PART II

Belle was exhausted, and she'd already sent poor Astrid back to the convent for the day. Having a nun as an employee was… interesting. She drew wages, because Belle insisted on paying her fairly, but she promptly donated them back to the Church every two weeks.

Astrid worked the early-morning shift with Belle, right up until she had to fulfill her duties at the convent. Sometimes she came back later, to help decorate – but Astrid's track record with icing looked kind of like a bad I Love Lucy gag. She even manned the register one or two days a week, but ended up giving away more product than she sold. Belle hadn't been exaggerating when she said they ended up with a lot of Ugly Cakes.

Her only other employee, another part-timer who gave Belle a few days off each week, wasn't due in again until Sunday. It was a shame, because Ariel – who spent most of her time at work going through bridal magazines – would definitely have been able to tell her if there was too much almond in these tricolor cookies. Was her marzipan too sweet?

Astrid treated sugar strictly on an add-a-bit-more basis, so her palate wouldn't have been very helpful anyway. Maybe she was just going crazy. They tasted okay.

Still, she really could have used a little help for an extra half hour today. Why did she always think it was a good idea to make complicated cookies on short notice? It was a challenge, that was why. Though they were vibrant and delicious, they took a very long time to complete.

She was cutting it close today, but at least she was done cutting the last tray into finger-sized bars. Belle prepared to go change out of her sensible sneakers, into a pair of pumps, when she heard a gentle knock at the door.

Usually, nobody came around before five, so she popped her head out of the kitchen to see what was happening.

"Rum!" Belle gushed, letting him in. He seemed so much taller than she remembered; without her heels on, she barely came up to his shoulder level.

"I didn't peg you for a morning person," she grinned.

"Night owl," he admitted. He still had his guitar case with him.

"Is everything okay? I didn't expect to see you back so soon – but I'm glad for the company."

"I saw the light and decided to come over after… work. You're here early."

"Yeah, I have to get the actual baking done before everyone wakes up. It makes for a lot of early mornings," she said, laughing at her own expense. "Thankfully we can get away with freezing some of the pastries, or keeping them for a day or two in the fridge. Still, I try to start every day with something fresh. The aroma really brings the early birds in."

"Did you have breakfast?" Rum asked. The hand not holding his instrument flitted nervously between them.

Her heart went out to Rum Gold – he was lonely, awkward, and sweet when he wasn't scowling. Apart from their lunch yesterday, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been out socially – a 4 AM start time would do that to you – and she was shocked at exactly how much she wanted to accept his offer.

"I'm sorry," Belle frowned. "I'm the only one in the shop right now, so I can't leave. But if you're up for eating-in, I can grab us some muffins."

"Only if you let me pay for them," he nodded with a bashful grin on his face.

Belle rolled her eyes.

"If you must. Were you playing over at The Rabbit Hole tonight?" she asked, pulling two medium-sized pumpkin muffins from her display case.

"What? Of course not." He reverted back to being aloof and skittish in the space of a heartbeat.

"So you just carry that guitar around for looks, then?" Belle teased.

He clutched it closer out of habit, as though she'd threatened to take it from him.

Belle finally took mercy on him. He was clearly a little on edge, but anybody would be if they stayed up all night. "Can I get you a cup of coffee with your muffin, or are you are your way home to sleep all day?"

"Not all day, no," he yawned.

Belle shot a look at him.

"Alright, probably until noon." He gave her a lop-sided grin, revealing a mouth of slightly uneven teeth with a few pieces of golden dental work. It might have been a rictus on someone else, but Rum just looked happy. It was a nice change.

"I'd take a triple espresso, though. That would probably make me better company."

She didn't mean to laugh at him, but it happened anyway.

"What's funny?" He looked a little upset.

"Sorry," she replied. "I can make you a decaf drip coffee or herbal tea. You should definitely rest, so no caffeine will be forthcoming."

"And that's funny, is it?" Rum growled, but he'd gone from annoyed to playful. "You're holding out on me."

"It's a little bit funny," Belle chuckled. She caught a flash of white in the street. "Oh, just a sec…"

She brushed past Rum, scooped up the white box with pale blue ribbon from her counter, and rushed out into the street.

"Marco! Marco! You'll have to tell me if I finally got them right this time," she smiled, catching up to the old carpenter on his way to his workshop. Her tricolor cookies came from his late wife's recipe, but the woman had tinkered with it for 50 years without writing much down, and Belle's attempts never quite passed muster.

He took one bite and pulled her into a big hug. Then he told her to try a little less almond. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

HOOK's recording session had started at 10 PM the night before, and Gold spent the whole time distracted – in two minds about his petite brunette.

The first fight broke out a little after midnight. They thought his distortion was over-the-top. He thought their lyrics were rubbish. Their producer loved something different in every take and swore he could fix it in post-production, as long as they kept making noise in the general vicinity of a mic. Gold hadn't expected anything less: he knew this was going to be an uphill battle all the way.

Six hours felt more like sixty, and all that time to think (stew, more like) hadn't really solved anything.

He'd definitely be more appealing to her if he told her he was famous. That was a fact. Rum wasn't sure how to bring it up, but he'd probably get another opportunity if tried. Oh, by the way, I'm a rock star (for a certain value of star power) was too abrupt.

Maybe he could accidentally drop a copy of Rolling Stone with his picture on the cover? But then why would he be carrying an out-of-date magazine around? Belle would see through that, she was very smart.

He could just come out with it. Belle was very nice, that was also a fact; there might be a bit of difficulty over letting her believe he was nothing, but it would only have been for a day. An introductory misconception, really. Less than 24 hours total, if he caught her at work that morning. She'd understand – it was amazing what people would forgive when you were famous.

Then again, he'd rather chew off his own arm than let Killian within striking distance of her, and she would definitely want to meet the HOOK front-man (everyone always did), so there was another unwelcome fact for him.

He didn't know if he could stomach Killian flirting with her, and he definitely would. Belle was exactly Jones' type (she was every man's type, if he was being honest with himself) and Gold wanted nothing more than to keep her a secret. What choice did he have? Jones would win. There was really no competition between them – Jones was younger, more popular, and a much more competent charmer with infinitely less baggage to carry around.

Where did that leave him? He could keep his distance, never correct her assumptions, and worry incessantly about her bumping into Jones on the weekends. They were leaving in a month (another fact, though not one that he particularly relished just now); he could do the right thing for a miserable 30 days, couldn't he? It might not have been what he wanted, but it would probably be the best for Belle, and he could move on guilt-free with a beautiful face to dream of. The bugger was, he didn't want to do the noble thing. At all. For a fact. Not even a little bit.

Rum hadn't met someone who was genuinely nice to him for a very long time. Nice wasn't a surviving characteristic in the music industry. Hell, even his own son didn't want to talk to him – how was he supposed to walk away from a beautiful woman who genuinely seemed to like him for himself?

Rum Gold was not a popular bloke – fact… what number was he up to now? Felt like more than 10, but was probably less. Rumford Goldfellow, though - now he was exciting! And demanding. And disappointing. And generally a bastard, if you asked his family about it.

Belle's niceness was making it really, really difficult for him to come up with reasons not to tell her who he was, because he was almost certain she wouldn't treat him very differently; he was just too cowardly to ruin a good thing when he saw it. But he knew, deep in his gut, the one thing he absolutely could not do was get closer to her without coming clean.

It had all been so obvious when he'd knocked on her door this morning, but now all he could see were dozens of complications threatening to pull his plans apart at the seams. She'd run off on him before he could bring it up, for a start, and now it was going to be really, really easy to grant himself another reprieve.

Gold glared out the plate glass window of Belle's shop, wishing that the white-haired old man in the street would stop hugging her. He'd impulsively ordered his driver drop him around the corner when he saw the bakery light on. After a long night in the studio, the temptation of lemon cupcakes and blue eyes was just too good to walk away from.

And he was going to tell her. Really, he was. He'd been nervous about it, which was ridiculous, because she was about to hit the proverbial jackpot. That was before she chased an old man down the block, pushed a box of sweets into his hands, and let him hug her.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window – he was visibly gray, tired, and needed a shave. Maybe Belle just treated all old men kindly. And children. And pets. You didn't have to be special for Belle to like you, she was nice to everybody. Neal brought a poem home from school about a Duchess who was like that, once, but Rum hadn't really been able to help him with his homework by that point, and he doubted the information would have helped in this case.

The old man hugged her again.

Maybe he could dye his hair? Every strand of silver stood out like a dagger in his head, and Rum scowled at his reflection. When he saw the deep lines between his brows, he tried to smooth his expression. The shadow of a scraggly beard coming in wasn't doing him any favors.

He definitely needed to tell her… eventually. One more day of anonymous bliss couldn't really hurt, and he'd have a chance to wash and shave.

She smiled up at him as she trotted back inside, flipping her sign to Open. She had to ease up onto her toes to reach it. Belle in heels was a temptation, but Gold was not a large man, and he was quickly becoming addicted to the idea of wrapping himself around that soft, petite frame.

"Sorry about that. Marco's son lives out of town, and it's his wife's recipe," she said by way of an explanation. "She died a few years ago."

"That's… sad." It didn't feel like enough, somehow, but he felt justifiably happy about the discovery. Being nice to widowers in their 80s didn't mean she lumped him into the same category.

"Yeah, it's rough. Neither of us really has a family in Storybrooke anymore, so I try to look out for him. He gave me these chairs last year."

She showed him a set of tiny, carved chairs accompanying a small table in the children's corner. They featured scenes from The Wind in the Willows, and had clearly been made by a master craftsman.

"Do you think he could build a guitar?" Gold asked, only half joking. Scrollwork like that would sell for big money.

Gold enjoyed chai tea and a pumpkin muffin piled high with streusel while her usual customers trickled in, taking to-go baggies and simple coffee with sugar or cream. A few grabbed Ugly Cakes and didn't buy anything.

The next day, he saw the same few freeloaders back again. Some even brought their own books to read, despite the fact that Belle had a good trade going in second-hand paperbacks.

He'd been shocked that morning when (after he made a quip about her business model hemorrhaging funds) soft, sweet Belle gave him a firm lecture on foot traffic, mark-up, overhead, and being part of the community. He couldn't apologize fast enough, but she just laughed it off and called herself one tough cookie. Rum had to admit that he now had a slight soft spot for bad puns.

But by day four, he still hadn't confessed and their breakfast muffins were becoming a routine. He was quickly passing the open window where his deception would pass for a misunderstanding.

In that time, though, he'd been amazed by the sheer strength and determination behind Belle's petite frame. She had a smile for everyone, a seemingly endless spirit of charity, and she managed her employees firmly but fairly (especially Sister Astrid, who seemed to Gold like a walking catastrophe).

Today, it was just the two of them. Gold tried to stifle a yawn while she built a series of delicate napoleons for Granny's.

"Alright, mister, I think it's past your bed time," Belle teased.

"Tired of me already?" he groaned.

"It's almost 7:30," Belle told him, suddenly serious. "How long have you been awake? I'm worried that you haven't been sleeping enough."

"I'll be fine," Gold yawned. He pulled out his phone and sent Dove a text. "I've got somebody coming for me."

"You must have a pretty indulgent roommate," Belle joked.

Yes, he's my body guard and driver. The label hired him to keep an eye on me, so I wouldn't do anything stupid, like drink too much after a gig and break my leg in three places. Also, I can probably get you into any club, party, or restaurant in the world if you agree to go out with me.

That's what he should have said. Well, maybe with a little more subtlety.

He settled for: "I don't have a roommate."

"A band mate, then?"

He shook his head, and a lock of graying hair fell into his face. Rum brushed it back ferociously. He didn't need any more reminders of his old age. His hair fell into his eyes again, and Belle reached up to fix it for him. Her nails on his scalp made his heart race.

"New to town, no roommate, no wife… but somebody's going to come and pick you up early in the morning. Rum Gold, you are a mystery."

"It's just someone from the studio," Gold said without thinking. He leaned into her touch.

"Are you working with Jefferson, then?" Belle asked. Damn – this wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Jefferson?" he gulped.

"Jefferson Madden – he used to be in Wizard Lizard, the one in the top hat. He owns a little studio in town. Mostly he just goofs around in the park on weekends, but sometimes he comes in here to play. I didn't put two and two together before, but if you're a professional musician you've probably met him."

"And you… uh, you like Jefferson?" Gold managed.

"I adore his daughter. He's a great dad" Belle beamed, turning her attention to fixing his shirt collar. "Jefferson can be a bit weird, but he's a real sweetheart when you get to know him. And he does a mean rendition of Itsy Bitsy Spider on his bass."

"That's… great. Yeah. Didn't realize you knew him," Gold choked out.

"You know, you… no, never mind," Belle shook her head.

That was it. That was his chance to come clean. If she hadn't worked it out by now, she wasn't going to, and he'd been waiting for this opportunity to arrive. It was a shame to watch it pass him by.

Did she know?

After Wizard Lizard and his marriage broke up (both his fault), and after a less than stellar solo career (not his fault – but bugger if he could find someone else to blame), Rum Gold was reconciled with his status as a footnote of rock and roll. And that would have been alright, but Neal was barely even on speaking terms with him back then, and he didn't have any other marketable skills, so he'd kept working at a come-back. Then someone had offered him good money to use one of his songs on a video game with a weird controller, and suddenly Rumford Goldfellow was cool.

After more than a decade of being snubbed by critics, he was suddenly on the cover of Rolling Stone again, hailed as the man whose music had accidentally shaped a generation, whose albums predicted the rise of a post-grunge, post-punk alternative. The Real Guitar Hero – he hoped the editors at USA Today choked on that one.

When HOOK offered him a touring contract that came with royalties and creative veto power, he'd signed it in a heartbeat. The world was his for the taking again, and all he needed was a guitar and an amp. And Neal, of course, but he was still working on that.

And to think, he'd almost missed out on coming to Storybrooke. If Killian and Keith had their way, HOOK would have been recording in New York or LA. It took an act of intervention from the label and a team of over-paid lawyers, but finding Wonderland Records is what brought him to Belle in the first place. And Jefferson owned it. And Jefferson was a weird sweetheart. And Jefferson played Itsy Bitsy Spider for her.

Jefferson Madden, who hadn't even made a record in thirty years – the bass player of a gimmick band with big hair– was someone Belle admired. It was shocking how quickly Gold's good will and nostalgia evaporated when he thought about it like that. Suddenly, being Rumford Goldfellow wasn't such a fool-proof way to attract her.

Belle went quiet. She patted his sleeve, drawing him from his reverie. "You should really get some rest, Rum."

"Er… right." He backed out the door.

"Sleep tight." Belle tugged him back and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Gold melted. "Good night."

For over a week, Rum dragged himself – exhausted – into her bakery. They kept each other company. When things got busy, he seemed content to jot down guitar tabs on her napkins and wait; when he was nervous, his fingers contorted into strange shapes she'd learned to recognize as chords; they talked about anything and everything, including the books she loved. Sometimes he'd even fall asleep at her counter.

He didn't care for anything with anise seed, but he'd gobble down as many white chocolate mocha cookies as she put on his plate. Her peppermint blondies disappeared just as quickly. Raisin oatmeal went utterly to waste.

She'd become very good friends with him, and that was making this difficult.

"Should I just ask him out?" Belle sighed, tasting her filling while Ariel piped out little dollops of pastry.

"I'm not saying no," Ariel hedged. "But if he was really interested, don't you think he would have said something by now? You're beautiful, Belle. He'd have to be blind not to want to take you out."

"I don't think he's gay…" She hadn't shared her other suspicion with the red-head.

"He spends all his time in a bakery with you, and he hasn't asked you out yet? Sounds like he's not interested."

"He did ask me out once, but I didn't have anyone to cover the register. What if all these breakfasts have been dates and I'm the one who's been slow to catch on?"

Ariel hadn't really spent much time with Rum, but she was engaged, so Belle accepted that she knew the most about men. Definitely more than Sister Astrid.

"The worst thing that can happen if you ask is he'll say no," Ariel chided. "Some men like to do the asking, but Rum seems shy."

They each stuck a small spoon into Belle's orange crème and licked a little off the end.

"Needs more Cointreau," concluded Ariel.

"I was thinking of using zest instead."

"No way, Belle! Virgin baked goods are no fun, as Ruby says."

They laughed at that. Ruby was a good friend, but she had a wild streak a mile long. When Belle made brandied cherries and rum cakes around the holidays, Ruby was always first in line to buy some.

"Alright," Belle rallied, pouring in another two capfuls of the liqueur into her mix. "I'll ask him out tomorrow."

That was easier said than done. He had to know she was flirting, didn't he? Rum just wasn't acting any differently.

"So, when are you going to open up that case and show me what some of these scribbles sound like?" she asked when her last regular customer finally left with his spy romance novel.

"I'm, uh… not really supposed to," he blushed.

Rum looked uncomfortable, so Belle backed off a little. She topped up his cup of tea. They brewed Moroccan mint tea by the pot in the mornings now, and shared a few cups apiece. It was a good compromise – the freshness of the mint was nice after working long hours, and she still wouldn't serve him caffeine.

"It's not that I don't want to," he insisted, running his hands through his hair. "It's just that… we're still recording. It's a legal thing."

"That makes sense. I promise not to pester you about it anymore."

To her absolute surprise, he put the battered old case on the table and opened it. The guitar inside was every bit as battered as she'd expected it to be; it looked well-played. He flipped it over.

"Neal made this one when he was five," Rum told her, running his hands over a faded handprint smeared through blue paint, near the neck. And I had him do this one when he was ten." He pointed out a matching handprint, nearly doubled in size, this time in green.

"Where's age 15?" Belle asked, spotting the pattern.

"He, uh, wasn't really into it by that age," Rum whispered. "He doesn't really like me."

"How old is he?"

Rum flinched. "Honestly? Almost 30. I suppose that makes me old enough to be your father."

"Only if you started very young," Belle chastised. "I'm almost 33."

"You're twenty five if you're a day!"

"No, really," Belle grinned. "Everyone always says I look young, because I'm so small. The heels help, sort of. And what are you, late 40s?"

"53," Rum confessed, though he sounded like she'd forced it out of him with hot pliers. "Still old enough to be your father," he sighed.

"Good for us that we're not actually related, then," Belle grinned. She was flirting her butt off, and hoped he recognized the signs.

Rum looked like he needed a moment to come up with a response, so Belle pulled out a tray of cupcakes and set to work. She nearly dropped her icing bag when she heard him play a few chords for her.

"I could sing you something else," he offered. "Something I didn't write?"

She nodded, and a familiar melody began to play.

She's got eyes of the bluest skies, as if they thought of rain;

I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain.

Her hair reminds me of a warm, safe place where as a child I'd hide,

And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by.

Oh-oh, sweet Belle of mine….

His eyes were serene, heavily lidded, and the color of caramel. Oh Sugar. Oh sugar.

Belle didn't know when she decided to do it; all she knew was that she was kissing him, and it was the best decision she'd ever made.

Rum had just enough control to set his guitar aside before pulling Belle to his side and running his tongue over her lips. She opened her mouth to let him deepen the kiss, and he shuddered when Belle's fingers ran through his hair.

Finally, they had to break apart to breathe.

"Remind me to send Slash a thank you card," he quipped. It was a stupid thing to say, but Belle laughed and rested her head against his chest. Hell, he'd owe Slash a '59 Les Paul at this rate.

"Listen, Rum," Belle sounded nervous. No, no, no, dammit – he'd been doing so well, and now it was about to end. "There's something I've wanted to ask you…"

He still had a chance!

"I know, Belle, and you're right. I should have told you, but it… it was nice to just be liked for myself. But yes, to answer your question: I am." He blurted it all out before cowardice overcame him.

"Are you… are you talking about the Wizard Lizard thing?" She frowned.

"You knew the whole time?" Gold breathed.

"Well, I suspected that day when we talked about Jefferson… but honestly, Rum, I don't mind."

She didn't mind? What the hell was that supposed to mean? His confusion must have translated to his face, because Belle kept talking.

"At first I thought maybe you were embarrassed always to be recognized as the guy in the gold body paint and leather, so I thought I would just Google you to be sure—"

Gold gulped.

"But I realized that it didn't matter. It didn't define the sweet man I knew, and I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."

"I… yeah." He was dumbfounded. He'd gotten away with it! She knew (in a skew sort of way, and not the whole truth) and it hadn't changed how she treated him. Well, okay, maybe it contributed a little to having her in his arms right now, but she wasn't furious and betrayed – and that was a major victory.

"I didn't, just so you know," Belle told you. "Google you, I mean. Way too invasive, and you deserve your privacy."

"Thank you," he signed, burying his nose in her hair. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, too real to be a dream.

"But that's not what I wanted to ask you," Belle grinned, running her hands along the ridge of his spine.

It wasn't? Oh shit. If she knew about Killian and this was all just an act… He'd be her happy fool, he already knew. Damn.

"I wanted to ask if you'd have dinner with me tonight," Belle confessed. "But I wasn't sure if you were interested in dating."

"Oh, sweetheart, yes. Yes. I'll make a reservation, I—"

"Not so fast, mister," his darling Belle giggled. "I had to ask you out, so that means I get to organize the date, and this time I'm paying."

He didn't have the strength to refuse.