A/N: Really enjoying writing this story - hope you're enjoying reading it!
Disclaimer: Imitation is the highest form of flattery; no copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 4: Out Of Hope
Belle is alive.
She was breathing—he had seen it, seen her chest rise and fall with short, shuddering breaths as she looked up from the darkness of her cell, had felt it as he carried her in his arms, carried her out of the danger he had put her in and left her in and now, far, far too late, finally rescued her from. She breathed, and he would have gladly, joyously, given up every breath of air he himself took if only it meant that she kept sipping in air, kept breathing, kept that pale pink tint in her cheeks, that spark in her perfect blue eyes, that way she had of reaching out a hand to him when no one else would.
She was breathing, and she was moving, and she was speaking, and she made a shapeless hospital gown look more elegant than any ballgown, and she was as brave and strong as he remembered, and it was all more than he had ever convinced himself to hope for. He had reached out for straw and caught something so much more precious than gold, grasped at that last, impossible hope and been granted the world.
But there was more—though how can there possibly be anything more, anything better, than her being alive?—more to leave him in a daze of wonder and awe and hope threatening to break the heart he now had back in his chest.
She remembered.
She remembered him. Remembered Rumplestiltskin and the Dark Castle and teacups and straw turning into gold and springtime and roses and flirting with a monster and True Love's Kiss.
She remembered.
He had not even been able to comprehend what it would mean for her to be alive, let alone managed to plan what he would do should she not remember him. He had tried to warn himself that the curse would have her mind in thrall, but only when he was on his way down the narrow staircase leading to her dungeon; he had tried to brace himself for the lack of recognition, of that spark he'd seen there those last weeks in her presence, but only when he was reaching out to open her dungeon door—not the first time he'd done that, either—careless of the fact that he was using up some of his carefully hoarded magical items to unlock the doors, heedless of the fact that the flickers of magic would alert Regina to his actions. Let her know, he'd thought fiercely. Let her know, and fear.
For all his hectic preparation, he had not been ready for that first sight of her, for the sudden joy exploding into being within his chest where so long had resided only emptiness stamped with two names, for the answering hope in her eyes. She had breathed, and she had spoken his name, and she had touched him, and she had trusted him, and he did not think he would ever be able to fully grasp all that those things meant to him.
She was alive, and she remembered him, and from all that he could deduce, she was not angry at him.
But no. She was good and brilliant and all that was right in any world, and that explained why she could be alive, why she could escape the fate evil had tried to write for her. But he was still the monster, still the beast, and beasts didn't get happy endings. So she could be alive, and she could even recognize him, but he could not expect things to be the way they had been before his fear and suspicion and alarm ruined what would have been the happy ever after were he anyone else.
Besides…she had flinched away from him.
Rumplestiltskin was used to people recoiling in fear or disgust; Gold was accustomed to people drawing away from him for the same reasons. In fact, he had grown to relish the reaction, to court it, to entertain solely for the purpose of making them flinch away from him. It kept them out of his space, kept himself safe behind the barriers he established, kept his plans and goals and possessions secret. He smiled at people sometimes, just to see them start away, said things with just the right intonation to bring out that little jump to their stance, revulsion and repugnance turned into nothing more damaging than a game he played with them all.
In fact, he had very intentionally tried to make Regina flinch away from him on his short visit there before Belle woke, ambling into her office as if he hadn't just expended more magic than he'd used in three decades, as if he wasn't incandescent with rage and fury and the glacial desire for vengeance.
"Interesting places you keep bargaining chips," he'd said as casually as if remarking on the ever-present bowl of apples on the table.
She'd known he was coming, of course, which was why she hadn't flown to the hospital. Regina only liked confrontation when she was the one who held the power, and she knew—oh, she knew—that she had no chance against him in this situation. So she'd only given him a tight smile and said, "You can't blame me for trying."
"Oh, no." He'd given her his own tight, close-mouthed smile, viciously pleased when she paled, her hands splayed painfully tightly against her desk so they wouldn't tremble. "I don't blame you at all. In fact, dearie," and oh, how he'd drawn that word out, flashed a smile that finally bared teeth, lifted his cane and examined its length, "I commend you on your play." And he'd saluted her with his cane, relishing the tiny flinch she'd made when he brought the cane back down only to rest it on the stark floor.
"You would have done the same in my place," she'd said, and give her all due credit, she admitted and faced up to his wrath and met his eye with a cant to her chin. Never one to back down, that was the Queen, fighting to the bitter end. And oh, how bitter her end would be; he'd planned for it already, but now he'd personally make sure of it.
"Indeed, which interestingly enough, brings me to the point of this little chat." He'd reached out, greedily licked up the sight of another miniscule flinch, closed his gloved hand over the framed photo resting on her desk. Let his dark eyes rest so pointedly on the smiling boy staring up at him, dark hair tousled, one hand held in the image of his mother's. "We've been playing by rules, your Majesty, unspoken rules, but rules nonetheless. It seems, however—unfortunately—that you've decided to change the style of play."
"Rumplestiltskin—"
And yes, the power, the sheer, potent magic in that name. His name. He'd basked in it, straightened before it, felt some of that fiery pain in his knee recede, sensed just a hint of caged lightning crackle around him.
"You see, your Majesty," he'd said, eyes caressing Henry's fixed form, intimately aware of every tensed muscle, every nervous tic, every furious fluttering of eyelashes, every beat of her not-quite-empty heart. "I made a mistake, left my weakness where you could find it, let you use it, steal it, lock it away." And he'd had to stop, had to take a deep breath, had to loosen his grip over the buckling glass, had to pull that buzzing magic back inside himself before it could burrow deep inside Regina's flesh and sear every delicate vein to dry, barren tracks of pain. "That was my mistake," he'd said when he could speak without snarling. "But you made a mistake too, and you've left pictures of him everywhere, and you've paraded him around in front of the whole town for anyone and everyone to see."
"You wouldn't…" And then, finally, deliciously, Regina's façade had cracked, and there was pure terror hiding there underneath.
And Rumplestiltskin smiled. Set down the picture, turned it so she could see the crack running across the boy's face. "The rules have changed, your Majesty. So let's make new ones."
"Don't…" She half-rose from her chair, one hand raised in supplication, her voice that snap of command with that ragged edge of desperate terror. "Don't take him. Don't touch him. He's just a child."
"And what was Belle?" he growled, lightning and lava and frigid ice roaring outward from him, pure death in his eyes. And she'd recoiled, falling back into her chair, eyes wide, breaths panicked, and once more, he'd contained himself, held himself back, caged the beast within, smiled that malevolent smile that had frightened all he'd met save for one young, brave girl. "Let's set out the new rules, shall we?"
"What do you want?" Resentment, like cancer, crawling through her words, defeat blackening eyes darker even than his.
"So glad you asked." A deal, a contract, a desperate soul—he was more Rumplestiltskin in that moment than he had been since a curse had been unleashed to rip away one world and grasp strangling, twisting hold of another. "I have Belle. She's mine. You don't touch her, don't go near her, don't speak to her, don't mention her. In return, you have Henry. He's yours. But…if Belle dies, Henry dies. If Belle disappears, Henry disappears. If Belle gets sick, Henry gets sick. If Belle gets frightened, Henry gets frightened. Get the picture, dearie?"
"Yes," she'd hissed. "Belle for Henry. Deal."
"Good." Rumplestiltskin had turned, then, and his cane hadn't stopped him from making the flourish with his hands he'd made a thousand times before yet hadn't made in decades. "I'd be very careful if I were you, Regina. Your son's life is in your hands. Guess we'll finally find out how much you really do love him, eh?"
And he'd turned unexpectedly to give her one last baring of his teeth, one last ruthless burn of his eyes, and she'd flinched away from him. Left behind, seething, as he walked out of her office, walked away, not afraid to turn his back on her, not at that moment, though he'd have to be careful in the future, have to be prepared for her desperate wrangling to get the upper hand once more.
Yes, he loved seeing Regina flinch back, didn't mind the doctors and nurses drawing away from him as quickly as they could…but Belle? Belle hadn't recoiled from him since…since when? When had she ever flinched away from him? When had she ever pulled away from his touch? Avoided his presence? Recoiled in fear?
She hadn't. Ever. Even when he snarled like a ravening beast at her free offer of her heart, ripped it into shreds with accusations and roars, stamped it beneath his feet with his order to Go and his blatant lies. Even when he took her arms in his hands and shook her slender frame, felt her bones beneath his cruel fingers, lashed his hot breath over her confused and crushed face. Even then, she had not pulled away, had instead reached out to try to catch hold of his hands, had raised her voice to sound over his. Even then, she'd turned on her heel and faced him and lashed out with her own piercing, stabbing, prophetic words.
But now…now at only the sight of his face—staring down at her, taken aback by the impact of seeing her eyes again, glad to have chased everyone else from the room so he could be with her—she wept. And when he reached out to draw a finger over her features, so afraid she was only a delusion brought on by worry over that laughing, sobbing teacup, she'd pulled away from his touch.
It threw him off, he admitted it—confused him utterly. She had said his name, and slipped into his arms as if she'd always been there, and entrusted her protection to him with no hint of doubt, and begged for his presence, and looked to him instead of Emma, and chosen to go back to the dubious protection of his home.
But she'd flinched from him.
"You're not a monster."
Belle had always confused him, from the moment she'd knelt and bit her lip over a dropped cup all the way through the day she'd returned to her captivity even after being granted freedom, so perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that she was already confusing him again. Already making him forget plans and ignore goals and take his eyes off his single-minded pursuit. Already bringing back those feelings of long-forgotten hope and long-abandoned uncertainty and long-ignored love.
And she is alive.
And that was enough for now. That was enough forever. Even if she hadn't chosen to come home with him, if he'd never been able to talk to her again, he would be happy if only he knew she was breathing and smiling and alive. He'd be happy if he had to get by on only occasional glimpses of her in the town.
But she is coming home, he reminded himself.
Home. And suddenly the house he'd been living in for over twenty-eight years felt like a home, took on the same qualities the Dark Castle had been imbued with the instant Belle arrived. Rumplestiltskin had felt his castle transform into home, and now, in Storybrooke as in their real world, Mr. Gold felt the same.
Of course, Belle didn't walk in on her own this time. No, she was carried in by a pair of orderlies from the hospital, borne like treasure up the stairs and into the room he'd hurriedly prepared for her. Not that it had been hard. There were more bedrooms than he needed in this house—easy to accomplish when you only need one—and without him ever analyzing it, he'd put everything he found through the years that he thought Belle would like into this one room. Just like he'd made a room for Bae in the Dark Castle, he'd kept a room for Belle, too, in this house.
He hovered at the edges, his own leg useless after what he'd demanded of it to carry Belle to safety. He shrugged aside his childish desire to carry her to her room and deposit her gently in her bed himself; he'd never been a knight in shining armor, some Prince Charming to inspire stories and swoons and sighs, and this was just one more example of that. But still he hovered and watched, hands tightly folded over the handle of his cane, a lump in his throat to see the room—empty even with all the books and soft blankets and paintings of the ocean—now brought to life and meaning and purpose by the presence of the woman he'd so long thought was dead.
"She's sleeping," Gypsy informed him as she came out of the bedroom. Her mass of black curls spilled over her shoulders, her vivid purple blouse at odds with the wood and amber colors of his house, her compassion dwarfing her wariness with him. He disliked the necessity of having a live-in nurse, but he knew Belle would probably need one, and Gypsy Chime was the only one he'd trust with Belle's life. The nurse didn't like Gold—no one did—but Belle was an outcast who'd been hurt and Gold had offered to forgive Ms. Chime's family's debts, and those were reasons enough and more than to ensure Gypsy's complete loyalty.
"Medicated sleep?" he asked, arching a brow.
"No, just tired from the move." Gypsy hesitated, then offered him a tiny—reassuring? no, it couldn't be—smile. "She'll probably be awake in an hour or so, and then I'll have her take a shower and get her changed into something else. That should make her feel better all on its own. Do you…do you have any clothes for her?"
"I'll get some," Gold said, grateful for this opportunity to be helpful, to do something. He turned to leave but was halted by Gypsy.
"Mr. Gold." She snatched her hand back long before it could reach his sleeve. "Not to be too forward, but have you ever bought clothing for a woman before?"
With an irritated sigh, Gold turned back to the nurse. "Fine. You do it. Buy whatever you think she'll need immediately; she can pick out the rest when she's better."
Gypsy took the credit card he handed her, but her turquoise eyes were intent and somewhat wondering on him.
"You have a problem?" he snapped, fighting to keep the bit of magic he'd reclaimed locked within him. It had been a long time since he'd had any magic, and he was out of practice in harnessing it to his soul when it so badly wanted to leap out at anything and everything.
"No," Gypsy said slowly. "Not at all, Mr. Gold." She gave a slight shake of her head and gestured back to Belle. "If you'll watch her, I'll be back in a half hour or so."
Gold didn't bother to watch the woman slip down the stairs and out of the door; he had eyes only for Belle. Drawn forward, slowly, as if mesmerized, he found himself standing at her bedside, standing over her. But that was wrong. He shouldn't be towering over her, not like this; he was taller than her, but it had almost always been her looking down at him, from her perch on the table or her work on a ladder or her position standing to serve him while he sat at the table. And strangely, he had never minded her looking down at him, not when she always did it with a smile, with an open, curious expression, with that searching look in her eyes, as if trying to puzzle him out.
Love is layered.
Heavily, Gold sank into the chair he'd placed by her bedside, his legs buckling under him. All the memories he'd fled for so long—the memories that had crept their way into his mind no matter how much he distracted himself with the contents of his shop—came flooding back into his mind, drowning and silencing the laughter of the teacup. And finally, after an eternity of grief, his world was finally quiet, hushed, broken only by the sound of Belle breathing in and out.
He couldn't help himself, then, couldn't pull back and list all the reasons he shouldn't. He reached out with a trembling hand and lightly, so gently, slid his fingers beneath hers, curled his hand around hers. He wondered if it was only his desperate hoping that made him think her own fingers curled around his. He could feel tiny bones beneath the paper-thin flesh, but it was warm, and in her wrist, her pulse thrummed rhythmically, and that was enough.
Belle is alive.
She slept deeply, brilliant eyes covered by curving lashes, pale skin perfect, unmarred by scarring inflicted by scourges or flaying. She was thin, almost too slight under the blankets and ragged hospital gown, but her fingers curved around his, and her chest rose and fell, and he could have sat there a hundred years and been perfectly content just watching her breathe. Even the shards of glass locked inside his knee, grinding with every movement, couldn't convince him to move; he was afraid to even breathe, terrified he would shatter this moment and bring it all crashing down on him.
A moment or a decade could have passed, it was all the same to him. But then she stirred, turning her head into the pillow, her hand shifting in his. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes jerked up to hers…and her eyes were open. Staring straight back at him. Silver-glazed blue that seemed to catch every shred of light and refract it back at him, blinding him, dazzling him. And she smiled at him, and her hand tightened on his, and he thought his heart might stop mid-beat.
Because she wasn't drawing away in fear, wasn't yanking her hand out of his, wasn't shaking. She was smiling at him, and that look in her eyes…that look was exactly the same look he'd seen on her face when he'd caught her and turned from the unfamiliar sunlight to the even more brilliant sight of her, content and unmoving in his monstrous arms, staring at him as if she were seeing something so much more deserving than he really was.
His throat was dry, his tongue thick in his mouth, his mind too dazed to think of a single thing to say. All he could do was curve his hand further over hers, cradling it as tenderly as he knew how. All he could do was hope that the stark emotion on his face was enough to say everything he couldn't utter.
She opened her mouth, and he was sure she was going to say his name, was already anticipating the thrill of hearing his real name spoken in her beautiful voice, was leaning forward, his free hand itching to reach up and cup her cheek in the curve of his palm—but the moment was broken when Gypsy came into the room, slipping through the open door, setting overflowing plastic bags down in the corner and smiling at Belle.
Gold snatched the magic back inside him, squeezed his eyes shut until he was sure he had it under control, sure it wouldn't snap outward to incinerate the interruption that had ripped away this transient moment of perfection between him and Belle. With an inward pang, he also snatched his hand free of Belle's; Gypsy was loyal to Belle, not him, and the last thing he needed was the nurse bringing tales to Emma that would give her an excuse to take Belle away from him.
"Awake already?" Gypsy bestowed a congenial smile on Belle. "If you'd like and are feeling up to it, we can get you a shower and some fresh clothes. I don't know about you, but that always makes me feel better."
"Belle—" Gold turned to Belle to introduce her to the nurse, but he was taken aback by the stricken expression on her face as she stared at Gypsy. "Belle?" he said again, more quietly, and it took all his self-control not to take her into his arms and try to soothe away whatever was hurting her.
For just a split second, she met his gaze, and there was such awful, crushing sadness there that Gold felt the heart she'd just returned to his chest split in two. He'd do anything to keep her from feeling a moment's more of pain, and yet he had no idea what was causing this. What did that evil soul do to you? he wondered fiercely. He'd kill her! Forget the curse and the prophecy and his plans; he'd destroy Regina for whatever she'd done that left such agony written across Belle's beautiful, beloved features.
But it was only there an instant, and then it was gone, and she only looked tired and defeated.
"Belle," he said again. He was repeating himself, but he really couldn't bring himself to care. He hadn't said her name for decades, and just saying it now, knowing she heard and recognized and would respond to it, was a healing balm to his soul. "This is Gypsy Chime. She's going to take care of you."
Belle swallowed, but managed a small smile. "Thank you," she said quietly, her voice choked.
And Gold faded back to the edges as Gypsy came forward and wrapped Belle up in her generous compassion and calming protectiveness. He backed through the door, treating himself to one last look of Belle, now sitting on the edge of her bed as Gypsy helped her stand—he met her eyes, and his breath caught because her eyes were so shadowed and dark, mere hollows in her face. But then the door closed, and he was alone in the empty hallway, and Belle was once more hidden from him.
Fighting back the urge to put his fist through the wall, Gold took a deep breath and straightened his bad leg. He stared at the closed door a moment longer, then turned and found himself face to face with Emma Swan.
"Sheriff Swan," he said, managing to hide his startlement and keep hold of the bit of magic he possessed. How embarrassing if the Dark One lost his only magic because he was surprised by a cat-footed sheriff, he thought wryly. "Finished up with your rescue of the others in Regina's basement?"
"There was no one else down there—including the janitor we left behind."
"What a pity," Gold said, but he couldn't find the energy needed to infuse any real feeling into his tone. He had Belle and he couldn't care less about whoever else Regina might have had locked down there. "Has your nurse given you any useful information?"
"She's about as helpful and communicative as you," Emma remarked flatly.
"So what are you doing here?" he asked, managing to quirk an eyebrow as if he really cared about her answer. All he cared about was in the room behind her, but he knew if he let on just how much he cared about Belle, the over-protective, over-suspicious Emma Swan would be camping out at Belle's bedside, or worse, forcibly moving her to her own place. And that was not something Gold was going to let happen. He'd just gotten Belle back; he couldn't lose her again.
"I'm staying here, remember? You offered me a room."
"Ah, yes. I prepared rooms for you and the live-in nurse—who I'm assuming you've met since someone had to let you in the house—downstairs."
"Downstairs?" Emma's eyes were hard, stubborn, and Gold felt a surge of impatience with these ridiculous obstacles. Why would they not all leave him alone to be with Belle? The savior was denser than he'd thought possible if she really thought he could ever hurt Belle. Not again. Never again. "And where's your room?"
"There." Gold pointed to a door at the end of the hall. "Belle's staying up here because there's a private bathroom attached to her room and because it's the largest bedroom. You can examine it if you think I'm trying to cheat her."
"I don't think that." But her eyes didn't lose that hard gleam either. "I just think either Gypsy or I should stay up here with her in case she needs us during the night. What about that room? I could stay there." She gestured to the closed door between his and Belle's room, took a step toward it, stopped abruptly when Gold interposed his cane in front of her, his hand rock-steady.
"That room is special," he said coldly, menacingly, his heart in his throat. "It's for only one person. Nobody else uses it."
Emma studied him intently for a long moment before finally giving a short nod, almost uncertainly. Gold hid his sigh of relief when she stepped back; he didn't think he had the energy he'd need to stop her from entering the room had she decided to force the issue. And he knew he didn't have the emotional resources necessary to glimpse the inside of that room with all its personalized furnishings and familiar articles.
"Fine," she conceded. "But I know something fishy is going on here, Mr. Gold, and I'm not going to let you get away with anything."
"More accusations," he said, and despite himself, a bit of his tiredness leaked into his voice. He turned back to Belle's room, took a step. "I assure you, Sheriff Swan, I have no intention of harming Belle."
"Really? I looked her up, Gold."
He froze, leaned carefully on his cane, did not turn to look at her. The curse, he assured himself. The curse will have made sure there was something to find. It was self-protective, always wrapping itself more tightly around its inhabitants. It would have taken his story and, with Belle's discovery, made sure there were documents to prove what he'd said. Or it should have. But Emma was here now, and things were different, and…and beasts didn't get happy endings. Belle was alive, and that was more happiness than he deserved, and he knew down to the very marrow of his bones that something would happen to take it all away. But not so soon. Please, not so soon!
"There's no record of her having worked for you," Emma continued. "In fact, when I talked to Moe French, he said she had never worked for you."
Regina, he thought. Even now trying to work against him, trying to distract him with all these little problems and tasks and inconsistencies, trying to make herself time to find another bargaining chip. With a slight grimace of pain as he moved, he swiveled to face Emma—the savior he'd been waiting for with dying patience, standing there and doing the mayor's dirty work without even knowing it.
"Of course he'd say that," Gold sneered. "He wouldn't admit to the fact that his own daughter worked for his creditor. How would that make him look? Sending his daughter to get a job in the hopes it would make his own debts a little lighter—can't really see any self-respecting father admitting to that, can you? And there were no public records that she worked for me because her wages went straight to her father's debts. I have paperwork at my shop to prove the whole thing; I'll show them to you in the morning. Now," he shifted his weight, tried not to let it show how much he was leaning on his cane, tried not to stagger as his exhaustion finally caught up to him, "if there's nothing else, I'll check on my guest and then retire for the night."
"Gold." Emma took a step closer to him—closer than he liked anyone to be, and he tensed—and met his eyes. "What is the deal between you and this girl? You do realize that she's a lot younger than you and that she's been hurt and is vulnerable right now, don't you? You know what this looks like?"
"Your concern is touching," he commented acerbically. "But our relationship is really no concern of yours. As to the rest, yes, I realize that she's hurt and vulnerable. If you'll recall, I'm the one who rescued her. Now, I'm sure you can find everything you need downstairs—your room is off the hallway, third doorway to the left, and the bathroom's just across from it. If you need anything, Ms. Chime can help you find it."
Emma let him go, and Gold was glad. He didn't think he could have kept the surging of his magic concealed for much longer. He waited until he heard her going down the stairs before he knocked once on Belle's door, waited for Gypsy's "Come in," and then stepped inside.
"Do you mind if Mr. Gold comes in?" Gypsy was asking Belle, who didn't appear to have noticed Gold's entrance, staring up at Gypsy as the nurse helped her back into bed. Belle's hair was a damp riot of curls cascading down her back, soft enough to touch, and Gold's hand clenched into a fist at his side. The flannel pajamas she was wearing were just a bit too large for her, but their dark green color suited her, made her skin look porcelain-pale, reflected back jade highlights to catch in her eyes.
Gold froze where he was, unable to look away from her, his heart in his throat. He knew, then, that for all the centuries he had lived and for everything he had seen, there was no more beautiful sight than this.
"You call him Mr. Gold, too?" Belle asked Gypsy, swinging her legs up on the bed. She sounded surprised, and her eyes—still sad and tight with weariness—were wide.
"What else would I call him?" Gypsy asked with a sideways grin as she settled the blankets around Belle's tiny form.
"You don't know?" Belle blurted, and the confusion on her face made Gold smile, just a bit, remembering the baffled look she'd worn on her face after getting a glimpse of one of his stranger conjurations. "I mean, surely you would know."
Gypsy frowned down at her. "Know what? His first name? I'm almost convinced he doesn't even have one."
Belle was stunned, though Gold couldn't figure out why; the most difficult spell had always been easier to untangle than Belle's thoughts. "No, I…you don't…aren't you the one who…well, how long have you been here?"
"Belle," Gold said suddenly, interrupting, stepping farther into the room. He had had only seconds to tell her the basics of their situation, and though he was sure he had mentioned no one here knew they weren't originally from this world, he also knew it all must be overwhelming for her. Besides, he had watched long enough; he needed to look at her, to see her looking back, to know that she still remembered him.
"Ru—Gold," she greeted him, and yes, she did still recognize him. Had almost said his name. She wasn't looking at him, her eyes locked on her clasped fingers, but Gold felt reassured, comforted, convinced once again that he was awake and sane.
"I…" He paused, aware that he didn't really have an excuse for coming back in, that he couldn't say any of the things he wanted to, not with Gypsy standing there. He had apologies and explanations and answers for Belle, but he could voice none of them. So instead, he simply gave a small smile and said, "I came to see if there was anything else you needed."
"No," she said, her voice so quiet he almost couldn't hear it. "You've both been so kind to me. Thank you."
Gold frowned, tried to hide his trace of hurt. It was his own fault, he knew that; he had sent her from his presence, banished her from the Dark Castle—but it still hurt to have her treat him as if he were no more than a host. "You don't have to thank me," he said faintly. "Not you."
But Gypsy was frowning at him again, that wondering look back in her eyes, and she was waiting for him to leave, and Belle wasn't saying anything, so he straightened. "Good night, Belle."
And there was nothing else to do but step outside the room, flinch away from the sound of the door closing behind him, and retreat to his own room where sleep eluded him and the teacup began to once more whisper taunts in his mind.
Belle is alive…but she isn't yours anymore.
And this time, there's no deal you can make to win her back.
At first he thought it was the teacup—retrieved and stowed away in his bedroom when he knew he'd have company downstairs—mocking him yet again, bringing the echoes of past sobs into the present to inflict more penance on him. But the teacup had never made this sad weeping, so quiet, hushed, as if dampened in a pillow or a sleeve. Never made the sobs in a woman's precious voice, not when he'd never heard Belle crying to imagine it later castigating him.
Gold frowned, looked up from his blank perusal of the teacup, cradled in his hands. The crying was not audible, not truly, but it was evident to him, brought on a trace of magic, carried on a hint of empathy and connection forged through a kiss that had been all too brief. It took him a moment to realize Belle was crying, and only an instant to realize it was the excuse he'd been looking for.
It was just approaching midnight—the perfect time for a failure of a prince to see his lady love, he couldn't help but think wryly—and he struggled out of his bed, carefully placed the teacup in the cabinet next to his bed, grabbed his cane and his robe, and left his cold, empty bedroom. He struggled to slip the bathrobe on and walk down the hallway without using his cane—the tapping against the hardwood would be a dead giveaway to Emma downstairs that he was up and about. With the ease of long practice, he ignored the grinding pain scorching along his right leg at every barefooted step.
Perfunctorily, he knocked on Belle's door, but it was cracked slightly open to begin with, and he didn't wait for a response before stepping inside the room. The moon shone through the tall window—free of curtains—and the light had been left on in the adjoining bathroom, and by these points of illumination, Gold saw Belle sitting curled up in bed, her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs.
"Belle," he said faintly, struck to the core by this proof of her pain. Of her torment. My fault.
She looked up, the tracks of tears gleaming like silvery gold in the moonlight, eyes wide and crystalline. She looked so wistful, so melancholy, that Gold couldn't help but walk to her side. He hesitated, then cautiously perched on the edge of the bed, relaxed infinitesimally when Belle didn't tense. In fact, she brought up trembling hands to wipe the tears away, curled her legs to the side, faced him just as she'd done countless nights in the Dark Castle, talking to him or reading to him as he spun gold to distract himself from thoughts he couldn't endure and yet couldn't escape.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and Gold's breath caught in his throat.
"You're sorry," he repeated, and incredulousness sounded like derision on his tongue. "Whatever for?"
"For crying." She wiped impatiently at another tear, took in a shuddering breath, and as much as he loved to watch her breathe, he didn't like the ragged edge to this inhalation. "I shouldn't…I shouldn't be. I should be so happy—and I am!" One hand reached toward him, fingers brushed ever so lightly against his bare wrist, and then she was tucking her hand back into her lap, hiding it beneath her other. "I am happy. I mean…you came for me. You rescued me—"
"But it took me so long," he interrupted, rage he meant for himself feathering the edges of his clumsy, useless apology. "I didn't—"
"But you did come," Belle said, and her tears were submerged beneath something else, something new and intoxicating and familiar. Once more, her hand flitted outward to alight so impermanently on his wrist before being withdrawn, as if he were fire that threatened to scorch her skin. "You came. And you brought me home"—Gold jerked at her casual, natural use of that word to refer to even this place in a strange world, only a pale echo of the Dark Castle, which itself had been more her prison than her home—"and this room…it's like you made it for me."
She looked at him, then, her head cocked ever so slightly, one corner of her mouth turned up just a bit higher than the other, and Gold—no, in this moment, Rumplestiltskin—was frozen, trapped like an animal in a cage, at this so-familiar expression. The expression she always gave him when she knew more than she was saying, when she saw through him.
"This?" And there was more than a trace of Rumplestiltskin's mischievous tone bleeding through into the night, this dark cocoon of their world fashioning itself around just the two of them. "It was just laying around."
She let out a breathy laugh—so short, so quick, so startling to both of them. They stared at each other for an eternity, a mere second, and then her face was crumpling up into tears she so valiantly tried to fight back. He gaped at her, features fixed, shock blatant in his eyes. The tiny little catch in her throat, too small to be a sob, propelled him into movement; he reached out a tremulous hand, reached forward to brush a curl back from her face, and then, drawn to her, stroked a finger down the side of her face.
Or started to, anyway. She drew back before he could do more than register the petal-soft sensation of her warm skin. "Don't," she breathed, so softly it was like the utterance of his fears. She brought up her hands to cover her face, muffling her next words. "I can't. I'm not strong enough. I can't…"
Acid boiled through him, but it was nothing compared to the dull, heavy lump of gold turning back into molding straw in the pit of his stomach. He stayed motionless, unable to move a muscle. An old, crippled man sitting in the dark, holding onto the cane that was his only companion.
It's over.
And it was so unfair, so horribly, terribly cruel to have given him this hope, to have given him the feel of her and the smell of her and the sound of his name on her lips only to take it all away from him mere hours later. To catch only a glimpse of golden happiness before it turned into ashy straw in his mouth. And for a moment, he was Rumplestiltskin the sheep-herder, Rumplestiltskin the coward, Rumplestiltskin the scorned, awkward and clumsy and disappointed and oh so desperate.
"Rumplestiltskin."
Unnecessary cruelty to have her say my name again, to say it in that tone, for her to be looking at me like that. He was suddenly, irrationally angry, wanted to snap and snarl and cower away, a hurt animal backed into a corner, afraid and desperate and dangerous. But he had done that already, lived the consequences once, and he couldn't do it again. So he turned his head the fraction of an inch, the slight movement almost shattering him, and met her soft, open expression.
"I missed you," she admitted.
As suddenly as he had turned angry, he now abruptly found himself staving off an impossible flicker of hope. Belle was not so unkind, surely, as to say such a sentence so infused with pure emotion and look at him with shimmering eyes in moonlight if she were telling him she never wanted to see him again. Would she? Even after what I did to her?
"Yes," he said hoarsely. "And I missed you. I…I thought you were dead, Belle. She said you were, and…and I could never find you. I thought…"
It wasn't justification enough for leaving her to suffer because of him, could never be sufficient excuse, but Belle curled her lips up as if she could still give him a smile after what he'd caused to be done to her. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought she were giving him a sad smile, reaching out with that dancing, fluttering hand to almost touch him, her eyes studying his face intently. But she couldn't be. Not after what he had done, what he had failed to do, what he had put her through.
"I'm sorry," she said. At least, he thought that was what she said, though it made no sense at all. He stared at her uncomprehendingly, and she gave another poignant smile, looked down at her hands, twisted together in her lap, the blankets bunched beneath her bare feet. From beneath her lashes, she chanced another glance at him. "You look so different," she observed again, a flood of tears dammed behind that bravery he so badly envied and so greatly admired.
"Yes." The word was almost unintelligible, his throat tight and strained, his eyes locked on hers. Afraid that if he said the wrong thing, she would send him away. Afraid that if he said too much, he would break this quiet protective spell cast around them. Afraid to even move lest she realize just how much cause she had to turn him away.
"And…and you got caught up in this curse along with everyone else. You couldn't protect yourself, couldn't stop it."
At the moment, Rumplestiltskin couldn't care less about the curse, had no desire to speak of it at all. All he wanted to do was blurt out just how much he loved her—but it was so hard to speak aloud such a strong truth when it'd been so long since he'd been able to speak anything but half-truths and implied falsehoods—wanted to tell her he was sorry—but how could he bring up something so painful when she was so obviously trying to be brave?—wanted to reach out and bury his hands in her hair, trace the edge of her jawline, lean forward and correct the mistake he'd made when she'd kissed him—but he couldn't do that, not when she was sitting so straight and erect and strong, saying things that made it sound as if she were trying to let him down gently.
So all he said was, "Well, I was in a cage at the time," with that twisted smirk on his lips that had once been his most common expression.
"What?" She was surprised, outraged, and he couldn't figure her out, couldn't understand what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she wanted from him. He almost wished she would just get it over with and tell him thanks all the same but she would rather not throw her life away on a monster in the guise of a man who had demolished her heart and cast her out and left her to rot in the Queen's dungeons. But then it really would be over, and so he grasped tight hold of these precious seconds before the end.
"They caged you?" she demanded. "You don't belong in a cage!"
He shrugged. "Yes, well, the cost of having enemies, my dear." Old speech patterns, old behaviors, old gestures, all of them coming back to him because he was oh so vulnerable right now, and there was no better way to deflect attention and suspicion than to distract and flourish and pretend nothing could touch him behind the guise of insanity that was all too often much more than illusion.
Shadows scattered from before the sight of her tiny smile, the amused smile that had always surprised him when she flashed it at him. But it slipped away too quickly, leaving pain in its wake. His hands clenched, one on the cane and one tangled in the sheets on the edge of the bed, necessary to prevent himself from reaching out and trying to smooth all the hurt away.
"You know," she said softly, conversationally, except that she had her 'brave face' on, the one he'd always seen when she wanted to ask him a question about something she knew he didn't want to talk about. "The last book I was reading from the castle library"—and again, he couldn't help but flinch at this reminder of what he'd once had, and again, she glided a tiny, almost involuntary touch over his arm before retreating once more—"it was about a man who lost his true love. And after she died, he thought he would never love again, thought that true love only came once. Only…only he met someone, a few years later, and gradually he began to think that he had been wrong, that he actually could love again."
Terror such as he hadn't felt since sickly green light had erupted from a fairy's double-edged gift to swallow up the only thing he'd ever selflessly loved enveloped him once again now. I've lost her. The fear and terrible anguish roared through his body with brutal force and speed, but in its wake, it left him numbed and dazed. He didn't move at all, couldn't summon the energy to even look away from her, could only stare at her and wish, wistfully, that he could have loved her the way she deserved. That she could have loved him just a little bit longer.
"And…" he finally made himself say when he saw her at a loss, searching for words. He wanted to beg her to love him, wanted to kneel at her feet and ask her to reconsider, but the last thing she needed was for him to make it any harder on her. He could give her this gift, could make it easy for her to leave him. He'd make sure the Queen couldn't hurt her, make sure she was provided for, make sure she never wanted for anything. And he would stay away, would subsist solely on occasional glances across the street or from the compromised refuge of his pawnshop. Surely she wouldn't begrudge him that small comfort. "And was he wrong? In the end?"
"I don't know." Belle looked away, and instead of looking relieved at the opening he gave her, she looked…desolate. "I didn't have a chance to finish the book. But I guess…I guess it's possible to have more than one true love. I mean, look at you."
He blinked, stared at her, wondered if she had lost her mind in that cell. Me? Find true love twice? Doesn't she remember that I'm the beast? Not just anybody falls in love with monsters. But she was watching him with compassion he'd seen before, after she'd asked a daring personal question, after he'd mentioned his son. And his wife.
"My wife?" he asked slowly, hesitantly. That hadn't been true love, not love at all, really, but he supposed she didn't know that. And maybe better to let her think it had been, let her think he would be content with memories of true love in the past. He'd have to be, actually, but he certainly wouldn't be remembering his long dead wife when he succumbed to memories of happiness and curse-breaking kisses.
"Your wife?" she repeated, and she had gone completely white, her skin almost translucent, her eyes wide and dark. "Married." A glance downward to hands white-knuckled, and then a determined, abysmally faked smile fixed on her mouth as she looked up, not quite meeting his eyes. "You finally did find someone to break your curse for you."
And like a contract come due, a deal completed, his requested price appeared before him with the snap of finalized magic—like waking up to see Bae's tiny face smiling down at him as his small hand patted his cheek—all the pieces fell into place, and Rumplestiltskin understood. Joy, fierce and molten and foreign, blazed through him, incinerating all his fear and anguish in an incandescent explosion that left him luminescent.
He wanted to grab Belle and pull her to him, wanted to erase her tears with his lips, wanted to laugh out loud with the sheer, undiluted love and fondness pouring through his veins like liquid gold. But instead, he let his lips quirk upward, let his eyes gleam with more imp than man, let his mouth shape confident, elusive words to say the things he couldn't have said otherwise. "Yes, I did fall in love. I didn't expect to, never saw it coming at all, in fact. But she kind of snuck in when I wasn't looking, fell right into my arms before I even realized I was beside her, made her mark on my heart before I even realized I was in danger. She never looked at me as if I were a monster, and even though I was one to her, she's still willing to entrust her life to me. She's a mystery, really, but I wouldn't have her any other way."
Belle was staring at him, entranced, a maelstrom of emotions flickering in rapid succession across her wondrous, mesmerizing features. Rumplestiltskin felt his smile slide from mirthful to hopeful, and he reached out steady hands—cane leaned up against the bed, forgotten—to curl around her shoulders, edge them closer together, the bed dipping them into one another. His tone lost its mischievousness, turned somber and serious. Finally, finally, he could reach up a hand and trace a line from her temple to her chin. "I drove her away because I was scared of just how deeply she'd insinuated herself into my life, but she was right when she told me I'd regret it. I've spent an eternity wishing I could have done things differently, and now…now I have her again, and I'm afraid again. Afraid that I won't be enough for her. Afraid she will hate me for what I did. For what I've done."
She inhaled deeply, this breath ragged not with pain but with hope. That hand she couldn't control darted out, rested so briefly on his chest—a warm, searing touch—fell back, came back to touch his arm, retreated, then found a place on his shoulder. "You…you…you're not in love?"
"Of course I am," he said with a smirk that lasted only a second. "You're the only one who could ever break my curse, Belle. But this new, dark curse brought us to a world without magic, and this…this is me without magic."
She sagged in his arms, falling into him, her face buried in his chest, her shoulders shaking. "I-I thought…I thought that you…I thought you had fallen in love with someone else, that you didn't want me anymore."
"Shh." He hugged her tightly to himself, and if he was dreaming, he would use every bit of magic he still possessed—in his soul and in the enchanted articles he'd brought with him—to ensure he never woke. "I could never not want you, Belle. I could never love anyone else."
Wonderingly, she pulled back, looked up to meet his gaze, searched him for sincerity—and she found it, because he meant these words just as much as he'd meant the vow he'd snarled at the Blue Fairy, another vow that he would never break. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispered, and her eyes flickered to his lips, but she made no move, didn't dare court the same disaster she'd invited last time she'd kissed him.
So he kissed her. Slid his hand into her hair and brought his mouth over hers. Slowly, hesitantly, because it had been decades since he'd last kissed anyone and that had been too astonished and too short, because it had been centuries since he'd kissed his wife, and that…that had been nothing at all compared to kissing Belle.
His own breaths were none too steady when he pulled back to look at her, but he lost every breath completely when he saw that dancing, joyous fire burning in silvery-blue eyes. And then she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him, and there was nothing slow or tentative about this kiss. Her hair was unbelievably soft, curling around his fingers, ensorcelling him, and her lips were soft and warm and perfect, and her body fit perfectly in the circle of his arms, and she was holding onto him as if she were afraid he'd disappear. He almost didn't even notice when they fell back onto the bed, too lost in her, the world spinning away from them until there was nothing but her and him, and a kiss had never felt like this, not this pure and open and overwhelming, sweeping him away so that for the first time in centuries, he forgot all about deals and plans and curses.
It was moving too fast, too much too quickly—a plethora of happiness and joyous disbelief and pure sensation overwhelming him when he was not used to anything but dark and pain and aloneness—and so, shaken to his very soul, he pulled away, propping himself up on an arm and looking down at Belle. She seemed a bit startled by the ferocity of the kiss, but she was smiling and happy and exultant and she didn't untwine her arms from around his neck. He couldn't resist leaving another kiss on her mouth, couldn't resist checking to make certain she really had tasted as sweet as he had thought.
She laughed, a laugh that sent tremors through his whole being. At the resultant expression on his face, she blinked and then stared at him, breathless—and Rumplestiltskin didn't even care that she was having trouble pulling in sips of air, maybe because he was having the same trouble. As he had done to her moments—years—earlier, she ghosted fingers across his features, profiling the lines and angles of his face. The intent scrutiny made him uncomfortable—he couldn't help it, not when he'd been a monster so long and wasn't much better now—but he swallowed his discomfort and let her fingers skim across his skin.
"Do I look better now than you remember?" he asked with a smirk, hands tightening on her lest she draw away.
"No, not better," she whispered, spell-bound, eyes following the trail of her fingers.
He raised his eyebrows, which made her smile at the sensation against her fingertips. "Worse, then?"
Her grin was amused, and it loosened the nervous coil in his stomach. "No, not worse."
"Then what?" he whispered.
"Just different. Different, but you. And you is all I want."
He couldn't have said whether it was awe or guilt that made him flinch, made him dip his head and kiss her again, kiss her deeply as if he could erase what he'd done, erase who he was, remake himself into someone better for her. She smiled against his mouth, delighted and happy, and Rumplestiltskin broke the kiss, leaned his head against hers, eyes closed, unable to look her in the eye.
"I'm sorry, Belle, so sorry. It's my fault you were taken by—"
"Shh." Shyly, marked by his violent reaction so long ago, she leaned up and kissed him, so brave and bold, then smiled as if proud of herself and kissed him again, and Rumplestiltskin couldn't help but chuckle. "Don't apologize," she whispered, her words a skim of air against his face, taking the place of her fingers. "No more. We both made mistakes, but it doesn't matter because we're here now, and we're happy, and that's enough."
So he kissed her again, capturing the words between them, hoping to infuse them through his body and soul and make himself believe them, make them true. He kissed her and held her tightly and tried to pretend it was only joy driving him and not that tiny trace of fear that this happiness was not an ever-after ending, that it was only a prologue, an interlude, and it would end all too quickly. He felt her tighten her arms around him and turn into him and kiss him back, and for a moment, he lost himself in springtime sunshine and fearless smiles and shy laughter and brave compassion.
Eventually, he pulled back, rested his brow against hers, tried to catch his breath, smiling because she was smiling. For a long moment, they simply stayed like that, luxuriating in the feel of each other, accustoming themselves to the fact that their universe had suddenly been righted again after so long a time of being wrong and incomplete.
"I'd better go," he finally murmured. "We're both tired, and the sheriff is already suspicious enough without finding me in your bedroom."
A light flush painted color across her pale cheeks, the perfect contrast, and Rumplestiltskin kissed her cheek to soak in the color, then sat up and reached down to retrieve his cane.
"Rumplestiltskin!"
He paused mid-step and looked back to see Belle sitting up, illuminated in a spotlight of pure moonlight, the stars captured in the glittering of her eyes. He couldn't say anything, not looking at such a picture, could only stare.
Belle bit her lip, then proffered a shy, hopeful smile. "I love you."
And cane or no cane, he bent and kissed her once more, whispered the words he couldn't force himself past years of insecurities and fears to say too loudly. "And I love you, Belle."
Her jubilant stare followed him all the way to the door, where this time it did not shut him out but rather stayed halfway open. And as he walked down the hallway, he could scarcely feel his limp at all. Had he thought himself the most Rumplestiltskin he could be while forcing a deal with the Queen? He had been wrong. Because now, now with Belle, was when he was more Rumplestiltskin than ever before.
And when he reached his room, the teacup was silent.
