By Thursday afternoon, Belle was beginning to worry about Mr. Gold.
She hadn't spoken to him since he'd come by the library three days prior and their once friendly banter had tapered off into awkward silences. She'd caught sight of him later that same day, hobbling past the library window in the pouring rain, but he hadn't stopped back in. She'd regretted not throwing open the library doors and insisting he come in almost immediately and had instead watched him miserably limp across the street to the pawnshop.
He'd been thoroughly drenched and lacking an umbrella. The weather wasn't quite cold yet, but it was chilly enough in early fall and the rain must have been freezing. He'd be lucky to come through without a cold.
Belle's fears seemed confirmed when the pawnshop sign remained flipped to closed the next day. She closed up the library that evening, glancing across at the dark shop windows and briefly entertained the idea of stopping by his house with soup. She quickly forced that idea to the back of her mind. After all, the last time they'd spoken he couldn't wait to be out of her presence.
She wasn't even sure why he'd come by the library in the first place, unless he didn't want to appear rude after she'd invited him to check it out. He had seemed so eager to spend time with her at first, practically fabricating reasons to stop by her apartment. He'd come to her place of business all on his own and yet everything had crumbled soon after.
No matter how Belle played things over in her mind she kept coming back to the library. She must have done something to offend him, but no matter how she raked over every interaction, every word exchanged between them, she couldn't figure out what it was.
Unless it wasn't so much what she'd said but how she'd said it.
She had a pattern, she knew. She was a creature of boundless optimism. When she liked someone, she could let her excitement run away with her and come on a little too strong. It had happened before with Will and then again with Mulan. Everything was going great until she started moving too fast and scared the other person away.
But all she'd done with Mr. Gold was ask him to lunch. That was hardly telling him they should move in together after 2 months of dating, a mistake she never planned to make again.
She was certain he had liked her at first and just as certain he'd now changed his mind. And she had no way of finding out why if he stopped opening the pawnshop, the one place he could be reliably found for questioning.
She supposed she could stop by his house. She'd asked Ruby at lunch on Tuesday if she knew where Mr. Gold lived and despite a raised eyebrow, the waitress had told her. He was only a couple of blocks from her own apartment, within walking distance. She'd spent the past two nights trying to come up with plausible reasons for invading the poor man's home but had been unable to think of anything.
But now it was rent day, Belle's first in Storybrooke. She knew he demanded rent be paid on time and in person during business hours at the shop. But the shop was still closed. He couldn't possibly hold a visit against her when she was just trying to pay a bill.
That's how Belle found herself standing on the front steps of a large salmon colored Victorian at 4:30 PM on Thursday afternoon. She had a Tupperware container filled with chicken noodle soup under one arm, her rent check in her jacket pocket and a smile on her face as she knocked on the wooden front door, a patchwork window of stained glass panes winking at her in the setting afternoon sun.
The door swung open after her second knock, revealing a middle school aged boy with thick, dark, wavy hair and very familiar brown eyes gawking at her from the doorway.
"Hi," Belle said, smiling at the boy. "Neal, right?"
Gold had mentioned his thirteen-year-old son to her in one of their earlier friendly conversations, before she'd managed to drive him off, but she had yet to meet the boy in question.
Neal was still just staring at her, his mouth slightly agape. She was growing self conscious, wondering if she'd left the library with food on her face or her mascara had run, anything to explain why Neal had yet to say a word to her, just blinking rapidly before turning a rosy shade of pink. Belle glanced down at her blouse, just to make sure she hadn't spilled any of the soup down her front.
"How?" Neal asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Pardon me?" Belle said, looking back up at the boy.
Neal shook his head, seeming to come back to himself.
"Who are you?" he asked instead, a little rudely. "Sorry," he corrected himself with another shake. "Can I help you?"
Belle smiled.
"I'm Belle French, the new librarian," she said, offering her hand to shake his. Neal stared down at her hand for a moment, his mouth still hanging open. He took her hand briefly before quickly dropping it. What on earth was the deal with the Gold men and their reaction to her?
"Um, my rent is due today and your father wasn't at his shop," she continued. "I came by to pay up."
Neal seemed to relax a bit now that there was an explanation for her appearance. She wondered if they didn't receive many visitors. The way Leroy, Granny and Ruby had warned her off Mr. Gold made her assume that was the case. Maybe the poor boy was just startled to have anyone ringing their doorbell.
"Oh," he said with a nod. He stepped back into the foyer motioning for Belle to follow him. She stepped inside, eager to look around. To her right was a large polished wooden staircase. To her left was a small entry table, groaning under the weight of too many knickknacks. There was a sculpture of a dark haired woman in a blue dress, a spindly silver antique sewing box, and what she suspected was a genuine antique Tiffany lamp. A little further down the hall was an archway that she assumed led to the parlor, though she couldn't see much of it from her current vantage point.
Neal stepped away from her, going to the foot of the stairs and yelling up them.
"Dad! Belle French is here to see you!"
There was a loud thump from somewhere overhead, the sound of heavy footfalls followed by a door banging shut.
Neal looked at Belle then back at the stairs before smirking to himself.
"If my dad asks, I went to Granny's with my friends," he said. He grabbed a jacket from the coat rack next to the front door and left, the stained glass on the door rattling as it thumped closed behind him.
Belle wasn't sure what to do, standing in the foyer of Mr. Gold's home clutching a Tupperware container full of soup. It seemed too forward to go find the kitchen to put it away in the refrigerator. But she felt stupid just standing around waiting for Mr. Gold to appear.
She walked a bit further in to the hall, glancing through the doorway into the parlor. The furniture in there was all antique with carved wooden legs and rich burgundy upholstery. With a child in the house it probably wasn't somewhere they usually sat. There was no television in here for one.
For lack of anything else to do, she walked in to the parlor, sitting down in an uncomfortable wingback chair and waited.
This part of the house looked like an extension of the pawnshop, full of paintings and furniture and even a few musical instruments, violins and cellos stacked in cases in one corner. She wondered if Gold used his house as a warehouse of sorts for his inventory.
There was a set of built in shelves on one end of the room filled to bursting with books and Belle placed her soup down on one of the side tables, standing to go peruse the titles. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books, many of them leather bound and all of them quite old. She pulled one out at random, finding a printing of Pride and Prejudice from 1894, light blue with a gold embossing of a peacock across the cover.
She ran her hand over it with a smile when she heard a cough from behind her. She jumped, nearly dropping the precious book but catching it at the last minute. She placed it back on the shelf, turning to look at Mr. Gold sheepishly.
"I'm afraid you caught me snooping," she said.
Gold was staring at her, a light sheen of sweat across his brow. He was a mess, his usual three-piece suit missing its waistcoat. He was sans tie, his jacket rumpled as though it had spent the night on the floor rather than a hanger and his cuffs hanging open, missing their usual golden cufflinks. His usual clean shave was replaced by a few days worth of stubble.
It was by far the least formally attired she'd ever seen him, and even though he was still technically wearing a suit, she couldn't help but feel like she was seeing him half naked. It certainly appeared as though he'd thrown on his clothes haphazardly to receive her. She wondered what he'd been wearing five minutes before and then blushed, shaking her head. The man looked to be on death's door and she was objectifying him.
"They're just books," he said, his voice hoarse. "How may I help you, Miss French?"
His shirt was misbuttoned, a gap in the fabric exposing a bit of smooth chest and Belle tried her hardest not to focus on it.
"It's rent day," she said cheerfully, pulling the envelope from her jacket pocket. "You said rent was due the first of the month, in person, during shop hours but you weren't at the shop so I came here."
She held the envelope out to him and Gold eyed it warily.
"I'd have thought the townspeople would be happy for a day's reprieve," he said thickly. "I certainly didn't expect anyone to turn up on my doorstep."
He stepped forward, leaning more heavily on his cane than usual, and plucked the envelope out of her outstretched hand.
"Thank you for your punctuality, Miss French," he said formally, inclining his head in a small bow. It was such an old fashioned, gentlemanly thing to do that Belle couldn't help but smile at him.
Silence followed, Gold leaning woozily on his cane and Belle grinning at him like a complete idiot. It was woefully apparent that the poor man needed to be in bed and her presence in his parlor was keeping him from much needed rest.
"Oh! I made soup," she exclaimed, rushing over to the side table and scooping up the container to show him. "Chicken noodle. I figured I ought to perfect it before my first New England winter."
He looked confused for a moment, his brow drawn together in a frown. Belle felt increasingly stupid for stopping by at all, but somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered a passage she'd read once. "Do the brave thing and bravery will follow."
"Well, I made entirely too much," she forged on. "So I thought since I was coming over with the rent anyway, I'd bring some along for you."
"Ah," Mr. Gold said with a nod. "That's very thoughtful of you."
She stepped closer to him to hand him the soup and their fingers brushed sending an electric jolt up Belle's entire arm. She was ridiculous, but she did notice that his hand was shockingly warm.
She chanced placing a hand across his forehead and Gold startled, leaping backward from her. She'd already felt enough though.
"You're burning up!" she exclaimed.
"Ah, yes," he said with a nod. "I'm afraid I've been a bit under the weather the past few days."
"Have you seen the doctor?"
"It's just a cold," Gold said. "I'm sure it will pass in a few days and I'll be none the worse for the wear."
Belle crossed her arms, regarding him through narrowed eyes.
"Well you should have someone in the house to take care of you."
Gold let out a wet chuckle that turned into another cough.
"As dutiful of a son as Neal is, he's not much of a nursemaid," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll be fine."
Belle cast a dubious eye over him. He was trembling ever so slightly, the soup sloshing at the sides of the container in his unsteady grip. He looked ready to collapse.
"You should at least be in bed," she said decisively, ready for an argument. Men were always poor patients in her experience.
"Yes," he agreed at once. "I should. I'll go up now. Thank you so much for the soup, Miss French. You really needn't have troubled yourself."
"It was no trouble," she said, taking the container back from him and setting it back on the side table.
Gold turned, heading wearily back to the stairs and Belle followed him. She had just arrived at the first landing when Gold seemed to realize she was still behind him.
"What are you doing?" he exclaimed, spinning around and nearly toppling back down the stairs.
"Oh!" she said. "I was coming with you."
The poor man looked completely at a loss.
"To get you settled," she said. "And see where your room was so I can bring up the soup once I've heated it."
His eyes bugged from his head for a moment, his cane held in one white knuckled grip and the bannister in the other.
"That's not necessary," he said with a shake of his head.
"You just said Neal is a poor nursemaid. You can't expect to get better if no one is taking care of you."
"I'm a grown man, Miss French, I assure you I'll survive a cold."
So he was going to be stubborn after all. Belle sighed, crossing her arms against her chest.
"So, what, you don't like soup?"
Gold's eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting her to defend her cooking.
"Soup is good food," he said noncommittally.
"Great!" Belle said brightly. "I'll bring you some. Homemade."
"My room is a mess," he said, trying a different tactic when it became clear Belle wasn't budging. "A complete disaster."
"I'm hardly going to hold that against you," Belle said with a snort.
He chose that moment to erupt into a hacking cough, doubling over and clinging to the bannister for support. Belle reached for him, placing a supportive hand on his back. He gasped for breath, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"Why?" he asked, once the coughing had subsided. "Why do you want to help me?"
Belle shrugged, looking down at her feet.
"You're my friend," she said after a moment. "I like to help my friends and I don't have a whole lot of them in Storybrooke yet so I'm not going to let the ones I do have die of illness."
Gold stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to puzzle her out. It was a welcome change from a few days ago when he wouldn't look her in the eye.
"You do know that no one in this town likes me, don't you?" he admitted. "That any association with me will probably ostracize other potential friendships."
Belle just shrugged again.
"I trust my own judgment better than anyone else's," she said. "And I like you."
She had either talked her way around him or else he was too exhausted to keep standing on the stairs because he finally relented.
"Alright," he said, hurrying up the last few steps to the upstairs landing. He quickly made his way down the hall to the last door, nearly sprinting the last few steps belying both his cane and his cold. Belle walked at a more leisurely pace behind him, arriving just in time to see him grab something off the nightstand and shove it under the bed. She hardly had a moment to wonder what was so embarrassing he needed to shove it away before he was standing again, wheeling to face her. His face went pale, his footing unsteady and Belle rushed forward to grab his elbow before he collapsed.
Gold grabbed on to her waist as she helped him ease back to sit on the bed, his eyes shut against the sudden faintness.
The bed was unmade, used tissues littering the red and gold duvet, but otherwise his room was pristine. The only concessions to his illness were a box of tissues and a pack of menthol cough drops on his bedside table. The furniture was all dark cherry wood, a pair of baroque looking lamps set on the matching side tables. A large still life oil painting hung over an ornate dresser. There was a pair of French doors that seemed to lead on to a private balcony, a pair of striped armchairs and a drinks cart set in front. The whole room was like that, two chairs, two side tables, two dressers. Belle wondered for the first time about Mr. Gold's ex-wife, if he missed her or missed being married, having someone to fill that second chair.
"Sorry," Gold muttered, pulling Belle from her observations. He let go of her waist once he was settled and pulled further away than Belle thought was entirely necessary. "A bit dizzy."
"It's fine," she said. That brief moment of contact was the closest she'd ever been to the man. The extreme heat radiating from his body tempered any enjoyment she could have found in the encounter however.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked. The pallid shade of his skin was worrying her and she thought he might be sick at any moment. "When was the last time you had a glass of water? Have you taken anything for the fever?"
"No," Gold croaked out hoarsely. "But please, don't trouble yourself."
"None of that," Belle interjected. "We've already concluded that I'm here to stay."
A small smile crossed Gold's face at her stubbornness and Belle counted it a small victory.
"Alright," she said, suddenly all business. "You get settled in and I'll go get you some water. Do you have any Tylenol?"
Gold nodded.
"Medicine cabinet," he said, motioning toward the bedroom door. "In the hall bathroom."
She headed down to the kitchen first, spooning some of the chicken noodle soup into a bowl and popping it in the microwave. It took her a few tries to find the drawer with the silverware and she couldn't help but notice the stack of take out menus in the junk drawer she opened first. She wondered if he cooked often or if she could cook for him. Maybe some day soon, once he was feeling better, she could invite him over for dinner. She wasn't a great cook by any means as her soup would soon prove, but better than Al's Pancake World, of that she was certain.
When the soup was heated through, she filled a glass with cold water and brought both upstairs with her. She stopped off in the bathroom, quickly finding the bottle of Tylenol and brought the lot in to Gold, setting her supplies on his bedside table.
He had taken off his suit jacket, leaving it in a crumpled heap by the bed and she made a mental note to hang it up once he was comfortable.
"Here you go," she said, handing him the pills and the water. He took them gratefully, gulping down most of the water and placing the half empty glass back on the side table before leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.
He was still in his shirtsleeves and trousers, lying on top of the covers and that wouldn't do at all.
"Don't you have pajamas or sweatpants, something that would be more comfortable than what you're wearing?"
Gold picked up the glass of water again, taking another long sip, seemingly stalling for time.
"I don't usually sleep in pajamas," he admitted finally, staring down into the glass.
"Oh!" Belle exclaimed, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks at the thought of Mr. Gold slipping between his sheets in nothing but the skin he was born in. "Well if you want to strip down to your underwear, I promise I'll try not to ogle you too badly. "
He choked on the water he was drinking, liquid dribbling down his chin and on to the blue silk of his dress shirt.
"What?" he sputtered.
"It was a quip," Belle said with a laugh. "Not serious. I do want you to be comfortable though so if you'd like to change I'll happily leave the room."
"No," he exclaimed, reaching for her. His hand only barely brushed hers before he pulled it back. "No. I'm quite comfortable, I assure you."
She was able to at least coax him under the covers and soon he'd devoured the entire bowl of soup as well. Belle had absolutely no medical training, but she was feeling quite adept at her attempts at nursing the infirm.
"When's the last time you ate anything substantial?" she asked as he scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, picking up the last bit of soup.
He glanced away as though he was trying to remember.
"My throat has been too sore to really want to eat since Tuesday. The housekeeper has kept Neal well fed, luckily."
"You have a housekeeper," Belle said with a nod. Of course he did. He was a wealthy, single man with a demanding full time job. Now she felt even sillier for making such a fuss over Mr. Gold. He could probably have the housekeeper make better chicken soup than Belle's pitiful attempt. At least Mr. Gold had seemed to enjoy it.
"I don't pay Mrs. Potts near enough to deal with me when sick," he said, as if reading her mind. "Not that it's a regular occurrence. I promise I usually have a much stronger constitution."
As if to highlight the statement, he let out a mighty sneeze. Belle handed him a Kleenex from the box next to his bed.
"Yes, well, walking around Maine in September during a rain storm could take down even the mightiest colossus."
He groaned, letting his head flop back amongst the pillows.
"You saw that?"
She giggled.
"Afraid so. Why were you walking in the rain? Surely whatever meeting you had to go to was indoors."
It was a sly attempt at catching him in his lie, getting him to admit that he'd run out of the library to avoid her rather than because of any real pressing need.
"It was the wrong day to attempt an afternoon stroll," he said glibly, skirting her question.
There wasn't much else she could do for Mr. Gold other than fetch him a fresh glass of water and clean up, so she left him to rest, taking his bowl and spoon down to the kitchen and rinsing them before placing them in the dishwasher. She refilled his glass of water from the dispenser on the fridge and added a little ice from the freezer to keep it cool.
She still felt a little awkward being here, despite the fact she'd been moderately helpful. She couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Gold was only accepting her aid because he was too sick and tired to fend her off. He certainly didn't seem the type to show vulnerability lightly. Was he opening up to her because he wanted to or because she'd caught him in a fragile moment? She hated to think she was taking advantage of any part of him.
Once she'd placed the rest of the soup in the refrigerator with the hopes he might try some more later, she headed back up the stairs to bring Mr. Gold his water and say goodbye. He was sound asleep, his mouth slack and eyes moving rapidly behind their closed lids. His hair was so beautiful, even unwashed and slightly matted as it was. She wondered what it would feel like between her fingers, slipping like silk as she gripped on to the long tresses.
Belle bit down on her lip. Here she was objectifying a sick man again. She was the absolute worst.
She noticed his suit jacket, still on the floor next to the bed where he'd dropped it. It probably cost more than 2 months rent on her apartment and she hated to see it tossed aside in a crumpled heap. She figured if Mr. Gold were in better condition he wouldn't want to see his jacket treated like that either. He was so meticulous about his things, everything kept immaculate, not a hair out of place. It was why it was so thrilling to see him disheveled now. It made him more human, less like the town terror. Belle supposed that's why he never showed his vulnerabilities to the public. He cultivated his bad reputation, but it had to be lonely as well.
She tiptoed into the room, careful not to wake her sleeping patient and crept closer to the bed, gently placing the water glass next to the Kleenex box. He looked so peaceful, his face losing a bit of its strain in sleep making him look several years younger, almost boyish.
She knew she shouldn't, that it was a gross invasion of his personal space, but Belle was like a woman possessed. She reached out, letting her hand whisper across his cheek in a gentle caress. His stubble rasped against her fingers and sent a shiver down her spine. He was still hot, worryingly so, and his head suddenly rolled to the side, nearly pinning Belle's hand between his cheek and the pillow. She pulled back quickly, barely containing a surprised squeak.
Gold murmured something in his sleep that she couldn't make out, followed by a soft sigh. She wondered if he often talked in his sleep or if it was brought on by the illness. She was about to turn to leave him to his dreams when he spoke again, louder this time.
"Belle," he moaned through chapped lips. Belle jumped, surprised to hear her given name. He'd only ever called her 'Miss French' before now.
"Yes?" she said, leaning over him to catch his words. "What do you need?"
Gold smiled, his face still pressed in to the pillow so she could only see half of it.
"Beautiful Belle," he sighed. "So pretty. So perfect."
His voice was coming out in a little sing-song way she'd certainly never heard him use before. He definitely wasn't properly awake and he definitely didn't know she was beside him. Belle worried her lip, wondering if she should leave. But he'd called her beautiful, pretty. She thrilled at the compliments and the fact that maybe Mr. Gold did like her after all, or at the very least the look of her.
He smiled again, his dimples on full display. He really was very handsome, and apparently he felt similarly about her if his sleep babbling was anything to go by. Once he was over this illness maybe things would work out in Belle's favor for once.
"Looks so lovely in her knickers," Gold snuffled into the pillow. Belle's eyes widened, wondering if she'd really heard what she'd just thought she heard.
"Lovely knickers," he sighed and Belle had to suppress a laugh. He appeared to be having quite the fever dream.
She leaned closer, trying to catch more of the delicious little things he was saying when suddenly his eyes flew open, his hand reaching out to grab her by the wrist. Belle squealed, wrenching back in surprise.
"You're here!" he said, blinking his eyes as if he expected her to fade away with his dream.
"Yeah," Belle said. "Sorry. I was just about to leave. Unless you need anything else?"
Gold dropped her hand, rubbing his palms on the bed covers. He shook his head.
"No," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Nothing. Thank you for everything you've done, Miss French."
Belle smiled a little sadly. She was back to being Miss French now that he was conscious.
"Alrighty then," she said, her mouth and brain disconnecting somewhere along the line to produce that ridiculous phrase. "Um, I hope you feel better soon."
She gave him one last smile before showing herself out, rushing down the large staircase and out the stained glass paneled front door into the crisp twilight outside with a skip in her step. It was a short walk to her apartment and Belle couldn't stop grinning like a schoolgirl the entire way. She finally felt confident that Mr. Gold did like her after all. The real test would be getting him to admit it when awake.