He hardly sleeps the night before, tossing about fretfully in his sheets. He blames it on his room being too hot, on the pain in his knee, on creaking pipes and a dripping sink somewhere in the penthouse. He refuses to let his mind settle on the fact that a one Belle French makes him nervous.
He arrives to the yoga studio at 5:50 sharp, wearing a nice suit, ill at ease. For a long moment, when he tries the door and finds it locked, he fears that she has forgotten him or decided to go back on her decision. Then she bounces into view, grinning widely.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Gold." She ushers him in. "I usually keep the door locked as long as possible. I have a fear that someone is going to force their way in. I'm here alone and sometimes I get just a little scared." She divulges.
"No worries, dearie." He says, while making a mental note to find a way to beef up security.
"Do you have anything to change into?" She asks, pulling her hair up into a thick ponytail.
"I wasn't sure what would be the appropriate attire." He says dryly. She's wearing more colorful leggings, these a purple mosaic pattern, with a cowl neck sweater in a heather grey. He's certain he has nothing like that in his closet. Belle's mouth twitches up into a smile.
"I should think not. No worries, this happens more than you would think. I have clothes for it." She disappears into a little closet, emerging with grey shorts and a black tee shirt. "Bathrooms are in the back, you can change there. The studio is ready. Oh, but you'll need to remove your shoes."
"My shoes?" He asks, glancing at his shining leather shoes.
"Yes." Belle is clearly amused. "I ask it of everyone. No shoes beyond my desk. Please, Mr. Gold."
"I am uncertain why I need to." He's pushing back, just slightly, but Belle remains firm and gracious.
"Shoes off, please. Go change and we'll begin our session promptly. I assume you're a punctual man." She knows she's got him there, because he grumbles and complains, but goes. He slips out of his neat suit, folding it crisply so there won't be any wrinkles in it. The fabric of Belle's clothes feels strange, like silk but different. He feels half naked, with his mangled knee on full display, all twisted flesh and puckered scars. He limps back out; halfway sure of telling Belle he's changed his mind.
"Miss French, I think-" He begins, then stops in his tracks. She's pulled the sweater off and underneath is a tank top, with half the back cut out in elaborate patterns. She's got creamy skin and curves and he has to stop his eyes from roving to inappropriate places.
"I think we're ready." She's unrelentingly cheerful, opening the door to the studio. He limps in, taking in the shuttered windows and the wave of heat that rolls over him. A chair is in the middle of the room, alongside two mats. She's got several items beside the mats.
"Do I—" He gestures to the chair unsurely and she nods encouragingly, guiding him there. Once he's lowered himself in, she sets his cane up in the front before returning to him.
"How's the temperature? I prefer it to be warm. A good sweat always starts my day off right." She tells him and he scolds himself inwardly for thinking of all the ways they could work up a sweat in the morning.
"It's fine, I too prefer to be warm." He says, shifting around uncomfortably before trying to still himself.
"Great." Belle's face splits into a smile. "Then let's begin, shall we?" She picks a little bottle from her pile of things and gently taps two drops on her wrists. It's the same scent as yesterday, but now it's stronger and he wishes he could consume the bottle. She takes his hands, rubbing her wrists onto his, until some of the oil has transferred to him. He can't breathe, just watching. Once that's done, she takes a deep breath and instructs him to close him eyes.
He's not 100% sure that it isn't complete nonsense. She makes him twist, breathing deeply, as her hands guide him to sit up taller, tilt one way and then the other. He doesn't mind her gentle teasing about his inflexibility- it means that she'll put her hands on him to correct it. Before long, he's sweating, but so is Belle, glistening as she directs him.
"What now, dearie?" He asks, when she finally allows for him to take a break for water.
"Now we'll go on our mats." She explains, grabbing pillows and blankets, arranging them. "I'm going to show you a couple stretches you can do that will relieve some pain and do some therapy. Then we'll end on a massage. You'll have plenty of time to shower and be to the office by 8." She promises and he gingerly lowers himself off the chair to the floor, admitting that his back feels better than it has in years. Belle helps him sit.
"This better not be the same program Dr. Whale tries to force onto me, visit after visit." He warns and her laugh is twinkling.
"I thought beginning with you in a chair would be difference enough." She says jokingly and he smiles.
"Oh yes dearie."
"Ok, now bend your knee like this…" The exercises are similar to what Whale has ordered in years past, but no one can compare to Belle, magically pulling and pushing him into stretches. He feels relaxed in a way he hasn't been for nearly 15 years.
"This is… Nice." He admits tentatively, his eyes closed as he lays in something called 'corpse pose', which had sounded sinister but amounts to lying on his back, like he's sleeping.
"Typically, you don't talk in savasana." Belle mummers and he falls silent, a little abashed. "But it's just us. I'm glad you've enjoyed it. Would you like to begin the massage now?"
"Yes." He sits up, his cane out of reach. Belle grabs it and helps him up with ease; not seeming bothered in the slightest.
"Then right this way." She leads him to the room she'd pointed out early and he lies down on a table, a little worried. No one has touched the scar tissue of his knee in years. Belle covers his eyes with a cool towel and he lets himself enjoy the faint scent of mint. He almost misses that she's massaging his thigh and knee, her touch gentle but firm. He nearly floats away in bliss, forgetting for a moment just who RMS Gold is.
"That was… Something else, Miss French." He mutters, when she wraps his knee in a warm towel.
"Leave it on for a couple minutes." She sounds breathy, near his left ear. "I'll be waiting outside whenever you're ready." There's a quiet noise as she sneaks out and for a long while he doesn't move, not ready to relinquish himself back to the real world. With a groan, he finally does, swinging his feet off the massage table and grabbing his cane.
"Ah." He puts weight on his bad knee, testing it. The pain doesn't seem as overwhelming as before, but he's not been miraculously cured either. He reflects that would be a shame, because then he would never have a reason to see Belle French again.
"Oh good. I was worried you'd fallen asleep." Belle is outside, organizing supplies, smiling as he emerges.
"Tempting, yes. But business does call." He reminds her and she nods in agreement. "I will be out shortly." He inches towards the bathroom and shower. She lets him go, engrossing himself in the stacking of mats. He rinses off in the shower, tossing his worn clothes in a hamper and making a note to give Mary Margaret the afternoon to go buy him more. He gets out of the shower, refreshed, toweling off and redressing himself in his suit. It feels odd.
"Look at that, right on time." Belle checks the clock when he exits, straightening his tie. "You were not kidding, Mr. Gold."
"I tend not to." He lowers himself onto the bench to pull his shoes back on. Belle sits atop her desk, legs folded, smiling.
"Mr. Gold, I hope you found this session beneficial. I really do think we've made a lot of progress today and I hope to see you back at it." She says quietly, as he ties his loafers.
"Miss French, I have made a commitment to attending these sessions. Unless there is something absolutely unavoidable, I will be here." He vows and that makes her grin, ducking her head.
"Wonderful. Have a good day then." She uncurls from the desk to open the door for him. As he walks past her, his throat constricts, so all he can do is tilt his head and walk away. He curses himself blue in the elevator, before arriving at the conclusion that even if he had said or done something, she is nothing more than his physical therapist. There must be young, strong, whole men that attend her yoga classes. She likely has a boyfriend. He is just an old cripple, a snarling beast who charges her too much for rent and doesn't bother to provide a doorman.
"Good morning sir." Mary Margaret greets him with a smile and cup of steaming hot Earl Grey. "I have moved everything around this morning to accommodate your appointment, I have the revised schedule on your desk."
"Thank you." He says shortly and she stops. He turns to her, a little frustrated that she is surely about to make some quip about his politeness or his manners. Instead, she's looking at him quizzically.
"Sir, forgive me for saying so, but do you smell like… Cinnamon?" She sniffs again and he realizes that he still smells, faintly, of Belle.
"From my appointment." He doesn't elaborate on the subject and Mary Margaret doesn't push it, leaving him to review his new schedule for the day. It's lunch before he has a break from the calls, meetings, and emails. Mary Margaret wisely gets him a favorite soup and sandwich combo, which he eats at his desk, reviewing contracts and documents. He doesn't notice until it's well into the afternoon that he hasn't had to rise and stretch his knee. Smiling, he does a couple of his chair stretches Belle had taught him.
"Mr. Gold, sir." Mary Margaret catches him as he goes to make his afternoon tea, apprehensive.
"Out with it." He orders, flipping between the green, chamomile, and fruity teas in the cabinet.
"Sir, your Tuesday morning appointments will delay your call with Ms. Mills." That's why she'd been treading lightly- Regina Mills is a real estate developer across the river, in New Jersey. Power hungry and desperate to make it in the city, she'd apprenticed under him before her mother slept with someone to get her where she is today. She still comes to him for advice and to try to tempt him into offers, despite his repeated statements that he will never set foot in New Jersey as long as he is breathing.
"So?" He raised an eyebrow, deciding on green tea. Belle would approve of that. Mary Margaret flinches.
"Sir, I'm not sure she'll take kindly to you moving the call for… An appointment." She says carefully.
"I do not care if she takes it kindly or like a three year old being told to part with their favorite toy." He says smoothly, swirling his tea. "Because I will not be speaking to her. You will tell her, in no uncertain terms, that my private business is always more important that her half-baked schemes to turn New Jersey into the jewel of the US. And you will deal with the fallout and the temper tantrum, have I made myself clear dearie?"
"Yes." Mary Margaret looks like she's fighting back the desire to say something. "Very clear, sir."
"Wonderful." He heads back to his office with his tea. "There is only one thing in the world that I will miss these appointments for Ms. Blanchard, and I think you know what it is."
"Of course sir." Her face softens slightly. "Sir, can I ask, how is—" He feels no desire to answer and so it is without remorse that he lets his door close in her face. He's nearly done with tea when his phone rings. One look at caller id has him rolling his eyes, but he answers regardless.
"Regina."
"Tell me, what is more important than your business?" She doesn't bother with the preamble. "Because the man I know would let the world around him burn down before declaring something more important than our work."
"My work," He is careful to emphasis the difference. "Will be here when I come in and out of the office, Regina. Can you say the same? If you'd like to rage that I do not rank your weekly bitching and pleading session very high on my priorities, I will have to tell you that I truly do not care."
"I do not bitch or plead." She sounds huffy. "Sometimes things move quickly, I need your input and time is of the essence."
"When things go through the proper channels, dearie, it usually slows it considerably." He remarks and he knows that has set her fuming, judging at how she falls silent.
"I hope your appointments are with a nice escort, dearie." She spits finally, mocking his accent. "Because you're an absolute bore when you're not getting laid." With that, she hangs up. He sets his phone down, shaking his head. At least Mary Margaret has gotten her revenge for him forcing her to call the evil witch. She'll screen his calls correctly now.
He's tired, as he heads out of the office. He's mentally calculating labor costs and permits when he gets in the elevator, noticing vaguely that Mary Margaret has gotten on with him.
"Sir." Her tone is clipped and so he leaves his train of thought with a sigh, in no mood to take grief for her having to deal with Regina.
"Ms. Blanchard, I would—"
"Where are these appointments?" She demands bluntly and he's blindsided, confused.
"These appointments?"
"Where were you?" She tries again and he frowns.
"You are my assistant, not my mother. You keep my schedule, you do not question it. Not my private life." He growls.
"I am your assistant." She agrees, not scared in the least. "And you are certainly entitled to privacy sir. But I am worried that you are regressing to a… Bad place. For my sake and to be able to sleep at night, I need to know that is not true. And for his sake, because I don't want him to worry over you any more than he already does. He frets, you know."
"I know." He avoids her eyes, because she is speaking a very painful truth he'd rather not face.
"So if you're painting in Central Park or doing a flash mob in Times Square or are larp-ing in Chinatown, I do not care. And I will not ask another question. But I need to know that you are not doing anything… Regretful." She choses her words carefully, but she's not backing down.
"I am not doing any of the above activities." He almost smiles at the idea of him participating in any sort of flash mob. As they get out of the elevator and head across the lobby, she looks a little more at ease. "I am working on self improvement during these times." It's only a half lie.
"Well good." Mary Margaret manages a smile again. "I look forward to seeing where this goes then."
"Not to you getting a raise." He warns and she simply wiggles her eyebrows before greeting a strapping young man outside. "Mr. Nolan." He sticks his hand out, as Mary Margaret grins up at her lover.
"Mr. Gold." David Nolan has an easy smile and kind eyes, the kind of boy that spent college drinking on a couch in front of his frat house. He doesn't begrudge him for this however; it seems to make Mary Margaret happy and he'd never liked the shrew from before, Abby. "How are you?"
"Quite well." He glances around for his car. "Yourself?"
"Good." He smiles down at Mary Margaret. "We're about to head to dinner. Celebrating our anniversary."
"How lovely." Gold doesn't bother to point out that his divorce hasn't been finalized for a year. "Enjoy yourselves."
"See you tomorrow sir!" Mary Margaret calls, getting into a cab. He raises one finger in response before climbing into the waiting car. He wants his TV, couch, and a large glass of scotch. Perhaps he'll even do those exercises Belle had given him. The thought makes him smile.
Friday seems to drag by and he can't explain why. He barks out orders at a rapid pace, but midway through the afternoon, as he's waiting for his oolong tea to cool, he finds himself with an empty inbox and a clear desk. He taps his fingers, agitated, fiddling with his cane.
"Mary Margaret!" He yells and she walks in, one eyebrow raised. "What else is there to be done?"
"Well sir, these documents need reviewing." She points to a growing pile that he's been putting off. He grunts, so she tries again. "There's a proposal for Ms. Mills if you'd like to review it."
"I'd rather bungee jump from the Brooklyn Bridge." He grumbles and that makes her grin. "Anything else."
"Well, you could always sort through complaints and berate people for not handling them in the correct fashion, I know that's a personal favorite pastime for you." She says brightly and he remembers this sass, in the face of his moods, is why he had kept her.
"Yes, I think I would quite like that." He decides.
"Or you could call him." She doesn't hand him the papers in her arms. She's watching him with a careful expression and he grits his teeth, hands curling into fists despite himself.
"He'll be in class."
"Class gets out at 2:30 on Friday's. He doesn't have soccer—"
"Football."
"Practice until 4 today. He'll be back in his room now. He deserves a call. You haven't spoken since you sent him back." Her tone is a little scolding, a little pleading, and a little annoyed.
"He knows why." His teeth are gritted. "He gets along just fine without me Ms. Blanchard, you know this."
"Sure." She agrees easily. "But he shouldn't have to." With that, she spins out of the room. "Oh, and you could leave early like a normal human being!"
"I will fire you." He fires back and she just shuts the door. Grumbling, cursing her for her ways, he spends the next ten minutes sipping his tea and staring down his phone. He jumps when it rings and for a heart stopping moment, thinks that it could be him. But it is just Whale.
"Mr. Gold."
"Dr. Whale."
"How are you feeling today? I understand you had your first appointment with Miss French." He sounds nervous, likely waiting for Gold to snap at him and threaten to sue once again.
"It was lovely."
"Lovely?" Whale sounds stunned. "Oh."
"I quite enjoyed it. Miss French's studio is much more preferable to your office." He says, enjoying making Whale squirm.
"Well I am sure." Whale attempts to sound calm. "I am sure she is also more preferable than myself."
"Dr. Whale." He says it through gritted teeth, recalling the way Belle had talked about him at lunch, making faces. "Have you had a relationship with Miss French at any point?"
"What? No. I'm married!" Whale blunders.
"Honesty Whale. Have you, or have you not laid a hand on Belle French?" He questions and Whale hears it in his voice that if he answers untruthfully, there'll be hell to pay.
"No." He says quietly.
"And do you understand that if you ever do, if you ever so much as breathe in the direction of Miss French in a manner that she does not want, I will personally make sure that your practice ends, you marriage ends, and your ability to talk to any female in the city of Manhattan ends." He promises silkily.
"Mr. Gold, are you threatening me?"
"No. I am promising." With that, he hangs up. He has the matter of Belle's building to sort out. "Mary Margaret!"
"Sir." She walks back in, exasperated.
"Here's my card." He passes her his credit card. She raises an eyebrow. "I'd like for you to purchase me workout clothes."
"Workout clothes." She echoes, taking the card like it may bite her. "For you. Can I ask what for?"
"For working out." He says dryly and she frowns at him.
"I didn't know you were working out sir." She tucks the card in her purse. "But of course, I'll do that."
"Good. You have the rest of the afternoon to do so." He informs her and she stares at him in outright shock. He's never given her time off. "Please get the clothes delivered to my home as I will require them this weekend. I'm assuming you know my measurements. That will be all."
"Alright sir." She takes the charge and runs with it, even if she is a little flabbergasted. "Have a great weekend."
"You as well, Ms. Blanchard. Oh, and one other thing." She turns back around, looking wary. "The complaints."
"Don't try to terrorize anyone too terribly awful." She protests, as she hands them over. "It is Friday."
"See you Monday." He dismisses her with a wave of his hand and so she goes. She does her job well, for when he arrives at home, several neat packages are waiting in his foyer. He sorts through his new clothes, folding them neatly in a new spot in his closet, then picks one out and sets it aside. Sunday evening will be a long time coming.
AN: So I'm pretty excited for this story- I would love feedback and I'd welcome suggestions or moments you all would love to see as this progresses... Leave me reviews? Thanks!