Summary: After Belle leaves the pawnshop upset, Neal keeps his promise to Rumple to make things right.
A/N: Some of you asked for Neal and Belle's conversation; here it is.
Night was falling fast as Neal shuffled across the street and slipped into the library, easing the door shut behind him with a soft thud.
This was his first time inside the Storybrooke Library and his heart hammered with dread. He clutched the crystal vase filled with flowers that he'd brought from the pawnshop, grateful for something to do with his hands. In general he wasn't a fan of libraries—books reminded him too much of his father's thick magical texts, plaguing him with nightmares of the pain and destruction the Dark One's curse had wrought.
But this library seemed different—imbued with hopeful expectation. It had been closed when he had first arrived in town—shuttered, dusty, and abandoned. This evening it was welcoming, bright, and clean, its leather-bound tomes gleaming like jewels in the warm light. The library didn't boast a large collection, but it was well-cared for, and he sensed that the librarian took pride in the space. Belle. Belle French was the librarian. He kept forgetting that important fact.
It didn't seem possible, but then again, Belle French was a completely different person from Lacey—the floozy he'd seen hanging on his father's arm a few days ago. Or was it weeks ago? Time ran differently in Neverland, and he'd not yet become accustomed to keeping time. He had completely lost track of the days in Storybrooke.
The cheerful space was empty and silent, except for the sound of sniffling. He rounded the corner and Belle came into view, her petite profile illuminated by the desk lamp behind her.
Man, she was a pitiful sight. Her slender shoulders were bowed and shaking as though they carried the weight of the world. The defeated stance made her five-foot-one-inch frame appear even more diminutive, if that were possible. She blew her nose, the harsh, discordant sound reminding him of a foghorn, then crumpled the tissue in her small fist. She flung the tissue to the floor and stomped on it with one tall, pointy heel. Chin wobbling, she began transferring hardcover books from the circulation counter onto a library cart at a punishing pace. Belle slammed book after book onto the cart, causing the old wooden shelves to creak and moan with the pressure.
Despite her rough treatment of them now, Neal had the distinct feeling that Belle rarely treated a book with disrespect.
Clearly, she was upset.
Wearing a mutinous expression he'd often seen on Emma's face, she turned toward the front door. He winced, preparing to be lambasted—yeah, he was half-hoping she would hurl insults and begin the conversation for him—but she but didn't notice him standing between the entrance and the reference desk.
Neal raked a hand through his hair. Crap. This wasn't going to be easy.
He pivoted toward the exit. If he slithered out now, she would be none the wiser. But as he took that first half-step back toward the street, all he could see were two pairs of eyes: his father's—brown, sad and pleading, and Belle's—blue, wet and wounded.
Neal sighed and turned back around. He'd told Papa he was coming to the library to patch things up with Belle and now he had to follow through. It was his responsibility to make this right.
"Hey Belle," he croaked.
The book she was holding careened to the floor with a thump.
"Oh! Neal! It's…it's you." She rubbed her index fingers over both tear-stained cheeks, leaving smudges of black mascara in their wake, then bent down to pick up the fallen book.
The reminder that he was the cause of her tears made his stomach clench. You can do this. Just apologize and ask her to dinner with you and Pop. How hard can it be?
He inched forward to set the vase of flowers on the desk, then took a book from the pile and deposited it gently on the cart's lower shelf. "Uh...I hope I'm not interrupting you."
As soon as the words left his lips he felt stupid. Ten minutes earlier she'd overheard him telling his father that she was a terrible influence on him, an ugly stain on the Dark One's already tarnished soul. Now she was alone in her library, crying and shelving books like a Valkyrie. It wasn't like she was in the middle of a funding meeting.
She stood in silence, clutching a book to her middle, waiting for him to continue.
"I feel bad about what happened." He swallowed thickly. "Pop was right, you should never have heard…those things."
She tilted her head. "That's what you're going with?"
"Um…"
"Because it would have been perfectly reasonable to insult me if I hadn't been present?" Her voice was crisp.
Crap. "No. No that's not it." He shook his head. "What I mean to say is I was wrong about you."
"And what gave you that idea? That you were wrong?" She tossed the book she was holding at the cart and reached for another.
He frowned. "Could you maybe stop throwing books?"
"How about I aim the next one at your head?" She glared at him, holding a particularly large volume over her right shoulder.
"Ok, ok. It's your library." He held up his hands and chuckled nervously. Belle French was fierce. No wonder Papa was enamored with her. He'd only just met the woman, but she seemed to rival his father in stubbornness.
"You were about to explain why you were wrong," Belle prompted.
"Well, now you're…" At a loss, he gestured in the direction of her body, noting her modest blue blouse and pencil skirt.
Her eyes widened in comprehension. "Ah, I see. Because I look different."
He gulped. It wasn't a question.
"Not only that. It's also…"
"I'm not proud of it, you know." She bit down on her lower lip. "The things I said and did while I was…" She trailed off, casting her eyes toward the carpet.
"Lacey?"
She nodded, then glanced questioningly at the vase of cherry red chrysanthemums.
"From Papa," he said, grateful to change the subject. Neal jerked his thumb back across the street to the pawnshop, where his father was probably pacing the floorboards. "He didn't have a chance to give them to you."
"That was sweet of him." Belle's eyes softened when he mentioned his father and her cheeks glowed with pleasure. The look on her face made him squirm and feel glad all at once. Belle loved Pop—that much was obvious.
"Yeah, but the Lacey thing wasn't really your fault. Weren't you, ya know? Cursed by Regina?"
Belle sighed and leaned against the circulation desk at her back, still not quite meeting his gaze. "That's not an excuse for hurting people. Especially Rumple."
He looked at her with new respect. "You take this heroism business pretty seriously, don't you?"
She stiffened. "Why do you think that? Why does everyone think that? No, I take loving your father seriously. He counted on me to help him be a better man." Her voice dropped to a miserable whisper. "I let him down. Abandoned him when he needed me most."
"I don't think you did, actually."
Belle raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. The posture was defensive, but her face hid nothing—it was bathed in longing. She wanted to believe him, to hear someone say that she hadn't hurt his father. Neal stared in amazement. Belle French cared about his opinion? Damn, women were strange creatures.
"He says you loved him when no one else would. That you make him stronger," her heard himself say.
"Rumple…he told you that?"
Her eyes filled with tears again and for a moment he panicked, but they were the happy kind. Learning to read Emma's face had taught him the difference.
"When?" she choked out.
"About fifteen minutes ago." He couldn't stop his grin at her open-mouthed expression.
A watery laugh bubbled up from her throat and she bent her head over the vase of flowers to caress the petals with loving reverence. "He's such a wonderful man. I'm the lucky one, you know."
She looked straight at him then, all the love she felt for his father shining in her eyes. True love. Was that what others witnessed when he looked at Emma, at Henry? The passion in those bottomless depths was so powerful that he caught his breath, forced to looked away as though he were intruding on a moment of great intimacy.
And then the truth hit him like a ton of books: Belle and Papa's love wasn't about him. The woman standing before him wasn't a replacement or a substitute for a long-lost son. No, the answer was simpler, yet more profound—Pop needed Belle and she needed him.
He mulled over his thoughts in silence as tears slipped down Belle's cheeks.
After a moment, Neal cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he plucked a tissue from the box on the table and handed it to her. It was the sort of thing Papa knew to do without thinking. Despite his outward appearance of coldness, Pop was always comforting the people he cared about. "I'm sorry Belle. For everything. And I'd like to get to know you. The real you."
"Why?" she asked, dabbing at her eyes.
"You're important to Papa." He reached out and gave her shoulder a clumsy pat. "He loves you. And that makes you important to me too."
"So what do you suggest?" She pressed her lips together and smoothed her hands over her skirt.
"Burgers at Granny's? I haven't had one yet, but reliable sources tell me they're the best in town. Whaddaya think? We can pick Pop up on the way."
She smiled, the first genuine, happy smile he had seen cross her face since he'd met Belle French—the real one—on the docks that morning. "I'll get my coat."
###
