A/N. This story was inspired by Duran Duran's "Ordinary World."
It's a long walk back to town, in the cold and the dark; she hadn't thought of that when she ordered him to transport her and himself to the town border. Truth be told, she hadn't thought at all in that moment, merely reacted to her hurt and her anger, and the shock (but not shock) of finding her husband in mid-kill.
And, as they landed on the asphalt just short of the orange line, the shock of hearing herself ending her very brief marriage with just a few words.
Her feet hurt. He'd always teased her about her high heels, half-teasing, really; he could see the damage they were causing to her feet and her back, but she'd stubbornly refused to switch to flats. It's something few people know about her: she can be just as head-strong as he is, just as unwilling to admit when she's wrong.
Was she wrong when she promised him forever?
She pauses in the town square. All the buildings, even Granny's, are dark and everyone's gone home for the night; she won't have to face them. Yet. She stops at the entrance to the library. The apartment upstairs has remained unoccupied since she left it to move into the pink house (to begin—or rather, resume—living with Rumple). She will probably move back in, now. Though her name is on the deed and her clothes occupy the walk-in off the master bedroom and her books fill the downstairs den (which he'd converted from his office to a library for her, as a wedding gift), the pink house doesn't feel like hers. They'd talked about selling it to buy something better fitted to her tastes—he didn't care, he claimed; he hadn't chosen the house; the curse had assigned it to him. Any house she chose would be fine with him, would be home for him, he'd said; and she knew he meant it. He could be surprisingly accommodating like that.
Well, but not about the things that really mattered.
She has no clothes in the apartment, no linens, no towels, no books. She'll have to spend tonight in the pink house. In the morning she'll begin to box up her belongings and she'll ask Mr. Dove to deliver them to the apartment. He'll do it for her without question. He'll do anything for her, just as he would for Rumple. That Rumple inspires such loyalty is another fact few people know, another reason she is—was—proud to be Mrs. Gold.
It will be easy to separate her belongings from his. They haven't been married long enough for there to be a "theirs."
It's another two miles to the pink house, and her back is aching from the heels now, but she walks on. (How far is it from the border to the nearest town? She never thought to ask, even after they'd begun talking about visiting New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, Rome, Sidney, Lisbon. In the days leading up to their wedding, they'd poured over the tourist books she'd bought for the town library; they'd made lists of sites to see and cuisines to taste. Or rather, come to think about it, she'd made the selections and he'd written them down in his tight, plain handwriting. "Anywhere you want, sweetheart," he'd promised. "For as long as you want." As a sorcerer, he had traveled worlds enough to satisfy his own curiosity. His enjoyment of the world would come from watching her discover it, he'd said.)
She stops on the lawn leading up to the porch. His Cadillac is in the garage, parked next to her Honda. Hers—she selected it, she negotiated with the dealer, she's been making the payments on it from her own salary. His only involvement had been to drive her to the car lot. When the salesman rushed out with a fawning "Mr. Gold! How good to see you," he'd waved the man away. "Belle is your customer. Suck up to her. I'm just here for the coffee." He could be like that, trusting her opinions (based on thorough research), keeping out of her way, respecting what was hers.
Except about the things that really mattered.
(Or. . .did he think of the magic as something that was his alone? Had he thought her opinions about the magic uninformed and intrusive—even disrespectful of his three hundred years of study and practice?)
She walks across the grass to the porch. The lawn is one of the few things she'll not have to worry about for a while. He mowed it on the weekend, and not with magic. He'd stripped down to his undershirt and a pair of paint-stained jeans she didn't realize he owned, and he'd yanked on the engine cord until the engine fired and he'd pushed the blasted machine in an ever-shrinking rectangle. He didn't seem to mind the way the neighbors gaped, then laughed behind their hands, nor the sweat stains that gathered under his arms, nor the dust that darkened his face. Before they'd married, he had a service maintain his lawn, and another clean the house, and another clean his laundry, but when she'd moved in, they'd decided it would be good for their marriage if they did these chores together. And so it had been. Odd as it may seem, she'd found the sight of her sweating husband pushing a lawn mower quite. . . stimulating.
The porch light is on and for a second, her heart leaps, but then she remembers the light's on a timer, just like the sprinkler system and the alarm system. She unlocks the door and enters, pausing in the foyer to kick off her shoes. She finds her slippers lined up neatly just to the right of the door. She hadn't left them there; she'd pulled them off this morning as they were having breakfast and had left them under the kitchen table. He must have gathered them while she was in the shower, set them where she would want them after she'd removed her shoes.
She hangs her coat on the coat rack, beside his black wool coat, with his leather gloves in the right pocket. His coat, which is here. Which he doesn't have, on this cold night as he walks. . . however many miles in the dark. And at the foot of the coat rack is the umbrella stand, in which waits his cane. Which he also doesn't have, though, as she saw, as he stepped backwards over the town line, he now needs. Storybrooke appears on no map; despite the bus stop sign, no bus passes through, no strangers drive on that highway. A hitchhiker waiting on the town line for a lift would dry up and turn to dust before anyone would stop to offer a ride.
The wood floor is silent as she patters into the living room to turn up the thermostat, then to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. She reaches into the cupboard for two cups, then remembers, and takes down only one. There's a pot roast in the refrigerator, last night's leftovers (he loves her Yankee pot roast, and she loves his lemon meringue pie), but she's not hungry. She patters back to the living room and stares down at the couch, at the lap robe they'd curled up under last night. His copy of The Tipping Point and her copy of Pride and Prejudice are lying on the coffee table, ready to be picked up again. The day's newspapers (he subscribes to three) are still rolled up and lying on the lamp table. He used to read them in the mornings, but after they'd married, he'd taken to reading them at night, to devote his full attention at breakfast to her. He could be sweet like that.
She hears the heater kick on, the grandfather clock tick, the wind catch and swirl in the northeast corner of the house. In the back of her mind she's listening for his footsteps on the porch, his key in the lock, his "Belle! Sweetheart, I'm home." She can't stand not hearing everything she should be hearing at this time of night. She clicks on the TV to Best of the Boston Symphony—then she flips the channel to Gilligan's Island. Rumple had gotten her to start watching the symphony with him on Thursday nights; as his part of the bargain, she'd got him to watch The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer. Though they'd pretended it was an imposition, neither of them had minded, really (they'd usually spend most of the evening kissing, anyway).
She hates Gilligan's Island. So did he.
The kettle whistles. She returns to the kitchen, prepares her cup exactly the way she likes it, leans against the counter and waits for her tea to cool. He would be rooting through the fridge right now, gathering all the ingredients for supper, if he were here. If he were home. He's funny that way: he likes to have all the ingredients and all the utensils out on the counter before he starts cooking. A methodical man, he is; she's laughingly called him a "method cooker." He in turn calls her "the Jackson Pollock of the kitchen." She's learned to respect his perfectionist, scientific approach to food preparation; he's learned to appreciate her inspired, artistic approach. Until today, she'd thought they were rubbing off on each other, a little.
She can hear the Skipper chewing Gilligan out in the living room. She turns on the radio to drown them out. Before she'd moved in, Rumple had liked to listen to the radio while he cooked. She'd tested him, that first morning of their marriage, by turning the radio on; she was surprised to find that instead of the classical station, he'd had the dial set to oldies rock. Then it occurred to her: "Yeah, rock is a Rumplestiltskin kind of thing, isn't it? Gold's a classical guy, but Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison—those leather gods are what Rumplestiltskin would prefer." Rumple had shrugged: "As the prince says, 'We are both.'" And then he'd let her change the station to Katy Perry. He could be generous that way.
Except about the things that really mattered. (Or had she been inflexible too? Insisting that he adopt her values, because they were the values of a hero? Asking him to give up three hundred years of leather godhood?)
Her lip quavers as she sips her tea.
His car is in the garage. His cane and his coat are in the foyer. His newspapers and his book wait in the living room. His garment case, packed with three complete suits, hangs on the closet door knob, ready to be grabbed and thrown into the Cadillac. At least, he has his phone, his wallet and his ATM card; he always carries those.
But for a town that isn't on any map, wouldn't its bank and its phone service also fail to appear in the world's systems? She has to trust that she's wrong, that when he slides his card into a New York or Boston ATM, cash will slide back out. And that when he tries to call her to tell her he's arrived safely, wherever he's gone, her phone will ring. And she'll answer. She swears she will.
But her phone doesn't ring tonight. And in the morning, when she accesses their account online, she finds no withdrawals have been made.
She won't sleep in their bed tonight. She goes into the master bedroom only long enough to gather her nightgown and clothes to wear tomorrow. Pointedly, she avoids looking at the pillows, which still bear indentations (and probably one or two of his gray hairs). She avoids looking at the framed photos on the wall: Henry, Neal, her, them.
She will have to tell Henry tomorrow. And Dove, who considers Gold a friend. And Snow and Emma and Charming (she can't keep from hearing Rumple's high-pitched, mocking exclamation: "Charming!"). And the bank, and the phone company, and the utilities company, and all the tenants who rent from Gold. Not that word won't get around town faster than she can, but she does need to tell certain people herself. It's the right thing to do, face up to what she's done. It's the hero thing to do.
She undresses in the bathroom, takes a quick shower (last night, she'd sneaked into the shower as he was lathering his hair). She drops her flannel nightgown (the one he called her "granny gown") over her head; she needn't worry whether it's a turn-off. Tonight, she needs to worry about staying warm (because he surely isn't, limping along alone in the dark and the cold). She swallows a couple of Sominex and crawls into the twin bed in one of the guest rooms (the room he'd decorated for Henry, not the one he'd decorated for Bae. Not that it matters. Neither room had ever been used for its intended purpose.)
In the morning she skips breakfast (breakfast was the meal he usually cooked, anyway; she liked to sleep in). Her stomach is clenched as she slides behind the wheel of her Honda and drives to the shop. She doesn't want to go there, but Dove is waiting for Mr. Gold, so she parks in the alley and enters through the back door. The big man stands as she comes in. "Good morning, Ms. Belle." His voice reveals his surprise. Over the year Rumple was imprisoned (and tortured and humiliated and totally controlled by the Wicked Bitch of the West), Belle and Dove came to know each other well, as they maintained the shop and the rental business together. But now that Zelena is no more (killed by Rumple, Belle is now sure of it), Gold has resumed his business and Belle, hers at the library, so Dove is surprised—and worried—to see her come in alone. He hovers over the worktable. "Should I—put on the kettle?"
She shakes her head. "Sit down, please, Josiah." He draws out a chair for her (just as Rumple always did—so old fashioned, these men!) before he sits down on the workbench. He wants to ask—she can see the question on his usually expressionless face—but he gives her time to select the right words, because he knows her that well.
And trusts her. Gods, he trusts her, like Henry does, like everyone here does.
"Josiah. . . last night, something happened." She fumbles between the information she knows he needs and her desire to keep her personal life private. "He. . .Rumple. . .he was about to kill Hook. I stopped him."
"Hook," Dove's voice grows hard. Belle knows what Dove thinks of Hook; the big man has made his revulsion of the pirate no secret. In fact, more than once he's offered to "pay that scurvy ocean jumper a visit" to remind him not to bother Ms. French again. Dove freely admits, he cannot respect a bloke who would seek vengeance on another man by attacking that man's lady. Multiple times. Despite her heroic values, Belle has had to agree with Dove. "What was the pirate going to do? Was he shooting at Henry this time?"
Belle drops her gaze to a disassembled pocket watch on the workbench (Rumple has been struggling with this watch for days, trying to get it to run again). "Hook wasn't doing anything wrong. It had something to do with a spell. Rumple was crushing Hook's heart in order to cast a spell." She's not entirely certain of that; she'd come in as the spell was already in motion, and she's only assuming the heart was an ingredient for it. Whatever his reason—whether it was for a spell or revenge or to protect Belle—Rumple had no need to kill Hook, and certainly no right. He had to be stopped, she's sure of that. "Rumple won't be coming back."
"What do you mean?"
"I sent him away. Out of Storybrooke."
Dove stands up, starts to object, then remembers his place; she is, after all, his employer and he regards her highly. His mouth opens and closes.
"He won't be back, Josiah."
"No, I guess he won't." Josiah agrees; he's heard about the current curse on the town line. He crosses behind her, sets a hand briefly on her shoulder. "I'll fetch the ledger. It's rent collecting day."
"I think we can dispense with that, for now, at least."
Again, he starts to argue, but she's his once and future boss. "Will you—what do you want me to do today, Mrs. Gold?"
She notices the switch, wonders if it's a little dig at her: he's always called her "Ms. Belle" before. But he's loyal to her, she knows that; he'll defend her and her actions to anyone who challenges them, just as he did for her husband. "Take the day off, Mr. Dove. Tomorrow we'll talk about what comes next."
He nods. "Call me if you need me."
She nods too, and he closes the back door behind him.
She calls Emma and asks her to round up the city leaders and Henry, bring them to the shop. She contemplates asking them to meet in the library, her domain, but it seems more appropriate that she face them here. Here is where they've always come when they needed his help—or while he was imprisoned (tortured, humiliated, controlled by Zelena), where they'd come to seek her help. She'd found strength and power in this shop, too, just as he had; she'd found him in this shop, his touch on every object ("What's your favorite, of all these treasures?" she'd asked him once, and he'd brushed her hair back to whisper the answer in her ear, "The Mickey Mouse phone." For their chipped cup and Bae's shawl were, by that time, safe in the master bedroom of their pink house, where not even a pirate dare enter.)
They come at noon, on their lunch breaks (because, to her dismay, the town has already moved on with its life): the Nolans ("Charming!"), Henry, Regina, Emma. Leroy comes too, because Belle called him; he is her supporter and will defend her decision, will even, awkwardly, offer her a shoulder to cry on after everyone has gone. And Hook. Belle grits her teeth. He has no business being here; he's not a town leader and she certainly didn't invite him and she certainly doesn't need a reminder of what her husband did last night that brought her to this decision. She steps toward him with the intention of throwing him out, but then she notices Emma is holding the pirate's hand and that makes Belle even angrier, because she loved Bae and she can't stomach this betrayal any more than Rumple can (not that Rumple talked all that much about it, but Belle could feel his eyes burn a hole through the pirate's leather jacket whenever Hook touched Emma. "It's not right," Belle had said in sympathy with him. "Of all the men for her choose. . . . If she knew half the things he's done. . . .That should be Bae holding her hand, not that smarmy bastard." Rumple had barely managed to get a single word out: "Zelena.")
And now the smarmy bastard is here, as if he belongs here, at the princess' side, at Henry's side, and Belle's fists clench, and when he has the audacity—the stupidity—to thank her for saving his scurvy hide last night, she sinks her fist right into his gut. Unfortunately, it's protected by leather and he merely blinks. Snow exclaims, "Belle!" and Emma grabs Belle's wrist, pushes her back.
"Is that why you called us here?" Emma growls.
"Out!" Belle shouts, wresting herself free of the sheriff. "You! Get out! I'm not telling anyone anything until he's gone. He's not welcome here, ever! Get him out!"
Emma lays her hand on Hook's belly, soothingly, intimately, and Belle shakes with rage as the princess murmurs something in the pirate's ear. "I guess you'd better go," Charming suggests, and Hook leaves. He doesn't go far, though; he waits outside the pharmacy, watching through the pawn shop window (which Dove had washed and Belle and Rumple had decorated just last week).
"What's this about, Belle?" Charming demands. As if he has a right to demand anything. He may be a prince and a hero, but this is her husband's shop; he needs to show some respect.
Only Leroy seems to understand what's going on. He slides a protective arm around Belle's shoulders and guides her to the workroom. "What's wrong, little sister? This isn't like you."
As he seats Belle on the workbench, Snow shifts into gear, moving to the hot plate. "I'll put on some tea."
Regina bluntly asks the obvious: "Where's Gold?"
"Regina," Snow warns, "give her a minute."
Charming and Emma fetch some chairs and everyone takes a seat, sitting for a moment in awkward silence until Regina clicks her tongue. "Oh, for crying out loud, let's speed this up." She snaps her fingers and a full tea service appears on the worktable. Snow turns the hot plate off as Leroy distributes cups of tea, and after a few sips, Belle has calmed down sufficiently to address the group without preamble. "Rumple is gone."
"Gone? Like, to the lake?" Emma asks. "You're making him sleep in his cabin for a few nights?"
"Across the town line."
There's a moment of silent shock, then Charming murmurs, "Belle!" and Henry blurts, "But if you cross the town line, you can't come back."
"I know," Belle admits. "I knew that at the time I ordered him to cross the line."
"Boy," Leroy shakes his head, "you sure must've been pissed off."
Snow stokes Belle's arm soothingly. "Oh, sweetie." And then she realizes she's said the wrong thing because Belle's eyes widen at the sweetie, so close to Rumple's pet name for her.
"Why?" Henry cries out. Apparently no one's told him about Rumple's actions of last night. "But you love him!"
"I know you're mad, Belle, and you have a right to be; we all are; but—" Snow lets her sentence drop.
"To stop him," Emma explains to Henry. "He was going to kill Killian."
"He hasn't been himself lately," Snow adds. "He's been acting—"
"Dangerous, secretive, scheming," Charming provides. "I'd say that's pretty much like himself. It doesn't surprise me, what he did to Hook."
"But it surprises me," Snow says, "that you kicked him out. That's not like you, Belle. What happened?"
"He lied." Belle's thoughts are drowning in emotion and she can't rescue them. "He tricked me. He switched the dagger, the one he proposed to me with, it was a fake, he gave it to me and he told me that meant he was mine now and forever. He promised me he wouldn't hurt Zelena, but he killed her, and then he took Hook's heart and started making him do these awful things, and he would have killed Hook too. Then the gauntlet." She starts sobbing onto Snow's shoulder. "That was the last straw. The gauntlet reveals to you what a person's weakness is. I commanded it to show me Rumple's, and it led me to the real dagger."
Regina, who's remained thoughtfully silent until now, inquires gently, "And that surprises you? Belle, I thought you knew him."
"You said you loved him," Henry complains. "Even the bad parts."
"But don't you see? The gauntlet shows you that person's greatest weakness—what they love the most."
Snow pats her shoulder. "And that wasn't you. It was magic."
"He's a dumb ass, Belle," Leroy grunts. "Choosing magic over you. He got what he deserved, if you ask me. You did right, little sister."
"He's a dangerous man," Charming agrees. "The town is better off without him."
"Are you sure about that?" Regina asks.
"You took the law into your own hands. Even criminals get a fair trial," Emma argues.
"Belle, you should have consulted us first," Snow says. "That decision was too big for one person to make. We would have convened a council. We would have given him a trial. And then, after finding him guilty, we would have decided on a just punishment. You wouldn't have had to bear this burden alone."
"Were you afraid?" Henry asks. "He wouldn't have hurt you. You're his true love."
"I was angry. Angrier than I've ever been," Belle admits. "I wish I had let a jury handle it, but I wanted to see him hurt. I wanted him to feel the hurt I was feeling. I didn't mean for him to suffer, but I wanted to bring him to his knees."
"You did the right thing, sis," Leroy insists.
"What's done is done," Snow sighs. "What we need to do now is pick up the pieces. We'll take care of you, Belle."
Regina rises and glares down at each of them. "You heroes are all bunch of fools." She walks out, slamming the door behind her.
Charming pats Belle's hand. "Don't let her bother you, Belle."
Emma nods. "You did what you had to. Just wondering, though: who do we go to, now, when the next magic villain shows up?"
She returns to the pink house one last time, to box up her belongings. Dove comes in a U-Haul, as he did not so long ago, and he, along with her father and Leroy, help her move. It takes longer than she expects; she's acquired quite a few new books, clothes and electronic toys since she moved in, most of them gifts from her husband. There are a few wedding gifts—a toaster from Leroy, a convection oven from Dove, a rocking chair from Archie and a blender from her father. She donates them to a fund for fire victims. She puts the Cadillac in storage.
She moves back into her old apartment that night. She offers her movers pizza as thanks; they stand around her kitchen table and talk about the weather for a few minutes, then fall silent as they eat. They leave soon after. She can't sleep that night, but she has plenty to occupy her, dusting and unpacking. At dawn she showers, then falls into her bed. She throws herself onto her stomach, clutching her pillow to compensate for the man she normally would be cuddling, and she manages to sleep a little. In the morning she buys groceries (avoiding the ice cream freezer, because ice cream was his weakness). When her apartment (not her home; it will be a long time before this apartment is a home) is finished, she attacks the library, cleaning every shelf and every corner. The work exhausts her and chews up an entire week. She's then ready to reopen, six days and two nights a week, and she helps out at Games of Thrones when the library's closed, so that she's constantly busy. She doesn't get her cable TV hooked up; she won't be watching The NewsHour or The Best of the Boston Symphony any more.
Her father relaxes, admits to her that he had doubts about Rumple all along (as if she didn't know). He's wise enough, though, not to press the issue. He talks about his plans for his shop and her plans for the library. He doesn't ask about her plans for her love life. He starts going to church and sometimes she accompanies him, though the nuns steer clear of them both.
Spring comes. Snow comes by sometimes, and Ruby, but no one else. From the library windows she can see the park, where Archie walks Pongo and the Charmings stroll with Prince Neal and Emma and Hook have picnics. Henry's joined the school baseball team; Dove reports that he comes by the shop sometimes, but Dove doesn't know enough about magic to answer the boy's questions, so Henry doesn't drop in often. He never comes to the library or her apartment. Someday she'll go to him, try to help him understand her decision; she loves him and she knows he still loves her. He's just angry.
Dove calls: Regina has asked to buy all of Rumple's spell books and potions. Rumple never put a price on any of the magical stuff, so Dove has no idea what to charge, or even if he should trust Regina with such power. Belle suggests he sell to Regina. Someone's got to be ready for when the next villain attacks.
A month comes and goes. The bank president invites her in to talk about her financial future. She shocks the woman by signing the shop over to Dove. She won't go back there, ever again. She also signs the convent over to the nuns as restitution and arranges for the rent money from all Gold's properties to be put into a special account which will provide some income for all those whom Rumple has injured over the centuries. "Are you sure?" the banker asks. "You'll be losing a huge amount of money. The house would be hard to sell—no one could afford it—but you could divide it up into apartments—"
"No."
"At least, let's work out a partnership on the shop, fifty-fifty—"
"No."
"The rent money—that's enough to take care of you when you retire. Let me—"
"No."
"But if you got hurt and couldn't work, or if your father got sick—"
"Do as I say."
"Very well, Mrs.—err."
She signs the papers "Belle French Gold."
Leroy asks her—because Leroy's the only one brave enough—if she'll file for divorce. She reminds him there was only one family lawyer in town and he's gone now. Leroy argues back: in the Enchanted Forest, divorces were granted by the kings, so she could ask Snow to release her from her marriage. Belle fixes him with a stare: "Would you have me break a deal with Rumplestiltskin?" He shuts his mouth.
But that's not the real reason she won't divorce Rumple. Rumple would never even find out if she did file for divorce. Leroy realizes that, too; his question was really a test. He knows then, as she does, she still loves Rumple. Forever.
She still wakes up in the middle of the night, crying.
Two months and her fingernails are chewed to the quick. Henry finally gets over his anger and comes to her bringing cookies he baked himself. "Do you miss him? 'Cause I do."
"I miss him. Every day," she says hollowly. "Every minute of every day."
She skips church that Sunday and drives over to Regina's; she finds the former queen looking as worn as she is. She exchanges no greetings; there's no point in pretending to be polite, after all that's gone between them. Regina doesn't invite Belle in; they stand on her porch. "Have you heard from Rumple?"
"Why would he contact me?"
"I just hoped. . . thought that since you're magical. . . ."
"As I understand it, there is no magic on his side of the line."
"I've tried calling him," Belle admits. "And emailing. His phone's been disconnected; email bounces back."
"I haven't been able to reach Robin either." With this, Regina is confessing she's tried.
"Isn't there a way?"
"What, like strap a message to one of Snow's bluebirds and hope it can find him in a world of seven billion people?"
"I was just hoping. . . ." Then Belle squares her shoulders. "You're not looking any better than I am."
"We've both lost our true loves. What did you expect?" But Belle isn't ready to leave, despite Regina's snarkiness, so Regina breaks down and invites her in, offers her coffee. Belle doesn't like coffee but accepts it anyway.
"Maybe—" Belle begins. "I got to thinking, you've known Rumple longer than any of us have."
"That's true."
"Maybe you could tell me about him, some stories from those days?"
Regina says slowly, "You want to. . . get to know him better. Understand him."
"Yes."
The queen has the grace to avoid stating the obvious: it's too late now. Besides, it's Emma's week with Henry and Regina is getting tired of having dinner alone. "I understand you're quite the cook, Belle."
She nods. "Rumple taught me."
"Well, I'm not. I was going to order take-out. So why don't we see what's in my cupboards that you can make a meal from, and while you cook, I'll talk."
"It's a deal."
They walk into the kitchen. Regina waves her hand at the refrigerator. "Have at it. It's all yours." She seats herself at the kitchen table to watch and sip her coffee. "Belle. . .I'm not saying there is, but if there were a way to find out where he is, would you go to him?"
Belle twists her wedding ring. "Yes. Would you go to be with Robin? Assuming he wasn't with Marian any more."
"And leave Henry? I'm afraid my future and Ms. Swan's are inextricably linked, at least until this current curse is broken."
"Then—do you think it's possible?"
"If it can be broken, Rumple could do it. A pity he's gone." She raises her hand in blocking gesture. "Don't ask. Yes, I've tried. Repeatedly."
Belle sighs and roots through the cupboards and refrigerator. "It looks like I can make a tuna casserole. Not very gourmet, but at least you have all the ingredients."
"Cook away, then. I'll tell you about the first time I met 'Rumpleshtiltskin.'"
Three months. Ruby asks (because Ruby can be insensitive sometimes) if Rumple somehow showed up again, would she take him back? Belle doesn't have to think about it; she has, hundreds of times. "I was wrong to banish him from the town without giving him a chance to defend himself. He may have had good reasons for what he did. We were wrong, as a community, to assume that once Zelena released him, he didn't need anything else from us. To assume that because he acted like he was okay, that he was. How could we think that? The man died to save us from Pan, and then he was resurrected from who-knows-where—from Hell for all we know—and immediately became Zelena's slave, and was made to live in a cage for an entire year, and forced to threaten the people he loved, and all that time, he carried his son's sentience inside his own mind, keeping him alive and making himself insane. Did anyone besides me try to rescue him? And when he was finally free, after a year—did anyone offer help? Did anyone even walk over and ask if he needed a doctor or a hot meal? Damn it, did anyone even offer him a ride home? And when he got home, did anyone stop by to say 'Welcome back' or 'We're glad you're alive' or 'We're sorry about your son'? Just me and Dove. Not a single one of the heroes in this town. Not even Archie. And then we expect him to—what, take a quick shower, change his suit and go back to work in his shop, ready to come up with the answers for the next magic attack? We were wrong, Ruby, unfair, unjust, unmerciful, every one of us.
"But especially me, because I'd vowed to love him, all of him, through sickness and health, and because I lived with him, and I knew he was in pain, but I let him hide it from me. I let him distract me with wedding plans and honeymoon promises. I acted like a giddy little girl instead of a wife. And when he didn't do what I expected him to, instead of asking why, instead of supporting him, I threw him out. So when you ask would I take him back, I say I'm the one who should go to him, and give him the chance I denied him, and honor my vows. If I only knew how to find him."
"Oh, Belle, you poor girl," Ruby tries to comfort her. "You need to talk to Archie."
"I'm not so sure I trust Archie any more," Belle snaps. "And even if I did, I'm not so sure I trust myself."
Four months. She fills her life with busy work, books, occasional visits to her father, Ruby, Henry, even Regina, but it's not enough. Her guilt eats away at her. She starts seeing Archie. She tells him to his face she has little faith in him. "You weren't there for Rumple, so why should you be there for me?" But he asks forgiveness and she grants it, and gradually she shares her pain with him. She begins to sleep through the night; she resumes her experiments in cooking and gains a few pounds. She becomes less lonely.
But the ache doesn't go away.
"True Love is something you're stuck with," Regina shrugs. "You just have to deal with it. You may find someone else to love, if you're damn lucky, but you'll always miss him." Belle knows Regina speaks from experience; Belle's read Henry's storybook, so she knows about Daniel. "If it's any comfort, he's feeling it too. And believe me, I know Rumple: you left him, but he hasn't left you."
"Do you think he's changed?" Belle asks.
"How could he not? Look, he dedicated his life to finding his son, and then his son died. After two really screwed-up relationships, he trusted you enough to marry you, and then you kicked him to the curb. For three hundred years, he put his faith in magic, and now he's out there where there isn't any. So yes, he has to have changed. For the better? Your guess is as good as mine." Regina sips her coffee. "His track record doesn't bode well."
"I believe he can change. I believe he's a good man," Belle persists. Then she bites her fingernail.
"Did you change for him, Belle?"
"What do you mean?" But she realizes Regina's on to something.
"Isn't that what a relationship is supposed to be? Each one takes a step forward, so that they can grow together." Regina shrugs. "So I've heard."
Five months. An idea has been simmering in the back of her mind, but she needs to do a little research before she turns up the heat on it. She returns to the shop. Dove welcomes her, then grants her privacy so she can dig through the back room. In a locked cabinet (she still has a ring of keys that her husband gave her) she finds a strange globe that she knows is magic. Rumple had mentioned using it to find Bae in New York, then to find Henry in Neverland. She's not sure how to operate it. She pokes at it, makes it spin, but no visions appear, no cloud of magic to transport her anywhere. The globe just makes a soft whirr as it spins. She shakes it, she turns it upside down, she stares into it until her eyes ache, but nothing she does makes it act like anything but a globe. Frustrated, she swats at it and the side of her hand catches on the needle that marks the globe's axis. She snatches her hand away and sucks at the wound, but not before a drop of blood slides down the globe's face.
The globe suddenly stops spinning and the blood drop stops sliding, coagulates, glows.
She feels him, just as sure as if he's standing behind her. "Where are you, Rumple?" She stares at the globe, with its faint outlines of continents, countries, states. She isn't familiar with this world's geography, but during their honeymoon plans she studied enough tour books to know—and of course it make sense. Friendless, powerless, moneyless, of course Rumple would go to the one place in this world he'd been before, the place he'd promised to take her.
Did you change for him, Belle?
"I have, Rumple. I really have."
She runs to the pink house and grabs his garment bag. She runs to her apartment and packs a suitcase. She drops the keys for the library into an envelope, scrawls Emma's name on it, drops the envelope into the mail slot at the sheriff's office. She cashes out her paycheck and stuffs the bills into her bra. And then she's free and driving toward the border. When she arrives at the orange line, she puts the car into park and steps out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. It's twilight and she's afraid: she's not that experienced a driver, and New York is a huge city, and when she leaves Storybrooke—her father, her friends, her life—she can never come back. She's afraid, but she has to go. New York is where her husband is. She has no idea whether he'll welcome her or even talk to her, but she has to try.
She kneels down, touching the orange line, remembering his pleas, remembering his fall, remembering him on his hands and knees pledging his love and promising to change. "I don't want to lose you," he'd cried.
"Oh Rumple, I don't want to lose you either. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to explain. I'm sorry that when you came home broken I was blind to your pain, just like everyone else, but I shouldn't have been, because I wasn't like everyone else. I was yours. I'm sorry, Rumple, and if I find you, I'll spend the rest of my life listening, if you'll only talk to me."
"Forgive me, Belle. Forgive me, and even if you can't take me back, let me talk to you. As I should have all along."
She jerks her head back. A pair of hands slip under her elbows and lift her to her feet. She teeters on her high heels and he catches her. She spins around and she's in his arms and his hands steady her, as they have so many times before, and she reaches out to him to steady him, too. "Rumple!" And they're kissing because that's how they most easily communicate. Their kisses have always conveyed the truth, even when their words haven't.
"Do you still love me, Belle?" His nose nuzzles her cheek, his hand sinks in her hair. "Do you forgive me, and do you love me?"
"Yes, and yes. Do you still love me? And do you forgive me?"
"With all my heart, Belle."
They laugh and they kiss and they cry, and hours later they're still sitting in her cramped little car, talking—mostly him doing the talking, her doing the listening. Then he winces and rubs his ankle and she remembers why he bought the Cadillac to begin with: cramped spaces cause him discomfort. "Let's go home, Rumple," she suggests.
He beams. "Yes. Home."
They close the car doors and she shifts into Drive. "Hey, how did you get here? How did you break the curse?"
"I didn't. I was sitting in Strawberry Fields at Central Park, and I heard your voice," he says in wonderment. "You were asking me to forgive you. I couldn't help it: I started answering you. The people around me probably thought I was drunk or crazy. I started answering you, and then I felt my entire body tingle and grow warm, just like it used to whenever I transported myself with magic. And then I was here."
"How? Is there magic in New York?"
"If there was, I didn't find it. I searched at first, but I didn't find it. And then I realized magic wasn't what I needed after all. Wasn't what I wanted. And I quit trying."
"The magic that brought you here—"
"It wasn't mine."
"Do you have magic now, now that you're back?"
"I don't know. I don't feel it. I don't think I'll try to. All these months, Belle, it wasn't the magic I missed: it was you." He licks his lips in thought. "Belle, the power that brought me here, I think it's the magic of True Love. And if I'm right—"
"Then we're meant to be together," she grins.
"And we mustn't let anything come between us again. Not magic, or secrets." He brushes her hair back from her shoulder. "True Love is the greatest power of all, Belle, and the rarest gift. We need to honor it."
"We have to let it change us," she answers. "As it's already started to."
"True Love is the real power." He shakes his head slowly. "Not Dark magic. Not me."
"Love broke the curse," Belle ponders. "Then—Regina could leave and come back."
"Perhaps."
"She could find Robin. She could be with him, and still come back to see Henry."
"Love will bring her back."
"Do you really think so, Rumple?"
"I believe it. I can feel it." He sighs and sits back in the passenger seat. "Finally and forever, I believe in True Love."
"It's forgiven us for our frailties," she suggests. "How can we do any less for each other?"
"Take me home, sweetheart. Please. Take me home."