Brief background for my non-fandom readers: Belle is Mr. Gold's girlfriend (for lack of a better word) and her memory was erased during a conflict with Captain Hook.
He closed the door behind him and gently twisted the key in the lock, feeling a long breath begin to leave his lungs. Light from the sunset streamed in through the stained glass window panes that embellished the front entrance to his home; he watched the colorful light reflect off of the handle of his cane.
He leaned against the doorframe, eyes closed, not trusting the cane to quite hold his weight. The poison might have left his body, but the weakness in his bones threatened to topple him. He wondered if the fact that his leg ached like it had on the day he left the battlefield was an aftereffect of the candle that he had given the girl. He'd never stopped to consider what might happen to the one whose life was saved by the enchantment. Or was this just a painful reminder of the fact that he'd found Bae and had not been able to even begin to receive the forgiveness that he so badly needed. The memories had been coming thick and fast ever since the moment he'd realized he'd have to remove his talisman in order to get to Baelfire. The blasted airport security… it'd been enough to nearly bring him to his knees, to make him forget. If it weren't for Emma…
The overpowering smell of blood on his clothes brought him back to the present moment. He sucked in his breath and glanced across the entryway of the house toward the kitchen.
Belle would have wanted him to find something to eat; it had been at least two days since he'd eaten anything. The poison infecting his bloodstream had taken away his appetite, to say the least. If she'd been here, she would have gently pulled him toward the kitchen and made him eat something. And he would have done it willingly. For her.
But Belle isn't here.
He shook his head, pushing her from his mind. Holding his cane firmly in his right hand, he took a tentative step, using his own weight to assist in the painful task of shifting forward. The cane held. Reassured, he slowly limped toward the bedroom.
When Belle had lived here, her room had been upstairs. It was a beautiful room, decorated to her tastes. But his room remained on the ground floor; he had learned that was best after having tried to climb the stairs on a day where his bad leg had been plaguing him. It wasn't worth it.
Once inside, he closed the door behind him, shutting out the ghosts of Belle's presence. He sank down on the bed in front of the mirror that rested on the mahogany dresser. The cane fell to the floor as his fist released, but he paid it no mind. His gaze dropped down to his hands that began to unbutton his waistcoat. Hands that were stained red with his own blood.
The fact that he had been wearing dark clothing had hidden the worst of the blood from the casual viewer. Even so, his head reeled as though he had been drinking as his fingers fumbled with the buttons. Eyes caught sight of his exhausted form in the mirror, and he paused, allowing his hands to rest on the bed.
While the wound in his chest had been repaired, the physical evidence of the stab was hard to miss. His face was tired and drawn, his greying hair matted with dried sweat. His chest, revealed by the buttons that had been undone in an effort to give him some release from the pain, was obscured by a large amount of old blood, but there was no sign of a scar. The injury that had left him powerless to stop Cora had vanished. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, as a dabbler in magic myself.
Unable to make his fingers finish the task, he gestured his hand over the shirt, undoing the buttons in a smooth motion. He shrugged the waistcoat off so that it dropped onto the bed behind him. Briefly, he considered cleaning the blood from his clothing with magic. No. He found himself in need of a little bit of physical motion to take his mind off of things.
He cast the shirt aside and made his way toward the bathroom; he was eager to wash the filthy gore from his body. The last reminders of Cora.
As he ran his fingers through his wet hair, he couldn't help but shudder slightly at the memory of her touch on his forehead as he slowly bled to death. A woman who had not been willing to love him. A woman who had gone so far as to actually rip out her own heart to keep herself from him. A woman who had come to kill him, but not without letting him know the truth. A truth that was not worth knowing.
His eyes slid down from his reflection in the mirror and he tightened the tie of his dressing gown. Belle's face smiled up at him from inside the frame on his dresser top. And he wondered. He wondered if the pleas of a dying man had managed…
It scarcely seemed possible. He fingered the cellphone that rested next to the picture frame. The phone that had resulted in the theft of Bae's shawl. The phone that had made him aware of Hook's presence in the town. The phone that reminded him that Hook's presence had taken her from him. And he knew that Hook was still out there. He would return. But this time, Belle wouldn't be in his path. He would deal with Hook.
Because he knew that Belle had given him something that Cora never could: Belle had given him her love. And her love reminded him of the belief that she had in him. If she ever remembered… he knew that he owed her more than he could ever pay her, even with the mountain of gold that he could create in his basement. Belle had saved him. And he would do whatever it took to do the same for her.