Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings
Rating: T
Word count: ~51k
Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.
Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.
"This is great," says Mary Margaret enthusiastically. School has finished, and she's come by to see Isabelle and the refurbished library. "You've done really well, Isabelle."
"Well, a lot of it was the Mayor," Isabelle has to admit. "The builders designed the layout, and she okayed it. I didn't really have a lot of say in that." Still, the building had been bare when she'd started moving things in – shelves, of course, but also a notice board, and the children's area had been far too clinical. She'd begged comfortable chairs and cushions off people, and found somebody to paint a mural on the walls.
The whole place looks good, and Isabelle is proud, and pleased her friend's so impressed.
"A lot of it was you," Mary Margaret says, coming over to the desk. She perches on it, looks down at Isabelle. "You've done so well," she says softly. "You know everyone's so impressed with how well you're doing, and this is such a big step."
Isabelle shrugs, tries to smile. She's fairly sure she knows where this is going. Last night when she'd got back from Mr Gold's, she'd managed to escape questioning by feigning tiredness and going straight to bed, but it's inevitable, really.
"I'm trying," she says. "Dr Hopper thinks I'm doing a lot better, anyway. And the food thing is…I think I'm eating more."
"You are," says Mary Margaret, smiling. "I haven't said anything, but I've definitely noticed. The menu idea seems to be really helping." Isabelle nods, leans back in her chair and waits. Mary Margaret takes a deep breath. "Can we talk about Mr Gold?" she asks.
Isabelle drops her gaze to her hands, twists her fingers together. "I guess," she whispers. Better Mary Margaret than Emma, she thinks, because Emma is wonderful and a good friend, but she has very definite views about Mr Gold.
So does Mary Margaret, but then Mary Margaret knows a little something about liking the wrong person. About loving the wrong person, although Isabelle knows she's hardly there yet – she's only met Mr Gold a handful of times, after all. No, love is a step too far, but she likes him, and she's certainly attracted to him.
And that's new, that's nice. She likes being attracted to someone again. It's something she'd thought was stolen from her, along with ten years and so much else.
"I'm not going to insult you by suggesting you don't know who he is," Mary Margaret says at last. "You know about the things he does."
"I do," says Isabelle quietly. "I mean…I'm sure I don't know all of the things he's done, but I know some of it." She glances up at Mary Margaret and finds only compassion and caring on her friend's face. "I know he beat up my father," she says. "But do you honestly think I care about that?"
Mary Margaret shakes her head. "I'm not sure," she says. "Emma thinks family is family, no matter what, but…family doesn't always do the right thing."
"No," says Isabelle. She thinks about that day, so long ago, when her father turned his back on her. Family definitely doesn't always do the right thing – sometimes they do the wrong thing, and they do it knowingly and deliberately.
"I guess I'm concerned that he wants something from you," says Mary Margaret then. "He's…he's not always upfront. I don't think he ever lies, exactly, but he…he turns things to his advantage. If he does something for you, he always wants something in return." She pauses, lost in her own thoughts, and Isabelle wonders what she's thinking about. Ashley's deal to give up her baby, perhaps, or any one of the other deals and trades Mr Gold has worked over the years to create such enmity, such fear.
"He's already done things for me," she says, and Mary Margaret looks at her in surprise. Isabelle shrugs her shoulders, gestures around. "Why do you think the Mayor opened up the library?" she asks. "It certainly wasn't altruistic." She shrugs again. "I don't know what he did, or what he said," she goes on, "but he got her to do it. And to hire me, as well."
"And – and what does he want in return?" Mary Margaret asks, shock evident in her voice, her eyes wide. "Has he asked for anything?"
"No," says Isabelle, quite truthfully. "No, nothing." There are other things he's done as well – her father's debts, the money to pay her rent and her credit card – but she doesn't have any proof, hasn't suggested to Mr Gold that she suspects he's had a hand in it.
The library, on the other hand…well, Mayor Mills had made it quite clear, although she hadn't admitted what deal Mr Gold had forced her into.
"I think he's lonely," she says, and Mary Margaret purses her lips, shakes her head. "He's not asked me for anything," Isabelle says, reaches out to take her friend's hand. "I promise. And I don't think he will. He's not…he's not taking advantage of me, or anything you and Emma have decided."
"That's not – we just – we're just concerned," says Mary Margaret, her denial feeble. "It's only been three months, Isabelle…and he's not…"
Isabelle stands up, has to turn away, hugs herself tightly and goes to stare out of the window. She knows they're only concerned, knows they're trying to look out for her, but she knows they wouldn't be so concerned if she hadn't…if she wasn't…
They wouldn't be so concerned if she was anybody else, but she is Isabelle French, and she spent ten years in a locked psychiatric ward, and so they're concerned that an older, dangerous man is taking advantage of a younger, vulnerable woman.
It makes sense, she thinks, except she knows Mr Gold. She doesn't know how, but she seems to instinctively know him better than she knows anybody else in Storybrooke. And she knows he would do anything before taking advantage of her.
He would die before he hurt her again.
She shakes herself, frowns thoughtfully. Again? He's never hurt her before, and she doesn't know where that came from. She turns back to Mary Margaret, knows she's got to try to explain herself.
"I like him," she says. "And…and I think he likes me."
Mary Margaret is shocked for a moment, but the shock fades into intrigue and she pushes off the desk, comes to stand next to Isabelle.
"I didn't think he liked anybody," she says. "He's…well, not somebody that people really like."
"I know. But…" Isabelle shrugs helplessly. She looks at her friend, bites her lip. "I thought I'd never like anybody again," she confesses. "I mean…like that. I was on so many drugs in the hospital that it all kind of went away, you know? And since I got out…there's just been nothing. But he's…"
Mary Margaret's curiosity is only deepening, she can see. "Really?" she says. "I guess he's…distinguished, maybe, but he's so much older than you are."
"I don't think it matters," says Isabelle quietly. "Not really. Not if…anyway, that's…I've only seen him a few times. We're hardly even friends yet."
"Isabelle," says Mary Margaret, lifting an eyebrow, "he invited you for supper. He's never invited anybody into his house before. And I mean never – I can't think of a single person who's gone in there. Except Emma," she corrects herself then. "When he had the break-in."
"Break-in?"
Mary Margaret pauses, looks at her for a moment, seems to be trying to decide what to say. "It was your father," she says at last. "When Mr Gold took your father's van, your father…he decided to pay him back, I suppose. That's when…"
"Right," says Isabelle with a nod. That's when Mr Gold beat her father so badly he had to go to the hospital. The beginning of the chain of events that linked together until her release. She wonders what her father stole, because the beating was an overreaction, even for somebody who always makes sure deals are settled in his own favour.
"I like him," she says again, sighing a little. "I know all the reasons I shouldn't, but I do."
"And you think he likes you," says Mary Margaret.
"I think so," nods Isabelle. "Or…or I guess I hope so." She laughs a little, embarrassed. "It's weird," she says. "I feel like I know him. But I didn't meet him before I was taken away, and of course I hardly saw anyone while I was in the hospital."
"I don't think that's weird," says Mary Margaret, a thoughtful look on her face. She's thinking about David, Isabelle guesses, and Mary Margaret confirms it a moment later. "I know when I first met David – when he first woke up – he used to say he knew me," she says. "And…and I guess I felt the same." She gives a soft, fond laugh. "You know Henry's theory, right?"
"Henry?" Isabelle blinks, startled. "No, what theory?"
"Oh, it's his book," says Mary Margaret. "That book of fairy tales? He thinks we're all in there, we're all characters from fairy tale land and we've been cursed to live in this world."
Something cold runs down Isabelle's spine and settles in her stomach at the thought of the book Henry had shown her that evening. She hasn't seen it since, but it still had disturbed her, and the mention of it makes her feel oddly nervous now.
"Oh?" she says. "Who does he think you are?"
"Snow White," says Mary Margaret, and she looks a little sheepish. "And apparently David is Prince Charming, and we're meant to be together, or something."
Isabelle smiles. "Well, he's got that part right," she says. "So am I in the book?"
Mary Margaret's smile fades as she looks at Isabelle; she looks as if she can't quite decide whether to answer or not. It's a crazy idea, Isabelle thinks, that they're all fairy tale characters. Cursed to live in this world until somebody breaks the curse.
It's crazy, and maybe that's why Mary Margaret's hesitating, but Isabelle tilts her head expectantly, waits for an answer.
"He thinks you're Beauty," Mary Margaret says at last. "From Beauty and the Beast?"
No, not Beauty, Isabelle thinks for a moment, but the thought is gone before she can grasp it. She summons a smile, hugs herself tightly.
"Well, I guess it's nice to be thought of as pretty," she says. "But didn't he say in his version Beauty and the Beast don't stay together?"
"Lots of things are different in his book," says Mary Margaret with a shrug. "He says they're the real versions, but who knows? There are so many different versions of the stories."
"Yeah, I guess," Isabelle murmurs. She stares out of the window; it's gloomy today, dark clouds overhead, and it's been raining on and off all day. "Who's the Beast?" she finds herself asking, and she can't quite look at Mary Margaret as she asks, as she waits for an answer.
"I don't know," Mary Margaret tells her. "Henry says he hasn't figured it out yet. And," she adds, "I don't think he's figured out who Mr Gold is, either."
Isabelle forces a smile, turns to Mary Margaret. "Well, it doesn't matter," she says. "It's just a book, after all. And Mary Margaret – I am grateful you and Emma are looking out for me."
"You're an adult," says Mary Margaret, "and I'm sure you know what you're doing. Just – be careful." She leans into Isabelle, nudges her. "I don't want to see you hurt," she says softly. "So be careful."
"I will," promises Isabelle.
"And I'll talk to Emma for you," Mary Margaret goes on. "I can't promise she'll back off, but I'll try to explain a bit."
"Mary Margaret, I love you," says Isabelle, and they both laugh, but Isabelle thinks she means it. She's never had a friend like Mary Margaret before, and it means so much that she's willing to trust Isabelle, trust that she knows what she's doing.
Snow White, she thinks, and smiles. Yes, she thinks she could see that.