Does anyone else have any bright ideas to offer?"
Unfortunately, he spoke a little bit too loudly. Leroy, the janitor, half an aisle away, gave a bitter smirk and said, "Yeah, why don't you try not being so grumpy all the time."
"Me?" Rumple arched a disbelieving brow. "You're telling me not to be grumpy?"
"Takes one to know one!"
Rumple would have delivered a scathing retort, but Neal burst out laughing. It had been too long since Bae had laughed unabashedly with Rumple, but even so, it was the way Neal reached out and clapped his hand over Rumple's shoulder that made Rumple lose what he'd been going to say. Bae was ready to leave, looking for a way out, but Rumple couldn't help but fall still and soften and smile back at Neal. It was only a moment, but it was a good moment and Rumple had learned, in the past five years, to take what he could get.
Archie came out of his office, then, venturing out onto the sales floor to offer a quiet word here and there, gentle reproaches or soft encouragement that everyone would ignore the moment he vanished back into the office. As per usual.
Grateful for the interruption, Rumple gave a short nod to Archie—who always seemed a bit intimidated around Rumple for some reason—and turned back to his work.
To Belle's dress.
He had to admit, as much as he knew it was best not to call her or even dwell on her or the unlikely possibilities, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was beautiful and kind and she had seemed to enjoy spending time with him and laughed at his weak jokes. In short, she was too good to be true, and that meant even dreaming about her was stupid. He'd already fallen for thinking a beautiful woman could love him, and Milah had taken his heart and his dreams and crushed them in her long, nimble fingers. Belle was very different from Milah—even a few moments' acquaintance proved that—but the concept was the same. Start hoping for the impossible and life would work overtime to prove how out of his league all things good and wonderful were.
But even knowing all that, his hands were gentle on the golden gown, his alterations painstakingly neat, and the work finished that night even though it meant he stayed an hour late. Which wouldn't have been a problem except that Neal had someplace to be—some place he was very vague about—and couldn't wait around for him, and a customer that entered the store ten minutes before closing—ducking in and looking over his shoulder as if he thought someone was chasing him—made a blinding headache burst into being behind Rumple's eyes.
He fumbled and almost dropped the dress but instead clenched it in a tight, spasmodic grip. Images that seemed disconnected, almost epileptic in their sudden changes and flashes of colors and sounds, scored through his mind—the customer's face in files with words like 'assassin,' 'suspected terrorist,' 'known for kills of heads of state'; a picture of a tree; images of dead bodies and sniper rifles. More and more images until Rumple felt his knees buckle and sparks swim in his vision even though he had his eyes squeezed shut as tightly as possible.
Then, as abruptly as it'd begun, it ended.
Tentatively, Rumple opened his eyes and looked around. The doors were sliding closed behind the man, and Rumple instinctively flinched away, but the images didn't make an encore appearance and the headache faded into a dull throbbing along the back of his skull.
Uneasy and more disturbed than he wanted to admit, Rumple released his death's grip on Belle's dress and smoothed the wrinkles left behind with a shaking hand. Caught by the sight of the scab left on his palm, Rumple held his hand out and ran a finger down the cut. It was faded and pale, almost completely healed, no sign at all of the bright, painful infection he'd been sure it held the day before. It turned a darker red when he pushed his finger into it, but didn't break or bleed.
Letting out his breath in a half-laugh, half-sigh, Rumple shook his head and turned his attention back to Belle's dress. He'd been too near Jefferson and Viktor for too long today; their madness was obviously catching. Better to forget the flashes and the maybe-infection had ever happened and just go back to the mundane normality of his life.
It took him ten minutes to smooth the wrinkles from the dress, and another hour to limp home where Mary Margaret chastised him for not calling her to come pick him up. With the remnants of that terrible headache still clinging to the edges of his mind and his leg aching even more than usual, however, it took him only seconds to fall asleep.
He hadn't gotten around to calling Belle—or truthfully, hadn't gathered his courage or his resolve just yet—when he looked up from an order form and saw her walking down the main aisle toward him. He was pretty sure his jaw dropped a bit at the sight of her—because she was just as beautiful as he remembered and because she smiled at him as soon as he saw her and because even knowing she'd be back for the dress, he'd pretty much managed to convince himself he'd never see her again but here she was. Thankfully, by the time she reached him, he'd managed to recover a bit of his composure.
"Hey," he said, maybe a tiny bit hoarsely but mostly in a normal tone. "I was just about to call you and let you know your dress is ready. I finished it last night."
"Oh." Belle bit her lip. "That…that's wonderful. Really."
"Yes." Rumple eyed her. It was easy to stare at her because of her porcelain skin or sapphire eyes, but he found himself studying her more closely than that, trying to see beyond the beauty, doing his best to figure out what she was thinking when she smiled at him or laughed at his jokes. What had made her decide to come get a new dress for a not-yet-planned occasion. Why she seemed almost disappointed that her dress was ready. Why she even gave him a second look.
"Belle," he heard himself say, "is everything all right?" It was too personal a question, too non-employee, so he fashioned a quick smile and added, "Not regretting the dress already, are you?"
Her eyes flew to meet his. "Oh, no! No, I'm not regretting the dress." Her smile materialized again, the mischievous grin he remembered perfectly from the last time because it made her more than just a pretty face, made her complex and intriguing. "I am, though, regretting that I don't have anyone to wear it for."
Rumple wasn't usually struck speechless. Sometimes he had so much he wanted to say that he couldn't always narrow it down. Sometimes he was too afraid of the consequences to voice what he really wanted to say. Sometimes it just wasn't worth it to say anything at all. But he always had something to say, always had words collected inside him to be released and let go at the first right opportunity. But now, with Belle staring at him so hopefully, he had nothing. Words all escaped him, leaving him empty and blank, afraid to feel anything or hope anything, because reality would be so much more disappointing if he had any expectations from it.
Belle ducked her head but didn't back down. "I love exploring and seeing new things, but I'm new to the area and don't know the best places, so…" She bit her lip and paused, but Rumple still couldn't move. Or speak. Or do anything to risk shattering this moment. "I was wondering," she said slowly, "if you could show me some good places. If you're free."
Later, he knew, it would be incredibly humiliating to realize that he was still speechless, but at the moment, all he could do was stare. Because this couldn't be happening. Because it was obviously a trick of some kind, a trap, something that would only shake up his safe status quo and make him hurt and lost all over again.
It couldn't be real.
But he wanted it to be. Wanted it more than anything.
So he smiled softly, gently, an innocent smile he hadn't even known he had anymore.
It seemed to be answer enough for Belle, whose tentative smile turned into a brilliant grin that transformed into a musical laugh when Bae ducked into sight from wherever he'd obviously been spying and yelled, "He's definitely free, and he would love to go out with you!"
Rumple resolved to kill Neal later, slowly and painfully. Kill him and then hug him.
Because Belle was smiling up at him, looking absolutely delighted, and he was going to get to see her again.
Dream or nightmare, he couldn't decide, but he'd definitely take it.
"Does he suspect you?" Moe's tone was completely professional, his question perfectly by-the-book, but Belle knew she wasn't imagining the concern behind it. Her supervisor had always been a bit protective of her, ever since he'd approached her and offered her a clean slate, a new name, and a chance to see the world.
Belle tilted her head as she studied her reflection, tucking a curl behind her ear with one hand while she held her cell-phone with the other. "Not at all." She hesitated then, not sure if she should continue. Her instructors had taught her to always report everything no matter how small or insignificant it seemed, but as a field agent, she'd learned that sometimes keeping a few facts to herself here and there helped get the job done without unnecessary interference from the brass back home. But this was big, and even though she'd managed to reacquire the knife, she hadn't yet found what had been stolen from DC. Which meant that Rumple—innocent as he seemed, all insecure looks and sincere compliments and wicked humor—was still their prime suspect and she couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Especially now, with the stigma of her former partner's betrayal casting a shadow over her.
"Belle?" Moe prompted. As easily as she could read him, he could read her, too, she reminded herself.
"I saw Mills," Belle admitted reluctantly. Her reflection was biting her lip, so Belle carefully rearranged her features and reapplied her lip gloss. "She was at the Clothe More, too. As far as I know, she hasn't made contact with the mark yet, but she's definitely onto him."
Moe was silent a long moment. "Regina," he finally said, almost contemplatively. If the situation weren't so dire, Belle would have smiled at the wheels so obviously turning in his head. "Did she see you?"
"I don't think so." Belle rolled her eyes at her reflection and reluctantly added, "But I can't be sure."
"Be careful," Moe warned, and Belle breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't pulling her off the mission entirely. "Regina Mills is NSA's coldest assassin—most who know her claim she doesn't even have a heart. She won't hesitate to pull the trigger on you if you get between her and her objective."
"I'll be careful," Belle promised. She liked Moe, really, but patience was always required when reporting to him. Heroics and adventures were never achieved without a bit of danger; she just wished he'd realize and accept that when it came to her. "I've got a date with the target in a few moments. Don't worry, sir—I'll find and acquire our objective before Mills can find us."
After a split second that seemed to last unduly long, Moe let out a breath that crackled in Belle's ear. "All right. Don't let the mark fool you. He may seem innocent, but who knows what connections or alliances he might have made during his stint behind bars. Agent ZO5O didn't send the Intersplice to him for no reason."
"Yes, sir." Belle straightened and tucked her Smith & Wesson into the sheath on her thigh, then resettled the folds of the golden gown Rumple had adjusted for her. He was good, she thought; she really was able to move more naturally and freely after he'd done whatever it was he did to the sleeves. She gave a last glance at herself to make sure her conforming body armor was hidden beneath shimmering material, her knives and poisoned darts were tucked demurely away in dark curls, and her expression was open and earnest.
Satisfied, she straightened. "And if it turns out that Rumple does have the Intersplice?"
The doorbell rang, and she glanced toward it, not surprised that Rumple was the punctual sort.
"Then," Moe said, "kill him."
Her hand already turning the doorknob, Belle shivered, still and always a bit disconcerted by the open kill orders. The chilling words echoed in her words even as she closed her cell-phone, and were magnified ten-fold by the sight that greeted her.
Rumple, dressed up in a surprisingly elegant jacket and tie, looked up from his fingers—fiddling with his cane—and gave her a shy, wonderstruck smile. "Hey," he said, carefully, as if afraid he might wake at any moment. There were roses in his free hand, dawning hope in his molten eyes, and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Just a mission, she reminded herself. And she smiled back at Rumple, accepted the crimson roses that looked like blood against her bare arms, and closed the door behind her.