Trigger warnings for anxiety and its manifestations. As always, thank you for your kind comments. You're all lovely people. I'm already onto the next chapter and hope to update each week…

The shop was overwhelming. There were so many things to see, unfamiliar smells, and a prevailing sense of history. She hadn't been prepared for it at all. He had urged her to look about, to take her time, and at first she'd hardly known where to start.

The larger pieces certainly drew the eye—the big metal thing with two wheels, so many things she didn't know the names. Certainly she'd noticed there were many things when she first walked in, what had he said it was over a week ago? But at the time her focus was finding Mr. Gold and being somewhere safe.

A beautiful mobile caught her eye, and she spent long minutes marveling over the crystal unicorns, awed with their uniformity. Seven steins were lined up neatly atop a glass case, similar and yet each unique. They were obviously used, and yet well cared for.

He was busy cleaning, dusting the fine layer that had settled over everything, no doubt because of the last week. When she had tried to find a rag to help, he gently pulled it from her fingers and eased around her, telling her to look about, that she wasn't to worry about this work.

Sometimes movement from outside the shop distracted her, and she froze in her tracks, breath caught for a few heartbeats. The heavily shaded windows gave her the advantage, to watch about the town but with privacy. No one could see her very well, if at all. And yet she saw the elder man puttering about his work down the street, and the increasing number of people in and out of a place called Granny's.

For a long time no one gave the small shop much more than a second glance. Except for six stout men who finally crossed the road. They did not look happy.

"R-rumple?" she asked uncertainly, stepping back and bumping into one of the large display cases.

She could see one of the men step forward and reach for the door. When the knob didn't turn, he pounded loudly in a way that made her jump.

"Step into the back if you like, Belle," he murmured. "I'll take care of this."

Belle backed toward the other room, stepping behind the curtain and out of sight, though certainly closely enough to hear the bell ring as the door opened and closed. And to hear the angry voices in the adjoining room. She almost stumbled over a stool, but she sank to it instead.

"—crossed over the town line, and his memory's gone. Wiped. Thinks he's Clark again," came the gruff, angry voice. "You have to fix it!"

"Oh, I do, do I?" came the cool, indifferent response. Rumple. The calmness in his voice in contrast with the other's anger made Belle shiver. "I don't recall pushing him over the town line. Nor should you have been dabbling near it. His own folly led to his current condition."

"How was he supposed to know?" came the biting retort. "You brought magic. We all know it. You fix it!"

"And was I to know? I hardly know where to start," he dismissed the words, and Belle could almost see him sneer.

The tension was obvious, even from the other room, and she felt her chest tighten. Gasping, she quickly cast about, unsure which way to go. Behind her was a worktable, a desk maybe of sorts. She moved to it quickly and ducked under it, curling and hugging her knees to her chest. Voices were louder, and she pressed both hands to her ears, burying her face and willing it to go away. Willing the noise to go away. The anger to stop.

A hand on her shoulder nearly made her jump out of her skin, as it was only his quick movement to cup her head kept Belle from hitting it against the desk.

"Sweetheart, it's alright," he assured, voice pitched low. He had pulled the chair away from the desk and was sitting in it, leaning down. "They're gone, it's only us." His hand was warm as it gently reached for hers, chaffing it lightly. "Come on, the floor's cold and hard."

She shivered and took his hand, letting him help her to her feet. When he took his own jacket and wrapped it around her, she finally blinked and settled. "I don't like feeling cold." The words seemed to tumble out before she knew what she was saying.

"We ordered some proper coats for you last night. Maybe we should look for some sweaters as well, cardigans or something you can wear over your dresses if you need." He led her slowly to the cot, offering a throw for her legs. "I'm making some tea."

"Thank you," she said quietly, fingers running over the texture of the throw, fingering the yarn and its weave. "It reminds me of… of the asylum."

"The blanket?" he asked, turning quickly and staring at the throw as if he would incinerate it on the spot.

Her head shook slightly, curls tumbling. "The cold. It was… it was always cold. And they didn't give me any covers. They said I couldn't be trusted with a blanket." The words were fuzzy, but she thought she had heard those same words many times.

"Tell you what, let's have some tea, you sit for a while as I clean up shop, and then we can go home. We can relax by the fire with supper, hmm?" he coaxed, getting water for the kettle.

Belle considered it for a few moments before nodding. "On one condition."

His brow raised, and he gave a small half smile, obviously encouraged that she was up to bargaining. "Oh?"

"You join me and have a cup of your own," she began, giving a ghost of a smile when he agreed before she could finish, "And you allow me to help you clean." She glanced around the backroom, which was in marked contrast to the front room. This was so clearly a work space, while the other was all show.

He shook his head slightly, making sure the kettle was set, although she could see no stove to heat the water. "Please relax, I can take care of the dust easily enough."

"I want to help," Belle insisted, feeling this need again, this urge to do something to contribute. "Besides, it's not strenuous, and Archie himself said some light exercise might help me feel physically tired enough to rest at night." She didn't add that she could think of other things that might tire her enough to sleep. As much as she hated to admit it, Rumple was right to insist they wait for… that.

A small, and he nodded in agreement. "Dust the tops of the display cases, the interior can wait for another time. But first…" He trailed off, slipping into the other room for a moment before returning with a tea pot and cups, setting them on a low table nearby. The tea was only a few moments more, and he was pouring.

She gave a tentative smile, nodding in agreement to the truce and calming further as the familiar scent of chamomile steam rose from the cup. "It smells deli… Rumple," the last word was breathed, her breath catching as she saw the cup. This cup.

Biting her bottom lip and trying to remember to breathe, she reached with both hands cradling the piece, lifting it reverently. White porcelain and the blue mark, so distinctive. And the chip. Her hands trembled, and the little sob slipped out before she could bite it back. "Our chipped cup."

His hands wrapped around hers, steadying them, and he dropped a soft kiss into her hair. "Yes, sweetheart. Yes."