A/N: I know I sound repetitive here, but I literally don't have the words to tell you all how much it means to me to hear what you think and to know that people are enjoying this story. So, in lieu of anything original to say, I'll just have to say it again and mean it just as much - thank you!
Disclaimer: Aside from playing around with the timeline a bit, everything here belongs to someone else. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 10: Out Of Plans
He—he no longer knew what to call himself, this new, strange amalgamation of himself, both Rumplestiltskin and Mr. Gold, neither fully one nor wholly another—he whiled away the long, empty, lonely hours by plotting out his revenge on Regina. He knew it was her fault, knew she had tricked him with the teacup just as she had tricked him so long ago with her tale of associations and towers and scourging, knew she had thought to keep him distracted. Well, he was distracted all right, but not in the way she had doubtless hoped.
She would have done far better to leave Belle with me, he thought, and meant it in more ways than one. If he had had Belle at his side, he would have been able to curtail his savage need to make Regina pay for what she had done to the one bright spot in his life; if Belle had been with him, he would have made protecting her his first priority, would have allowed his fixation on breaking the curse and guiding the royal family to the destiny he had foretold for them to dim slightly, would have thought long and hard on how to find Bae and keep himself anchored in this world. But now…now that Belle was no longer his, was cursed just as much as the rest of them, was better off without him trying to bring back some measure of his own happiness with her and inviting the curse down on them…well, now he had more than enough time to think on Regina and the interfering walks she had taken and the dungeons she had locked and the teacups she had sabotaged and the oh-so-polite phone call she'd made to let him know Belle had been seen entering Moe French's house, just to make sure you don't come to the wrong conclusion and hurt Henry by accident, so she'd gleefully, courteously said.
Well, he certainly hadn't come to the wrong conclusion, only the right one, and now he had more than enough time to plan.
She would pay, he vowed, and pay in such a way as to inflict the most damage. Before—before Belle—she had been a useful ally, a potential enemy, a cooperative peer, and a convenient scapegoat. But then she had lied, had taunted him with common names and terrifying images and purported death, and suddenly it had become more personal. Suddenly it had been necessary that she sacrifice what she loved most in order to gain the power she wanted—the same sacrifice he had himself made, thanks to her. Suddenly it had become more than just a matter of using those around him, had become all about killing two or three or a dozen birds with one large, cursed stone.
And now, now things were even worse. Now Regina would come to think that losing her stable boy had been nothing more than a prick to the heart in comparison to what he had planned for her. And the irony was that it wouldn't even take much. Another visit to her office, a conversation about Kathryn and the role she could play, the staging of a murder, the framing of the innocent, the offer of an attorney's role, and then, eventually, inevitably, the moment when the evidence would, in a trail of legal breadcrumbs, all lead back to her doorstep. And her son, the precious son she had risked so drastically with her trick, would be taken from her, would look at her as coldly as if she were a stranger, would be ripped away from her just as surely as she had ripped Belle away from him. It was only fair; after all, they'd had a deal, and he—Rumplestiltskin and Gold—never broke deals, and no one, not even Her Majesty, got away with breaking a deal with him.
And stealing Henry from her, well, that was just the beginning.
Unfortunately, planning could only take so much of his concentration, fill so many of the empty hours, distract him only so long from the porcelain dust he hadn't yet had the heart to sweep off the rug. Gypsy had started to do it, after she had arrived home to find him lying there on the floor, cradling Belle to him, cursing his own curse for stealing the magic that could have protected her. But when the outcast nurse had started for the shards with a broom, he'd stopped her immediately, and made her help him carry Belle to her room, and set her as guard over his love while he called the doctor and visited the Mayor-Queen. Not that having Gypsy watch Belle had helped anyway, because Belle had still gotten up and walked away from him as easily this time as she had the last.
He found himself wondering what Belle's reaction to the clothing and other effects he'd had Gypsy take her this morning had been before catching himself. He couldn't think on her, not right now. Not anymore. She wasn't his anymore. Wasn't even Belle anymore. She was a stranger now, with implanted memories and enforced habits and missing traits. He had spent half the night before remembering her as she had been and the other half wondering what quality his curse would steal from her.
Her bravery, he thought yet again. Surely it will take her bravery. And without that, how will she ever find it in her to face the beast? To love me?
She wouldn't. It was as simple as that.
It was over. And if it didn't hurt so much, he'd convince himself it was for the best.
The bell over his door rang with a tinkling that shattered the resignation he was trying to swathe himself in, trying to wrap around himself until it didn't sting so much to even think of her name.
With a sigh, feeling every one of his uncounted years, he set down the strands of fine gold he'd been weaving into a single chain in an effort to forget and took hold of his cane. When he limped past the curtain and into the main portion of his shop, he felt himself stumbling to a halt, felt the room spin around him, his cane all that kept him upright as he stared at the beautiful woman entering the mouth of the den, peering all about rather curiously.
"Belle," he whispered.
But it isn't her, is it? No, it was a siren, a simulacrum, a shell empty of all she had been, an illusion with her face and voice and scent and smile and piercing blue eyes and small, delicate hands, and kind expression…but not her.
Not Belle.
"Miss French," he corrected himself, more loudly, and suddenly he wished he had chosen a different name for her Storybrooke self, something so much more than Miss French and so much less than Belle. "What can I do for you today?"
Belle stared at him for a long moment before starting slightly, as if just realizing he had spoken, and taking a tiny step forward. He wished she hadn't; the movement brought her full into the patch of sunlight shining past the lettering painted over the storefront windows, and for a moment all he could smell was the dust from faded curtains and all he could feel was warmth and softness and awakening interest from a small woman fitting just so in his arms.
She shook her head slightly and offered him a polite smile. "Mr. Gold, I…" His hands tightened over his cane, and he was glad he was behind the counter where she couldn't see his immediate reaction to the name she used for him. Not that she would have noticed anyway; her attention seemed to have been caught by the handkerchief in his breast pocket, though he could not figure out why the simple bit of cloth was more interesting than anything else in his shop. Perhaps she just judged it the safest place to look.
"Miss French?" he prompted, the form of address like arsenic on his tongue.
With a slight blush, her eyes dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry. I just…I know that before…I left without giving my two week's notice last time, and I—"
"Ah, don't worry," he interrupted dryly, turning away before she could catch whatever emotion he might betray at the mention of her leaving. At this burning reminder that all she had were false memories of him. He settled himself behind the counter, held his ground there as if it were a barricade able to protect him from her. "I think it was a long enough while for me to get the picture that you weren't coming back."
"Yes," she said softly, almost dejectedly. But then her chin canted into the air in such a familiar mannerism that Gold's breath caught in his throat. "I mean, no! I mean…it's just that…well, I was wondering…" She trailed off, and her eyes drifted past him once more, as if she could not bear to even look at him. But no, she was looking around at the shop, her gaze darting from one corner to another, eyes widening slightly before she blurted, "It's not small in here!"
"Oh?" He looked around too. Painful to tear his eyes from her; necessary to, though, in order to retain some hold on what was left of his sanity. He could keep telling himself this wasn't Belle until this world, too, was torn all to pieces and remade into yet another, but that didn't change the fact that all he could see when he looked at this young woman standing before him was Belle. His Belle.
She bit her lip, so much more unsure and distractible in this too-similar, too-tempting incarnation. "It's…well, it's a little strange, but every place, even outside, seems to…to get small after a while, to shrink around me. But not here." Her lips curved upward as she looked around again, and Gold felt something in his chest squeeze and contract, shrink as surely as if it were cued by her words. "It…it feels like there's a whole world in here."
Fate was either very cruel, or she was trying to tell him something. He wished he didn't have enough experience and knowledge of the curse to know it was the former, not the latter. He was pierced by her smile and her eyes and her words, pierced by her similarities, by the differences, by the beauty he couldn't help but see in her with every breath. "Perhaps there is," he said tightly, and even he could not have said whether he was dropping hints or helping the world punish him. "One we've forgotten."
Her grin was immediate, bright, and relieved, some subtle tension leaking out of her. Inwardly wincing, he realized she must have been afraid he would think she was crazy, would send her back. It was just another agonizing reminder that this…this siren…did not remember him, did not know him. Did not love him.
And still he could not help but return the smile, his own small and wan and washed out.
"Can I have my job back?" she asked abruptly, seemingly encouraged by his attempt at a smile.
He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe. Because this was all beginning to feel very familiar, and he couldn't let it happen. He couldn't. This was how it had begun before, and she had crept in so very, very quickly, and he had been powerless before her, powerless to do anything but hurt and reject and maim and destroy. And he could not do it again, could not stand so close to temptation and still be expected to turn away from it now that he knew exactly how sweet she tasted and soft she felt and beautiful she was when smiling back at him with that special look just for him in her eyes.
He could not do it to her again.
Because he could blame the Queen all he wanted, could lay all the fault on her doorstep, but that didn't change the fact that it was he who had cast her out. He who had turned her away. He who had believed lies. He who had never looked for her. He who had left her in a cell for three decades. He who had brought down suspicion and mistrust and uncertainty on her just by his very presence at her side.
No, she was better off without him. Better off making a new life for herself here. Better off staying with her father and meeting Snow White's faded shadow and winning Emma's championship and…and…and not being with him. Better off all around because he too well knew what happened to those few brave souls who tried to love him.
"I mean," she stammered, suddenly nervous once more in the face of his silence, "I…I know I left without warning and that it's been a…well, a long time since…but I was wondering—I was hoping that I…could come back and work with you. If it's all right with you."
She looked so hopeful, so earnest, so much like she had when perched on a spinning wheel, that he had to look away. And to his utter confusion, he abandoned the slender safety of the counter and moved to stand in front of her, only paces between them. "Not many people combine hoping and with me in the same sentence, my dear." The endearment slipped out before he could catch it, as quick and spry as the glowing insects on Firefly Hill, and he didn't want her to notice it, didn't want to see confusion or revulsion—or pleasure—so he quickly added, "And why do you need a job so soon? Your father hasn't kicked you out, has he?"
"What?" She frowned at him. "No, of course not! It's just that…well, lately, things have seemed…I don't know, a bit off. As if something is missing or…or…or something. And when I don't have anything to do, all I can think about is…is where I've been, and then everything starts feeling so…so—"
"Small," he finished for her. He was well acquainted with feelings of wrongness given form all about him, and very familiar with the sensation of being trapped, caged, locked away somewhere he didn't belong. He'd fought it almost every day since first feeling his curse envelop him in misty fingers. This was the world he'd chosen for Bae's sake, the world he would never leave, but there were still days—many days, he reluctantly admitted—when it felt alien and uncomfortable.
But why was this Belle feeling such things? The curse. It has to be the curse.
"Yes. Small." Again, she smiled at him, and he began to wonder if she knew exactly what those smiles did to him. He was not used to receiving smiles, let alone smiles from her. Or rather, he had not been used to them, and yet in the past week he had become all too used to them, had begun to expect them only to have that hope once more ripped away from him.
He knew she needed an answer, and he was torn, but really, there had never been any question, not around her. She wasn't his Belle, but she was Belle, and that was temptation and anguish and hope and loneliness all rolled into one, much too potent a concoction for him not to be affected. So he gave his own, watered down version of a smile and said, "Well, I've kept the position open for you all this time—I can't very well give it away to someone else now, now can I?"
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she exploded into luminescent happiness—and surprise, as if she had doubted his answer—and she was dancing forward, was right in front of him, was so close he could smell her, all roses and crisp air and optimism. "Really? I can come back? When can I start? Tomorrow? Can I start tomorrow?"
"If you like," was all he could manage to say, all his witticisms vanished in the face of her dazzling proximity, all his cleverness evaporated before the feel of her hands reaching out to fall over his atop his cane. Her fingers were slender and cool and fearless, placed on his as familiarly as if she did remember the past week and their time together in the Dark Castle.
At his astonished gaze, she yanked her hands away, though her expression didn't waver. "Sorry," she said unrepentantly. "I'm just so…so happy. You've made me so happy."
Agony seared its way through him, the same torment he experienced with every thought of Bae and all he could have had and all he had lost. Had driven away and let go of. He hadn't made Belle happy; he'd just set her down a path that was fated to lead to unhappiness and sorrow and pain. That was the curse he'd written, and he wondered if he could still make himself believe it was all Her Majesty's fault.
Belle hesitated—he could see her deliberating, could see the thoughts turning in her head, and that was different, because before he'd never been able to guess what she was thinking, but maybe not so different after all, because he was wholly shocked at what came next.
She stepped forward and hugged him.
Just a quick hug. Quick and almost polite, not at all intimate or romantic, just an outpouring of her emotion, so much more than her small body could contain. But she was touching him, her arms were around him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, afraid to think lest he ruin this moment—quite possibly the last he would ever have.
She began to pull away only an instant later, and yet, strangely, she paused, lingered, her cheek against his shoulder. He had no idea what thoughts were in her head, but for himself, he could only imprint each detail into his excellent, untouched memory, could only ruthlessly stop himself from wrapping his arms around her lest he hold on too tightly and not let go and probably dip his head to kiss her. And there was no magic in this world, and anyway she did not love him, not anymore, so even with magic, True Love's Kiss wouldn't work and he'd only end up scaring her away.
So he didn't move, and the moment ended when she stepped back. She looked somewhat thoughtful, but he could not decipher her expression when he was hastily trying to conceal just how shaken he felt.
"Tomorrow?" he heard her ask, and shook himself back to the moment.
"Seven o'clock," he replied. Only years of experience allowed the words to emerge steadily, completely unaffected by what had just transpired between them.
"I'll bring breakfast," she promised with yet another smile, and then she was darting away on nimble feet, her quick hands on the doorknob. He would think she was afraid of him, would think she was running away, but that had always been his part to play, and she looked so happy. She paused at the door, looking back at him expectantly. "What do you want?"
Vaguely, he knew she was asking what he wanted for breakfast, but he couldn't help himself. He might look like a man, but there was still a great deal of imp in him. So, very seriously, he replied, "Whatever you want to give me, I'll take."
She did not hear the encoded message, so she smiled—another smile; the curse is definitely pushing things—and then the bell he'd bought and loathed and loved rang its silver laughter and she was gone, shadows once more rushing forward to drive away the brightness she'd so temporarily brought, reclaiming the interior of his shop.
It was a long time before he could bring himself to move and shatter the remainder of the spell she'd cast over him, and even then, he only moved to behind the counter, standing in front of the cash register out of habit. His thoughts were a chaotic, senseless jumble with none of the orderly cunning he displayed so prevalently while making his deals. It was easy to be the deal-maker when it was only him; so much harder when Bae or Belle were foremost in his thoughts.
And right now, there was nothing but Belle in his mind.
Or at least, there wasn't until Emma Swan barged into his shop with all her usual grace and courteousness.
"Gold!"
"Ah, Ms. Swan, what can I do for you?" He couldn't help that his voice was a bit tight. She had nearly knocked his bell off its perch over the door, which was bad enough on an ordinary day, worse when it hadn't been an easy day at all, not after telling Gypsy he had no further need of her services, not after staying all night in an empty house, sitting on the threshold of Belle's room, leaned up against the doorframe, unable to enter the room and sully what was left of her presence with his dreams of revenge and retribution. Not after seeing Belle-that-wasn't and smelling her scent and touching her. All in all, he thought he showed remarkable restraint in that he even bothered to respond to the woman who was supposed to be their savior.
She certainly didn't look heroic at the moment, not with her eyes all wide and incredulous, reminding him of what he'd had these past days and now so abruptly no longer had. Needless to say, he didn't appreciate the reminder. She'd do far better actually believing the lies she told Henry and letting herself begin to actually think about all the magical things she'd seen in Storybrooke rather than harassing him over a woman who was now buried beneath another.
"What do you mean?" she snapped. "What are you even doing here? I thought you'd be banging Moe French's door down, demanding he let you in on pain of eviction, trying to get in and see Belle and—"
"And what?" he interrupted before she could put any more ideas into his head. "Surely you wouldn't have me forcing attentions on a young girl, would you, Sheriff?"
She scowled at him, and Gold was struck suddenly by the contradictions between this woman and the one who had stood there such short moments earlier. Emma, the savior, blonde and tall and stalwart, straight and defiant, brash and bold, and so very confused and painfully broken. And Belle, small and slender and curious, meek and strong, happy and unafraid, and so very brave and piercingly insightful. They had both stood in the same shaft of sunlight, but Emma stood regardless of sun or shadow whereas Belle had glowed with the sunbeams, embodying the sunlight. He wondered if it made him an even worse person than he already was that he would have given up the savior in a heartbeat should it spare Belle even an iota of pain.
"Something's incredibly wrong here," Emma declared, oblivious to his thoughts. "It's like Belle doesn't even remember the last week, as if she's forgotten everything about us!"
"Yes, and I'm sure you've spoken to Dr. Hopper and he's spun you some tale of traumatic memories and shock." He couldn't quite help the grimace that bared his teeth as he spoke the bitter words.
"Well, yes, but she'd been out a week without any adverse effects."
"I'm sure there's an explanation," he said shortly, turning away and pretending to be filing something just as an excuse to busy his hands. "Something about not entirely believing she wasn't hallucinating until last night, or delayed shock, or something of that caliber. Memories are tricky things."
"Really." Emma studied him a long moment, and if he had thought her and Belle different, he knew their thoughts on what they saw when they looked at him would be even more radically opposed. Still, he met her stare levelly. If there was one thing he'd learned in almost three decades as the feared Mr. Gold, it was how to meet a stare without flinching, without even the slightest movement or flourish or jig to give away his discomfort under close scrutiny. "I don't get it, Gold. I thought you'd be the first one trying to figure this out. Trying to fight it."
"She's safe," he countered, hoping forged expressions would cover the strain in his voice, "happily reunited with her father and unafraid to walk the streets. It seems to me I've done all I can for her."
"Oh?" She smirked at him, and savior or not, he could have happily hit her. "You're actually starting to believe your own lies, huh?"
"One man's lie is another man's truth," he retorted easily. "Now if there's nothing else…?"
"You love her, Gold!" Emma blurted as he turned away, stopping him in his tracks. He'd been so caught up in what a danger it was that Regina knew his weakness—no, not a weakness! not Belle!—his vulnerability that he had not taken the time to consider just how easily the 'good guys' could use it against him too. Foolish of him, he supposed. "You love her, and she definitely felt something for you—so why are you sitting around doing nothing? You're not afraid, are you?"
They always went back to that same old tired refrain, and for all that the taunt was centuries old, it still possessed the power to pierce him to the core. He idly wondered if the word coward was branded into his skin, invisible in the mirror to his own eyes and yet easily discernible to everyone else he met.
"I tried being brave with her," he murmured, turned half away, "and look where it got me. And why the concern, Ms. Swan? Why so interested in my…happiness?" He sneered at her, more comfortable now that the offensive was his, the turnabout protecting him from further taunts.
"I don't know." Emma shifted, uncomfortable under his searing gaze. "It just…look, I was the first to be doubtful about you and Belle, but…but maybe everyone deserves a chance to be happy. Even a second chance. I certainly didn't ever think I'd get a chance to get to know Henry, but here I am. And I know what I'd feel like if he ever forgot me, so…"
"Trust me, Ms. Swan," he interrupted, his tone dark with cynical irony, the old dragon bristling, hackles raised, curled in around its weaknesses—no, its vulnerabilities. "You and I are nothing alike. And thanks for the concern, but there's no need to cast your pity my way. I've survived many years without it, and I'm sure I'll get by for years more to come."
"Wow, you really are a piece of work, aren't you?" Emma shook her head, oblivious to Gold's quick flash of pain, quick burst of involuntary memory. I'm a difficult man to love. Her warm, slender body leaning back into him as if to ignore or disprove the words. It was an agonizingly exquisite memory, and he quickly shoved it away. Though not too far. He'd revisit it later, when he was alone. After all, someone had to keep their memories alive and safe.
"Anyway," Emma was saying, "Henry told me he was talking to Belle an hour or so ago." She paused, but Gold refused to take the bait. Refused to say a word even though his eyes were locked on her, hungry and yearning, waiting to catch up every word she said, to savor them and turn them over and over in his mind, add them to all things Belle.
Emma softened, looking at him, and he hated that she could see through him. Hated that he was we—vulnerable, as fragile as a cowardly spinner with a brave son, hated that Emma now knew the chink in this wounded dragon's armor. "He said she told him she was working for you."
Gold blinked. "She told Henry that?"
"Yeah." Emma narrowed her eyes. "Why? She's not?"
"Of course she is," he snapped, not bothering to mention that she must have talked to Henry before she'd come to him. Interesting that she just assumed I'd let her come back. Must not have been surprise he'd seen in her eyes after all. "She worked for me before, you know, and now that she's back, I see no reason for that to change. However, I assumed her father would have something to say about it. I'm sure you realize he's not my biggest fan."
"Can't imagine why," she said dryly before turning serious. "Maybe he did try to stop her from coming back, Gold. Maybe she thought it was her choice. Maybe she wants to come."
"You're a real glass-half-full person, aren't you," he said sarcastically.
Emma actually seemed to think about it. "Not usually, but…I guess you never know, right?"
She turned and walked away to the accompanying sound of a bell ringing, and Gold cursed her for leaving behind a chip of hope in his empty, battered, lonely heart.
He was no stranger to waiting. Rumplestiltskin had had centuries to perfect the art of patience, whole decades dragging by as slowly as lamed snails. Mr. Gold had had twenty-eight years to accustom himself to the practice of surviving paused time, sinking himself into the role of pawnbroker even as he struggled not to lose sight of Rumplestiltskin and his end goal, pretending he was merely practicing for life without magic once he found Bae. But for all his practice and experience, he didn't think any day, any decade, any century, had passed as slowly as the interminable hours between Belle's departure and her arrival at seven the next morning.
He was at the pawnshop at the unseemly hour of six o'clock, pacing back and forth and then forcing himself to stillness, tidying up and then cluttering things back up so that there would be more for her to do when she came in, reason for her to stay later should she choose to do so. The seconds ticked by like eternities in miniature, all the more tortuous because he knew they would speed past like enchanted moments the instant she actually arrived.
But he was wrong. Because when she came in at 6:53, smiling shyly, a basket that emanated appetizing aromas swinging in her hand, time actually seemed to stop. Not like in those years waiting for the savior's arrival, but actually, literally slowing around them, limning her profile like an aura, a vision of who she had been and who she now was, a premonition caught between two possible futures—one he could not bear and one he almost could not bear to hope for. For that one, stopped moment, anything and everything was possible, and he had only to reach out and pluck the future he desired most.
But he couldn't see the future anymore, and his premonitions had failed him before, and he did not know how to ensure the future he wanted. So he only stood there until time once more caught up to itself, swirled voraciously in on the eye of the storm they had been standing in, catching them up once more in its relentless pace.
"Good morning, Miss French," he said, congenially but distantly.
She smiled—and really, it was much too early to be resisting those already—and held up the basket. "I brought breakfast, as promised. I hope you like cinnamon muffins."
Mr. Gold smiled.
It was so easy to spend time with her, so easy to fall back into their simple, wonderful style of give and take, of companionable quiet punctuated with witty jokes and stifled chuckles, of long conversations riddled with deep meanings and covered over with flimsy misdirections and abrupt interruptions. He wasn't Rumplestiltskin anymore, was Mr. Gold, but in a way, he preferred it. He could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the role, casting aside Rumplestiltskin and ignoring the lightning crackling under his skin in favor of the quiet restraint Mr. Gold could give him, tied more tightly to the pawnbroker persona every time Belle spoke his new name.
Belle, cursed as the rest of the Storybrooke residents, hardly appeared to notice that there had been a long period of imprisonment between her varied stints as his caretaker. She settled in quickly, her innocence and optimism and idealism marred only by the flashes of fear that would sometimes ghost through her at the sound of a door closing behind her or the panic she so bravely fought to hide when people drew too near her, when doctors were mentioned, when she caught even the barest glimpses of pills. Gold noticed all those things—noticed everything about her—and each time he saw the signs of her misuse, he threw himself ever harder into working to bring Regina down.
Kathryn was easy to abduct, and though it was slightly harder to find excuses to leave often enough to make sure she was well cared for, it wasn't hard at all to make sure Snow's timid shadow chose him as her attorney, even simpler to make sure Emma followed the signs he left for her. The wolf-girl being the one to find the heart hadn't been planned, but he had to admit it was a nice touch; he wished he had thought of it himself.
Still, revenge did nothing to correct the wrongs that had been done to Belle, did nothing to take away her fear and the panic, didn't erase the frightened uncertainty in her eyes every time she reached toward a doorknob. He couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't shown any of these signs while living with him that first week after he'd found her. He wondered if it was because she had felt safe with him, then cursed himself for fantastical thoughts he should have long since left behind in the ruins of reality.
She was different, of course. He did not, after spending time with her, think that it was her bravery the curse had taken from her—she comes to work with me every day, after all—no, it was something different, something much worse that had been stolen. That he had stolen, because he was the one who had written the curse, the one who had ensured that it took from every person the very thing that would keep them from fighting against the curse and breaking through its dampening, dulling effects.
The curse had taken her insightfulness, her wisdom, her sharp mind. Oh, it was still there; she was still intelligent and clever and still read books as quickly as she could get her hands on them. But now her mind was more sluggish, less prone to making connections, always just a bit hesitant, weighted down with self-doubt and tentativeness, the results, he thought, of her being afraid that every thought she had might be sullied by insanity, which led to her second-guessing herself and overthinking things until she failed to make a conclusion at all.
He still gave her books to read, still recommended others to her, but he had learned not to expect the same lively responses he would have once gotten from her when asking what she thought about them. That lesson had been pounded into him after asking her early on what she had thought of the first book he had loaned her and watching her try to gather her thoughts on it, watching her turn over the response in her mind and make sure there was nothing in it to get her locked away once more.
Not Belle, he reminded himself, a sinking pit of disappointment opening up in his stomach.
"Ah." He gave an imitation of a smile to let her off the hook. "Naturally."
A flicker of hurt danced through her eyes, there for only an instant before she lowered her lashes and ducked her head back over her dust-cloth, but how could he fail to recognize it when he'd seen—inflicted—so much greater hurt to dance in those same—so different—eyes beneath a sunlit window in a shadow-darkened cell.
And curse him, he could not bear to see her—even this not-her—hurt, not at anyone's hand, least of all his own. So he stepped up close to her, closer than he'd allowed himself to be since giving her this job she'd had in such a different world, and said the words that always came to mind every time he saw her: "I'm sorry. I just…I didn't think you'd like the book."
She knew he was lying—she always could tell—but she let him get away with it. "Actually, I did like it," she corrected him shyly. "I thought the main character was much more intriguing than the average hero."
"That's because he wasn't a hero, my dear," Gold said, almost not even noticing the endearment anymore, not when it slipped out so often. "He was something of a wild card. No one ever knew which side he'd end up on."
"I did," she stated, and the unyielding certainty in her voice, in her eyes, in this different version of her, startled him. "I always knew he'd turn out good. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself, wouldn't have been able to look at himself in the mirror if he hadn't. He just liked to pretend that he wasn't good so he didn't have to worry about the responsibility of needing to save the world."
Gold stared at her, as he did so often, and the pit of disappointment had vanished, replaced by the dazed awe he'd felt so often before in the Dark Castle after it had no longer been as dark as its name suggested.
Belle might as well have remembered the Dark Castle, it seemed. Along with cleaning his shop without moving any of the important things, she always brought him lunch, too, and it was always food he liked, some of which hadn't even been available in their native world. Gold would have suspected her of asking people what foods he favored since she never asked him, but he rarely ate out and nobody in town knew his preferences. Yet this new version of her read him and knew him and figured him out just as easily as his Belle had.
Of course, there were other moments when it was painfully obvious that she didn't remember their shared history. She remembered a shared history, but not Rumplestiltskin and Belle's. She remembered that he didn't like to walk in the snow, remembered that he liked to anger the mayor, remembered that he preferred sugar in his tea to honey, remembered that he didn't want her to do any of his filing, remembered that they had met after she'd spent all day looking for a job and hadn't been able to find one and had slumped down beside him at the bar in Granny's, spilling her woes to him, and that he'd offered her a job without ever giving her a reason why.
She didn't remember a deal made to save a small village. She didn't remember a betrothed or a rose or curtains and ladders and windows, didn't remember a monster with scaled skin and glittering eyes and a lonely spinning wheel. She didn't remember that she loved him, that he loved her, that he had given her freedom only to later throw her away. She didn't remember moonlight kisses and shared reading by the fireside and her own pleasure the first time he'd given her the blue coat that she received with such shocked muteness the second time around.
She didn't remember Rumplestiltskin, yet she knew him better than it seemed she should.
She was different, he finally concluded, watching her flit from counter to counter in his shop, a tiny, contented smile on her lips. She was different, but she was not diminished. She should be, he thought; she should have been because that was what his curse did, reached into people and took their strengths away from them, and he thought that maybe if she were anyone else, he would think her less. But she was not someone else. She was Belle, and that was enough, and she was no less beautiful for all that she occasionally stared off into space and forgot what she was saying, her sharp, intelligent mind slowed and muddied and turned hesitant. He loved her anyway, loved her still, and he was beginning to believe that he would love her in any world, in every world. In their world, in this magic-less world, in a world made up of drawings, in ancient worlds, in future worlds—in any and every one of them, he loved her. Because she was Belle, and that was enough.
He loved her, but she didn't love him. And why should she? He was not an imp here, not a legend told in the darkest night hours, not a deal-maker whose very name made people shudder in terror, but he was feared nonetheless, a man isolated by a justly shady reputation and ruthless business arrangements, a man who had given up things like decency and honor in order to fulfill his own ends and accomplish his own goals. He was all of that, and much older than her besides. Not nearly as much older than her as Rumplestiltskin had been, but then, this world cared more about age gaps than Rumplestiltskin's, which was an irony Gold didn't care to appreciate. And he was her employer, too, her benefactor; she probably—his lip curled at the thought—even considered him her mentor or protector.
And lest he forget, he was also the man who had violently assaulted her father, and he doubted this version of Belle would be as understanding, or forgiving, as his had been. He wasn't really sure if she remembered that he'd hurt her father, or if Maurice had mentioned it—and he certainly wasn't about to ask her. No, he had more than enough working against him already without throwing that snake into the mix.
Not that he wanted her to fall in love with him. Because he didn't. He might have fallen in love all over again with her hesitant kindness and unexpected humor and sincere openness and gentle sweetness and forthright honesty, but that didn't mean she should fall in love with him again. Their current circumstances just proved that it was dangerous to be so vulnerable, to be so distracted. He couldn't help loving her—wouldn't let her be hurt again no matter the cost—but he knew she was far safer, far better off if she chose a different fate for herself this time around.
She was young and beautiful and infinitely worthy of being loved and so giving of herself—he had little doubt at all that she would find someone so much worthier of her than he had ever been or could ever be. Even letting her work for him was a mistake, casting the pall of his name over her; he knew some people refused to speak with her or associate—how he hated that word!—with her simply because of where she worked. If that wasn't proof enough that she needed someone other than him, he didn't know what was.
And yet…and yet…he couldn't stop himself from making quips just to make her laugh, couldn't help but make faces at people walking by outside the shop just to hear her giggle, couldn't refrain from giving her a soft thank you every time she brought him some handmade lunch, couldn't quite convince himself that she would never again look at him the way she had before, never again touch him so easily and freely and daringly, never again kiss him as if he were beautiful and valuable and worthy. He couldn't do anything but mourn what had been every afternoon at four o'clock when she left him for the evening. Couldn't do anything but try to stave off the familiar, agonizing ache when he himself left for the evening, back to a too-empty house, too-dark rooms, too-large dining table, too-quiet study, too-restless sleep.
And he couldn't quite figure out whether he was being noble or cowardly in letting her go free—or was he throwing her away? He didn't know, wasn't sure which he was doing this time, which this qualified as, which she would think it was.
He only knew that he didn't want to lose her yet again, and so he kept a careful, non-threatening distance between them. Or he tried to anyway, but she didn't make it easy.
"Mr. Gold?" He had stopped flinching when she called him that after the first several days, and by now, he thought it would have been strange to hear her call him anything else.
"Yes?" He didn't turn from the delicate, close work he was doing on a Native American necklace of shell-blue. It had once belonged to a princess, who would doubtless be wanting it back if Emma ever got around to breaking the curse, and he'd put off repairing it for far too long. When the young princess came looking for it, he wanted to be able to ask for the compass she'd acquired from her True Love, and he'd stand a better chance of getting the compass if the necklace was in pristine condition. "It's not lunch time, is it?"
"No." Belle had been watching him work for the past several moments, though ostensibly she had come into the backroom to tidy up his clutter. It was a ruse they both allowed; he never let her mess with the arrangement of his things back here, and she always came back just to talk. Still, he was a bit surprised when he looked up at her long pause to find her studying him very intently from the other side of his worktable, her chin propped in one palm. "I just wanted to know…are you giving my father money?"
Gold very carefully set aside his tools, knowing the necklace could wait a bit longer. "I don't have a reputation for giving anyone anything. Surely you know that."
"I do," she replied calmly. "I'm well aware of your reputation, as well as the fact that you give away more than you want people to know." She ignored his frown, but the quick flash of her dimples revealed that she'd noticed it. "But…but Dr. Salt makes house calls once a week to give me check-ups, and I've been seeing Dr. Hopper two times a week, and I know my father owed—maybe even still owes—you money, and…and I think you have to be either paying for it all directly or giving my father the money to pay them."
"An interesting theory," he remarked noncommittally. He rearranged the necklace on the table, the shell in the center flashing opalescent lights across his eyes. He blamed that temporary blinding for his startlement when he blinked and saw Belle—no longer sitting across from him—slide onto the stool next to him. His mouth went dry when she met his eyes so earnestly, and he knew this Belle was different—he knew that—but all he could see was his Belle striding toward him with a basket of straw, smiling and not unhappy and sitting so close to him.
He suddenly felt very, very afraid. Because he knew what happened after this. He knew what came after the kiss.
Not that he was going to kiss her. And she certainly wasn't going to kiss him.
"But why would you give my father money?" Belle asked, her voice little more than a whisper. She was looking at him as if she could see the imp beneath the man, just as she had once seen the man beneath the imp. It was hard for him to properly appreciate the parallels, though, when he couldn't look away from her. "Why would you give me money? Especially when you…before, you thought I was only…thought I was trying to…that I was only here because my father owed you money and wanted more. You were so angry with me—so why would you now give me money?"
He had been afraid—predictably—to look too closely at the new memories the curse had so helpfully given him when Belle French had taken the place of his Belle, afraid of what sordid history it would have spun for them. But at her words, the memories flashed through his mind, replaying as vividly and as faded as any real memory would have—looking through his contract with Moe French, hearing from the Dove that the florist needed more money, and then the horrible suspicion when Belle had come in and given him a wrapped gift, so eager to have him open it, moving so close to him, looking up at him with shining eyes. He hadn't even gotten the wrapping paper all the way off before his fear had gotten the best of him and he'd sneered at her, accused her of trying to seduce him for her father's sake, told her it wouldn't work, that she'd never be able to get money off of him. He never had gotten to find out what present she'd been so excited to give him; it had fallen unnoticed to the snow-covered ground as she ran from his anger and his shop and his life.
She'd never come back. He'd been told she'd died, that she'd killed herself; the paper had run an obituary, her father had mourned, and Gold had regretted his actions, had hated that she'd run out into the cold winter's night, out onto an icy street because of him. He had so savagely blamed the driver of the car she had supposedly jumped in front of because that was easier than blaming himself.
Well, Gold thought, trying to avoid the pain the memories called up, both new and old, I made the curse to give contrived memories. Nothing in it said they had to be terribly original.
Belle was looking at him now, though, waiting for his reply, and he didn't know what to say. He should deny it again, should change the subject, should tell her a joke to throw her off the track. But she was looking at him, and there was the beginning of a spark in her silvery blue eyes, and she was so close, so earnest, so brave, and he was so weak, so selfish, so alone.
"Maybe," he murmured, "I'm trying to make up for past mistakes."
He didn't know why he had thought this version of Belle wouldn't be as forgiving, because she was here even with those memories he'd just discovered, and her lips curled up in a small, breathless smile, and she was sitting so near, her face upturned to him. He didn't know why he had thought it was a bad idea to be so close to her, why he had thought he shouldn't let her know how much he cared for her—that he loved her—couldn't remember his reasoning at all. Because she still smelled like roses and her eyes were still as crystalline blue as ever and this time, he could be brave, too. He leaned forward, one hand drifting away from the cold, hard shell necklace to cup her cheek, trace a light touch back until his fingers were stroking hair. Her breath misted over his cheek, and there was no turning back anymore.
He tilted his head and moved to kiss her, as wondrously and tentatively as if this were their first kiss—and technically, it was, because Mr. Gold and Belle French had never kissed before—and something giddy and elated and amazed erupted within his chest when she leaned forward to meet him.
Only their lips never met because the bell over his front door rang, jerking both of them slightly back.
Gold knew he should move away, should pretend this moment had never happened, but he couldn't. Or rather, he didn't want to. Maybe Belle could find a hundred men—a thousand, ten-thousand—worthier of her than him, but when had he ever let such a thing bother him? So long as she chose of her own free will to spend time with him every day, so long as she voluntarily sat so close to him, so long as she leaned forward to meet him when it was clear he was about to kiss her…he didn't care if he was worthy of her. He didn't care. Maybe that made him a bad man, but then, he'd already been that and she was still here with him.
So he let out a breath and leaned his brow against hers, and after only the slightest hesitation, she allowed her eyes to flutter closed, welcoming the physical contact.
"Gold!" Emma's demanding voice—angry, from the sound of it, which wasn't that uncommon since she'd come to town, let alone since Mary Margaret had been arrested—interrupted them once more. And he knew from experience that if he didn't go greet her, she'd barge her way back here to find him. Despite her encouraging words several weeks earlier, he doubted she'd be happy to find him and Belle as they were now.
With a heavy sigh, he stood, allowing his hand to linger as he drew it away from her cheek. Belle smiled up at him, shyly biting her lip, and then handed him his cane. He wanted to say something, to take away the nervousness he could see in her, to ease her tentativeness—wanted to tell her he loved her—but he didn't. Maybe he was afraid, and maybe it was the wrong time, and maybe it didn't even need to be said. Regardless, he just gave her a smile, small but real, and strode out into the front of the shop, taking up his usual post behind the counter.
Emma was more than angry; she was livid. Her body sizzled with energy, every muscle rigid and tense; her eyes were narrowed and bored into him the moment he came into view; even her hair seemed on the verge of sparking into flames. Her fury was always interesting to behold, swinging as it did back and forth between icy and fiery, flames roaring up only to turn into frost only to be consumed in embers that birthed ice.
"Ms. Swan," he said, not quite politely, but then, she had come at a rather inopportune moment. "What can I do for you?"
"How could you do this?" she demanded, tossing a handful of folders containing files down on the countertop before him, letting them sloppily slide out of their piles. Gold calmly reached out to neaten them before opening the top one to find out what all the fuss was about. He knew it wasn't about the case; he'd played his part to perfection, and he would have known if anyone had found Kathryn where he'd stashed her.
His silence apparently only further infuriated Emma, and he idly wondered if she'd start believing in the curse should she accidentally set his shop on fire. He wasn't hopeful, not after even her recent foray with the Mad Hatter hadn't convinced her.
"I warned you, Gold!" she snarled, bracing herself on the counter to lean in threateningly. "I actually trusted you, you sick, twisted monster! I actually thought this could be something! But all along you were just playing your puppet-master game! I knew you were controlling and manipulative, but this is low even for you! And here I thought Regina was the worst of the two evils!"
Gold looked up from what appeared to be Belle's medical files and opened his mouth to fire off a sarcastic retort, but he was stayed by the sound of Belle asking, "What's going on?" as she moved to join him behind the counter, glancing curiously down at the files, staring warily up at Emma.
The sheriff instantly dampened her flames and warmed her ice, looking suddenly very sad and helpless. She shot a venomous glare Gold's way, then once more softened for Belle. "I'm so sorry, Belle," she said quietly.
"Sorry for what?" Belle questioned.
And the floor dropped out from under Gold at the sight of his own signature. On the bottom of the papers Emma had brought. On the power of attorney papers. On the papers committing Belle into the hospital's dubious care.
His signature.
Emma was explaining, gently but brutally honest, telling Belle that Mr. Gold, hated pawnbroker and malicious lawyer, had decided she was crazy and single-handedly consigned her to years—more years than she knew—illegally locked up in a basement. That Mr. Gold was the cause of her damaging imprisonment and her fear of locks and her terror of pills and her loss of years.
And all Gold could do was stare down at the signature and tell himself that he had known this was coming. He had known what came after the kiss. Known that it would ever and always play out this way. He would let her in, helpless to stop her from finding and reawakening and inhabiting his heart, and he would soften for her, and he would give in to temptation and bend to kiss her, and then always, always, something would happen to rip it all away from him. He had known better than to let her think she could love him, to think it could ever work out between them, to begin to let himself hope again. Curse or not, the world would always disappoint, always steal, always betray, and he should have learned his lesson a long time. Shouldn't have to keep learning it over and over again.
He should have known by now that she was too good to be true.
"No." Belle's quiet denial startled him out of his daze. She was staring down at the papers he'd found and aligned in perfect, damning order. Her left hand was trembling on the edge of the counter, her right stuffed in her pocket as it so often was. But her voice was steady, firm, unequivocal. "No. He wouldn't. He didn't." Yet when she finally looked at him, there was panic encroaching on the firmness in her gaze, doubt lurking in the corners of her mouth, terrible suspicion threatening the edges of her mask. He loved her just for trying to present a strong façade in front of the sheriff in an attempt to protect him, but he knew it wouldn't be enough.
"Would you?" she whispered when he met her gaze.
"Not in the way you think," he said, the head of his cane surely buckling from the strength of his grip. His expression was perfectly calm, though. He had known this was coming, after all; he would lose her, every time, and though he would never grow used to it, he knew to expect it.
And he deserved it.
No, he hadn't signed these papers, not even in his curse memories, but he might as well have. He was the reason she had been locked up, his association with her painting a target on her back that Regina couldn't leave alone.
She blanched, her face pale. "But…" And then sickening anguish, terrible sadness he would have done anything to alleviate except that it was he who had caused it. "The mistakes you wanted to make up for?"
"This isn't one of them," he tried to tell her, but it must have come out wrong because she went completely white, and he had seen this expression on her face before, in a cell, turning his back to hide his own anguish, vomiting forth the lie that power meant more to him than she did.
Belle's eyes, so much bluer without that happy spark to add that silver sheen to them, darted back down to the papers and the stark signature she couldn't mistake, not after weeks of working in his shop and watching him sign contracts. She took in a deep, shuddering breath, her right hand withdrawing from her pocket in an oddly purposeful movement. "I don't understand why you would do this. Is it because you thought I was trying—" She gasped, her eyes flying back to his, and Gold had to close them so as to avoid her gaze.
Because he'd just seen these implanted memories for the first time and they were still horribly fresh in his mind. The moment when he dropped her gift as if it meant nothing. The ugly sneer on his face as he threw the savage accusations at her. And his voice cruelly telling her that she must be crazy if she thought she had a chance of ever succeeding in seducing him for his money. It'd been the last time he'd seen her because she'd been locked away only hours later.
"Belle," he said softly, and she stiffened, her tears pushed back before that iron will of hers.
She canted her chin in the air, then, and Gold held his breath. Hoping, hoping, hoping that she would choose to stand her ground and force him to an accounting as she had done once before, that she would call him on this, demand an explanation. Anything, just so long as she stayed where she was and let him try to explain.
But the vaunted savior he himself had gifted with powers born straight from true love stepped in and ruined everything, touching a hand to Belle's elbow, distracting her, making that pointed chin drop and painfully blue eyes glaze and steady hands start to tremble.
"Belle, you don't have to stay here. Trust me, I've already started the paperwork on getting power of attorney back in your hands." Emma shot another black glare Gold's way. "I'm also looking into pressing charges for illegal seizure of her rights and incarceration. And you may be a lawyer, Mr. Gold, but—"
"I won't fight you on this," he interrupted distantly. "If these papers are even valid, I'll sign the rights over as soon as you can get me the paperwork."
Belle looked up at him, a tiny glimmer of hope there, and the savior—or maybe I should switch her title to something a bit more destructive!—interrupted again. "Oh, nice try, Mr. Gold. But pretending to play the gallant can't erase the crimes you've committed against this girl."
Gold felt a surge of fury roil within him. Belle wasn't a girl! She was a woman, a beauty, a princess, a warrior—she was everything, and to hear Emma patronize her like that enraged him. Or maybe it was the entire situation that enraged him. He was beginning to think that his plot with Kathryn was far, far too good for Regina. He was beginning to wonder—in the very, very back of his dark mind—if the curse wasn't more trouble than it was worth.
But Belle was watching, and he couldn't unleash his fury on the savior for all the terrible trouble she was causing, so he gritted out, "Just bring me the paperwork, and this will all be straightened out."
Belle didn't meet his gaze, but she was watching him from beneath lowered brows, and Gold held himself still, rigid, praying she'd believe him. His Belle would have, but this wasn't his Belle, as he kept reminding himself, and he didn't know what would happen, didn't know if he'd be relegated to the parts of her mind still filled with fears of locked doors and forced drugs or if the remnants of their past life still floating somewhere inside her were enough to ensure she gave him the benefit of the doubt.
"Come on, Belle." Emma wrapped a protective arm around Belle's shoulders, and Gold had to lean all his weight onto his cane to keep from hurling himself at her and tearing her off Belle. "I already called your father to let him know what was going on. He's going to meet us at the station."
Shrugging, Belle cringed away from Emma's touch, but she didn't take a step toward Gold, didn't meet his eyes. "I…" Her voice was tiny and drained. Gold flinched at the broken sound of it. "I think I need a bit of time off. If that's okay."
He swallowed, felt shards of glass slide down his throat, slicing ribbons through him. "Of course. About two weeks, I'm assuming?"
She jerked. Her face crumpled as if she might let go of the tears she'd been restraining. But changed or not, she was still brave, still strong, and she didn't lose her dignity. "I guess," she said colorlessly, and then she turned her back on him and walked away.
Gold watched her go, his face set, his leg burning with all the agony he couldn't allow himself to feel.
The bell shook, rang, tinkled, and then fell silent as the door closed behind her.
Gold was left alone in his shop, surrounded by the treasures of a whole world, all of them too valuable and important to destroy in a fit of rage and grief and guilt and regret and overwhelming sorrow. So he simply stood there, a broken man in a tiny shop in an alien world with not even a heart to call his own, and this time he hadn't even gotten the kiss to tide him through the darkness.
He did not weep. When everything one loved was gone, there were no tears left to shed.
There was only emptiness.