PART III
Waking up next to Belle was bliss. In the two weeks since she'd kissed him, Rum Gold had been living the dream and had spent several nights in her apartment. She made his whole body hum.
With just a bit of fiddling with his schedule, he'd contrived spend his nights wrapped up in warm, soft legs, pressed against ruby red lips. The other members of HOOK were quite annoyed with him, but Rum didn't care. He had Belle.
It was the happiest he'd been since Neal was a kid.
Belle stirred next to him, and Gold ran his lips over her neck and shoulder, drawing her closer to him.
"Morning, sweetheart," he murmured.
She made a content sound and cuddled into him. "S'early."
"I know. You wanted to get up for the early shift at the bakery today." He nibbled at her earlobe.
"Mm… I'll make you a cinnamon roll if you come take a shower with me," she moaned.
Cinnamon rolls were his favorite now. They hadn't used to be – carefully formed pinwheel swirls with a thin drizzle of icing were not the sort of fare he'd eaten as a child – but Belle smelled of cinnamon and she tasted like vanilla, and Rum Gold couldn't get enough of her.
Of course, he'd gladly have taken a shower with her just for the sheer pleasure of touching her under the water.
"You drive a hard bargain, Miss French," he growled. A certain part of his anatomy (other than his stomach) was definitely ready for the next course.
"Two cinnamon rolls?" she countered.
Leave it to kind, generous Belle to offer everything and more when she already had him wrapped around her little finger.
"Deal," Rum whispered.
The pair of them wandered down to her shop, well washed and well loved. Belle unlocked the door for Astrid, who was due to turn up shortly. Then she tugged him down for a kiss. "You start the coffee, I'll start the rolls?"
"Sounds great." It did, too. He loved the smell of coffee and spices; Belle liked the smell of old paper. Between the two of them, he figured her shop was like heaven.
Belle absented herself to the back, where all the hard work happened, and Gold powered on her ancient coffee machine. It could brew the stuff by the gallon, and had probably been purchased second-hand from Granny's, but Belle filled it with freshly-ground beans and whole spices that tasted better than anything Starbucks made.
Then again, maybe he was biased. Since he'd insisted on a more manageable recording schedule (during actual daylight hours), Belle's coffee had featured heavily in his diet.
He heard the bell over the door tinkling behind him.
"Morning, Sister," said Rum without turning around. He never knew how to act around the little nun. Premarital sex made church-people uncomfortable, and she'd definitely seen Rum emerge from Belle's upstairs apartment on more than one occasion. Rum didn't know who'd been more awkward about it: him or Astrid.
"Well isn't this charming, Crocodile."
Gold spun on his heel and froze. He hated that name – it only served to remind him of Wizard Lizard and everything he'd left behind. Killian Jones, flanked by Keith Naughty (shite stage name) and William Smee (shite real name) sauntered into Belle's café. A funk of cigarette smoke and whiskey hovered around them.
Keith, the rhythm guitarist, dropped beats and mangled strum patterns, but none of that mattered to the groupies; he was almost as popular as Killian. Smee, the bassist, at least played with some proficiency. It seemed that the HOOK drummer had been smart enough to stay home this evening.
"Get out," glowered Gold. "Now."
"Nah, mate. I think we'll stay a while." Killian sauntered over to the coffee bar and picked up the Ugly Cake Fund donation bin.
Gold bristled.
"This is sweet," Jones smirked. "I'm surprised, Crocodile. I never would have pegged you for the domestic type. Still, I suppose old age will do that to a bloke."
He dropped the tin unceremoniously on the ground, and the clang it made echoed through the book shelves.
"Is everything okay out there?" Belle called from the kitchen.
"Fine, sweetheart!" Rum called back.
"Just some gentlemen getting off a late night at the pub," he growled under his breath, glaring pointedly at the intruders. "What do you want?"
"Well the way we see it, mate, you've been having it all your own way for too long. First you bullied us into this town, and then you started dragging your feet about the direction our music was taking, and all of a sudden we're all working a 9 to 5 schedule while you're practically wearing a neon sign around your neck, letting the whole world know you're getting laid. Not really fair, is it?"
"So we thought we'd come and meet your little lady," Smee leered. "Come on out here, Miss!" On his own, William wasn't much trouble, but backing up Killian he was a Grade-A flunkie. If his antics endangered Belle, nothing on this earth would spare him from Rum's fury.
"Yeah," Keith slurred. "Let's see the wench."
"Rum, do you know these people?" Belle edged her way out of the kitchen, with a rolling pin clutched in her hands.
"It'll be fine, sweetheart. They were just leaving."
"Oh sweetheart," mimicked Smee.
"Don't you want a real rock star, instead of this washed-up has-been?" slurred Keith, grabbing suggestively at his genitals. "If you were mine, I'd let you have me to yourself for a whole hour before a gig."
He knocked into the children's book kart and sent a small chair spinning. Keith struggled to right himself, and then looked Belle up and down with a lascivious gaze.
"Well," Naughty sneered, "Maybe just twenty minutes. I've always preferred my girls with a little less meat on them."
"I want you to leave," Belle demanded. "If you're not out of here in thirty seconds, you'll have to deal with the police."
"Oh, love," smirked Killian, cupping her cheek. "You really should have called them about two minutes ago, don't you think?"
Rum couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
"I did," Belle replied sweetly, slapping his hand away from her.
The room erupted. Gold brawled through Keith and Smee, both of whom backed down quickly, and then he got hold of something heavy and lashed into Jones, who'd cornered Belle against her display case. All he saw was red. Red with flashes of blue mixed in.
"Rum, no. No, I said." Belle was dragging him away from Jones, whose face was bloodied where Gold had hit him with the Ugly Cake tin.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and Rum managed to break away without kicking the HOOK front-man again.
In the distance, they heard sirens. Somewhere on the sidewalk, Rum registered a camera flash.
"Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, love," Killian glowered at Belle. "This little publicity stunt ought to get you into a few magazines, but it won't last."
Smee helped him to stand, and he looked disheveled and smug through his injuries. Jones shrugged off Smee's assistance and sauntered up to Gold. "You're lucky the label already agreed to move this production back to LA. Otherwise I'd have to retaliate. See you back in California, mate."
Then Jones sucker punched him.
By the time the police broke up the fight a few minutes later, Gold had to silence his phone to stop his manager from bothering him. The police took statements, but didn't arrest anyone.
The consummate charmer, Killian magnanimously announced that he wouldn't press charges against a legend like Rumford Goldfellow – even though the old chap had thrown the first punch. They didn't make rock and rollers like they used to, and you had to respect the kind of wild lawlessness that defined the genre. It was a code – honor among scoundrels, and all that. (And, of course, a gent like Rumford Goldfellow wouldn't want to bring charges against a fellow musician; high spirits, artistic expression, it was all part of the process for them.)
The police were happy to accept his excuses, so long as Killian covered the damages to Belle's shop – unless she wanted to bring charges against Gold as well for damage to property? She hadn't, though Rum wouldn't have blamed her in the least. It was entirely his fault.
The Storybrooke sheriff was a quiet, serious man, ill-at-ease with the flurry of cameras that kept turning up on the scene. He'd been quite keen to send everyone home, especially since Belle hadn't actually been harmed.
Rum prickled when the sheriff wrote that down. Property owner: Belle French, 32, unharmed. No, he supposed she hadn't been harmed – Jones knew better. She'd only threatened. Insulted. Bullied and made to feel small by men who didn't deserve to lick the dirt from her shoes. Rum seethed, but he had to play along. Neal would never forgive him if he got arrested again.
Bit by miserable bit, the whole truth came out. Belle knew everything now: all about HOOK and Rumford Goldfellow's ongoing career. She hadn't stopped him from holding her hand, though, so maybe she'd be alright once things calmed down.
Finally, the police forced the mob of onlookers away, and Rum ushered Belle back inside, shutting out the world. The bakery would be closed for a few days, at least, and she completely ignored him as she contacted the relevant contractors, customers, and employees. So far, she seemed okay.
When she finished taking care of her business, Belle walked silently up stairs, to her second-story apartment. Gold followed. She was trembling. He reached out to hold her, but she brushed him away.
"Is it true, Rum?" Belle whispered. "Was what Jones said true?"
Gold tried to remember what Killian told her. Something about a publicity stunt?
He shook his head. "There might be a few paparazzi around the place for a day or two, but your name shouldn't factor into it unless you grant an interview. The news will be mostly about Jones and me, and I have people to handle most of the damage control. I didn't orchestrate this, if that's what you think. I had no idea they'd… You mean the world to me, Belle."
"That's not what I asked, Rum." Her eyes were sad.
"Then please just give me a clue," Gold sighed. "Is it because I'm involved with HOOK? I should have told you about it, I know. But I was afraid. I thought you'd take one look at a younger model …"
"That's not fair," Belle snapped. "Don't you dare make this about something so petty as a handsome face and a couple of songs. I trusted you, Rum. I didn't pry into your work because I trusted you to tell me about anything important, and – for the record – it wouldn't have mattered. I liked you, not them. But you didn't trust me at all, did you?"
"I just didn't want to lose you!" he begged.
"Then answer the question!" she shouted back. "Is it true or not?"
"Is what true!?" he roared.
"Are you really leaving Storybrooke?"
Rum blanched. He hadn't wanted to think about that. Of all the lies and deceptions he'd allowed to fester between them, he'd just assumed that his life as Rumford Goldfellow would be a welcome surprise for her. "Belle, it's… it's complicated. I have a contract."
"You told me you bought a home here! I've seen it – I've… I've stayed over," she blushed.
"I do own that house," he promised. "I bought it for my portfolio, because it made more sense than renting. We can stay there any time you want."
"But you let me believe… I thought… You never said this was temporary! I've always been a short-term convenience for you, haven't I?"
"It wasn't like that… I thought we had a few weeks before I had to worry about going, and you would have come with me," he smiled. "You still can. We can have had everything."
"But you never said! You never asked if I wanted to leave!" She glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. "What was your plan, Rum, to pack a suitcase for me and shout surprise? Or were you just going to leave one night without saying goodbye?"
"No!" he cried. "I swear I wasn't going to abandon you. I swear it. Please – I'll give you the whole world, Belle, just please – please say that you'll forgive me."
"My whole life is here. My business, my friends. I… I loved you. I thought we'd… we'd…"
"What, move in and get married?" he quipped. "You're not the only one with a job, Belle. I have obligations too."
"Don't you dare mock me," Belle snarled. "You never gave any indication that you weren't serious about this."
"Because I am serious!" Gold snarled back. "You can have the life you always wanted: see the world, read all day, give exorbitant sums of money to charity! It's practically a Cinderella story. You've hit the jackpot, you should be happy!"
She slapped him.
"Please leave."
"Belle—"
"Leave!" She backed him through the door.
"But if the label really does call me back to LA tomorrow—"
It didn't matter. She shut the door in his face, and extinguished his final glimmer of hope. Belle was done with him. He'd ruined it all, and he needed a drink.
Ariel came over a few hours later, with a bottle of wine and a big box of chocolates. It wasn't even noon yet, but they started in on both with gusto.
"Wow. It's like… one of the top ten bands in the world right now," said Ariel, scrolling through her phone. "I can't believe he didn't tell you about it!"
"You and me both," Belle grimaced. "I could understand if it was just that, though. I mean, it was stupid and juvenile, but I can understand wanting to be liked for yourself. I just thought… I thought he was staying."
"Oh, girl, you've got it bad," her friend sympathized.
"I can't help it," Belle sniffled. "I loved him, Ariel. I loved him, and he never told me he was leaving."
"The bastard!"
"I know," Belle groaned. "And he never came right out and said he wanted to be my boyfriend, but I just assumed… I mean, what am I supposed to make of this? He never made a commitment, and he's leaving. I'm not even sure I have a right to be mad at him."
"Of course you do!" championed Ariel. She dug around in the pile of chocolate wrappers and produced another truffle, handing it to Belle.
"He says he just assumed I'd go with him," Belle groaned, shoving the whole truffle into her mouth all in one go. "But how am I supposed to believe that? He knows I can't leave the bakery on short notice, and I certainly can't just close up shop and follow him like some groupie. No. I… I'd be a fool to do that, and I already feel like an idiot."
"You never have to see him again if you don't want to. But if you do…"
"But if I do," Belle gulped, digging for another chocolate, "Then I'd have to make a really big, possibly catastrophic decision, on short notice, for a man who lied to me."
They both drained their wine glasses and filled them back up again.
"So what do you want to do?" Ariel asked her.
Belle thought about it. She really didn't know. She loved Rum, but the idea of Rumford Goldfellow scared her, and he'd told so many lies… Well, no. What he'd done was let her run rough-shod over him with her assumptions, never bothering to correct her, and then acted like her life – a good life, a life she'd worked hard for – was some sort of burden she'd be only too happy to escape.
People said a lot of stupid, thoughtless things in the heat of the moment, but that was more arrogant and stupid than most.
"I think I want to make Marco's tricolor cookies," Belle decided. "And I think I want to keep making them until I feel better or we finally get that stupid recipe right."
Rum Gold was on his third glass of whiskey (in the green room at Wonderland Records, one of the few places Dove wouldn't come looking) when he remembered to turn his phone back on. His voice mail was already full. He had a dozen missed calls from his manager, his agent was standing by with a pack of lawyers in case he needed to mount a defense, and his publicist had sent him close to fifty texts congratulating him on all the good press. Jimmy Fallon wanted to interview him. So did Letterman.
Of the seemingly endless list of numbers on his screen, Neal and Belle were the only people who hadn't tried once to reach him. He dialed Neal's number anyway.
"Really, Papa? Is this your idea of stability?" asked his son, without preamble.
"Abrupt as ever, I see," Gold growled. "I take it we've made the news, then?"
"Gee, you think? I'm sorry, but I can't bring Henry into this fiasco. I can't have him caught in the middle of whatever Yoko grudge-match you and Jones are having."
Gold snapped. It was all too much today. "We both know you had zero interest in actually bringing my grandson up here anyway, so don't pretend that this somehow changes anything. What happened today was a mess, fueled by stupid, selfish men who hurt a kind, gentle lady very badly. If you ever refer to Belle by that vulgar term again, I'll.. I'll…"
"Papa…." Neal gasped. "Papa, I'm sorry. I didn't… Who is she?"
Gold groaned. "She's everything. She… she didn't know about the band, she just thought I was a lonely old sod who could use a cupcake. You'd like her. I thought… I thought I'd introduce you to her, if you ever managed to find time for me."
"She got mad when she found out about HOOK?"
"Yes. Sort of. Not really. She's angry because I assumed she'd be excited to come on tour with me."
"Do you know why I don't make time for you, Papa?" Neal sighed. "It's because you always act like I needed your fame. Like I asked you to be a star, and anything less was unacceptable. You act like I've failed in life because people don't chase me across the street for a photo, and then you have the nerve to complain about your lack of privacy. It's infuriating! You want me to be grateful for everything you sacrificed for me? You never sacrificed anything. You just dragged me along with you, from gig to gig, and then wondered why I was sad all the time.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is on a kid to change schools ten times in a year? How lonely? Emma grew up in foster care, and even she managed to finish a full semester in one city. I never even had that! We're trying to give Henry his best chance, not make him feel like he has to win a popularity contest every day. He has friends here, and a happy life, and every time you show up it all goes crazy."
"I… didn't know you felt that way," Rum replied. "After your mum left us, I just did what I thought was best. I didn't want to let you down, like my father did."
"Well, look," Neal began, "I didn't tell you all that to make you feel sorry for me. I told you that, because it sounds like you're treating your girlfriend like a groupie. I don't think you realize that some people don't want to live life like a celebrity. If you would apologize to her, it would probably go a long way. You never apologize. You're always sorry-looking, but you never actually say anything. And if you still want to introduce me to your friend, I'll bring Henry up next weekend."
"It's too late." Gold heard his voice crack. "I ruined everything with Belle, I… The label is probably going to fly us back to LA in the morning. They'll want us front and center for as long as the media coverage lasts."
Neal sighed. "Well take care of yourself, alright? And apologize to Belle. And Emma – you never did apologize for what you said when we had Henry. If it goes well, maybe we could try our hand at a family Thanksgiving."
"Thank you," Rum whispered. "Thank you, son."
"I love you, Papa," said Neal after a pause. "Go get 'em."
If only it would be that easy. As soon as Neal hung up, his phone rang. His manager had booked him on the next flight out to LA. He wasn't going to be on that plane, he already knew. There was still too much that he had to do in Storybrooke.
He could miss this flight, he knew, but there would just be another one the next day. They couldn't force him to stand in the middle of a 3-ring circus and make friendly banter with Jones, to act as though the disaster at Belle's shop that morning had been nothing but a tale as old as rock and roll, but he'd have to go back eventually.
He didn't want to.
But it would only be a matter of time before someone at the label low-jacked his phone and started pulling strings in his contract to make him finish the album; Rumford Goldfellow had obligations, and Rum Gold wouldn't be able to hide from them forever. For the first time in his life, he wished that he could have faded into memory; that he'd ended up a sweet weirdo and a great dad, like Jefferson.
"You don't, you know," a voice told him. It sounded familiar.
"Don't what?" muttered Gold. He'd refused to go meet Dove and was too much a coward to face Belle right now. Instead, he'd settled for whiskey number four and had sprawled rather ignobly across one of the green room sofas.
"Don't have to go back to LA."
Gold shot a glare up at the speaker. Jefferson Madden looked as though he hadn't aged a day. Bastard.
"Sorry, but you mumble to yourself when you're drunk," Jeff shrugged. "Always have done. It was annoying then, too."
"They'll drag me back eventually," Gold grimaced. He sat up and tried to straighten his shirt. "And frankly, I don't see how it's any of your business, anyway."
"You'd be surprised what falls on my plate." The other man flopped down next to him, making the whole sofa shake. "Belle's heartbrokenly baking cookies, and Gracie doesn't understand why the bakery's not open today. You're a prickly diva, but you made my friend happy, so that counts for something."
"And you're the great hero who's going to swoop in and fix it, eh?"
"Not hardly," Jefferson winked. "I only wanted to give you this DVD."
After twelve hours of drinking wine, eating chocolate, and commiserating about men, Belle thought she was as close as she was ever going to get to the perfect tricolor cookie. Marco always said that good Italian cooking came from the chef's feelings – he'd never said those feelings had to be nice ones.
They had over twenty pans of the things stacked in every square inch of available fridge space downstairs, and Ariel and Belle finally had to start boxing them into her upstairs freezer. They'd have to open up shop tomorrow, if only to sell the tricolors before they went to waste.
She could manage it. She'd have to face the music – hardi-har-har – and get on with life. Things had been quiet for the last few hours, at least.
Belle was fairly certain that the last reporter camping around her locked door had called it quits after sunset, but her clothes were floury and her eyes were puffy. Crying over cookies could do that to a girl. So she drew the blinds and stayed away from the front window, just to be safe.
"You don't think those animals will come back do you?" asked Belle. She hadn't been frightened in the daylight, but by night the threat of further retaliation felt all too real.
"I doubt it," said Ariel. "But I can stay overnight, if it would make you—"
She stopped mid-phrase.
They heard the faint sound of music coming from the alley. Belle peeked out through the blinds and was wholly unsurprised to see Rum standing under a street lamp.
Belle laughed despite herself (and possibly with a little help from her good friend, chardonnay).
"Alright, John Cusack, what do you want?" shouted Ariel, opening a window.
"Is Belle there?" Gold begged.
"She doesn't want to talk to you!"
"Ariel," Belle hissed, swatting her friend on the arm. "What do you want, Rum?"
"Well, I'd like to come in, for a start," he blushed. "I thought I'd bring the guitar, and make a grand gesture, but to be honest I feel like a bit of a twat. Besides, I think we've both had enough of being stared at in the street today."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Belle replied. "I'm sorry, but I—"
"Dammit!" Rum swore.
"Fuck off!" shouted Ariel.
"No, no, I got this all wrong. Let me try again," he pleaded. The window stayed open, but it was a near thing.
"Belle, I wanted to apologize. That's all. I'm sorry. God, I've buggered it now. I'm sorry for lying to you, and I'm sorry for assuming that you wanted to be rescued, and I'm sorry that I acted like an arse. The truth is, I'm—"
"Okay, okay," Belle called down to him. "You can come up. You're right. We've had more than enough public exposure for one day."
"Are you going to be alright? Do you want me to stay?" Ariel whispered as they trooped down the stairs to let Rum inside.
"I think it'll be fine. Rum's not like those other ones; he'd never hurt me. He'll leave if I tell him to."
Ariel nodded and hugged her tight. "Alright. But you call me if you need anything, okay?"
"Remind me to give you a raise," Belle smiled.
Ariel glared at Rum as they changed places in the doorway, and Belle chained and bolted the door behind her.
"I'm sorry," Rum whispered. "I never meant to hurt you, but I'm a selfish, ugly man who makes poor choices. I acted like I was the best thing that ever happened to you, but the truth is Belle, that you're one of the best things that's ever happened t me."
"I love you," he added when she didn't say anything.
"But you're still have to go," Belle sighed. "It doesn't really change anything."
"I do," he nodded. "But just for a little while. A very old friend of mine gave me something interesting today, and I think I can use it to get out of my contract with HOOK."
"And then where will you go? I don't want you to give up your career for me any more than I want to give up mine for you."
"Do you trust me?" Rum asked her.
Belle winced.
"No, no, that's fine. It's too soon. But please, please give me a week to get my lawyers working on this. Please say you'll see me again when I come back to Storybrooke."
She didn't want to. She wanted to be mad at him, and he would have deserved it – she knew.
"Hamburgers at Granny's next Tuesday?" Belle offered.
"I'd like that," Rum whispered.
In the end, breaking up HOOK without losing his royalties was a piece of cake. Jefferson had security camera footage of Keith talking with the band's publicist, instructing him to leak their location so he could get out of Storybrooke. And did the janitor in that video look a bit like Jefferson Madden? Gold couldn't say. He strongly suspected that it was.
Someone (Rum couldn't imagine who) had put the idea into Smee and Naughty's heads that breaking the non-disclosure agreement would only result in a wrist-slap and a fine. No wonder the press had descended so quickly on their fight: every major gossip rag had already sent a scout up to the little town earlier that night.
They hadn't counted on the tie-ins to Gold's contract, on him taking all of the songs he wrote with him. It was going to set them back at least six months, at minimum, and they needed a new lead guitarist to tour with them.
Normally, Gold would have been furious with Jefferson for meddling (of the myriad reasons why Wizard Lizard broke up in the first place, Jefferson's antics had definitely featured), but age and fatherhood had mellowed the two of them.
He was even considering going back into business with the daft bassist. Apparently, Jeff and Victor both made good money (though Victor was much the silent partner these days) doing bass tracks and remixes for pop stars and DJs. The future, Jeff assured him, was electronic. But they both had more money than they could ever spend, and they both had people at home who needed him. A full-fledged career with months and months spent on the road wouldn't make sense.
Days spent in a studio, producing sounds for other people sounded feasible. He didn't need it to be exciting, he just needed to have his family.
Then Jefferson had said something else to catch his attention: "Or, we could tell the big labels to get stuffed and make the music we like."
It sounded perfect. Now he just had to convince his family of it.
"But you won't be retiring?" Belle asked again. "I don't want you to give up playing, Rum."
"We don't even have a full set list yet, so I'm certainly not in danger of putting my guitar down any time soon. And we'll still do a few shows, I'm sure," Rum smiled, taking her hand across the table. "Just... more of a long weekend, and less of months living on a tour bus. I'm working on getting my life back together, and I'd like you to be part of it."
"I can't believe you moved here at the drop of a hat," Belle frowned. "What would you do if I said I never wanted to see you again?"
"Be devastated. Wait as long as it took for you to give me a chance again. But I'd still be here, making music with Jefferson, for as long as that lasts. And I'm well rid of HOOK, Belle. At least allow me that."
"It's really what you want to do?" she asked.
"Aye, it is that."
Belle took another bite of her hamburger and looked thoughtful. "I guess I still owe you two cinnamon rolls, then."
Fin.