Summary: Belle deals with the fallout of her impromptu overnight stay at Gold's house when rumors about the town's newest couple begin to circulate.

A/N: Beastlycheese prompted: "Could I prompt a scene where they deal with the abuse because of their size differences?" This is my first time writing from Marco's viewpoint.

"Judge tenderly, if you must. There is usually a side you have not heard, a story you know nothing about, and a battle waged that you are not having to fight." ― Traci Lea LaRussa

Marco tossed fresh zucchini slices into a sizzling sauté pan and inhaled deeply. Was there a more comforting aroma in all the world than that of hot olive oil and garlic melting together? Bellissima! With a contented hum, he swiveled back to the cutting board to chop the rest of the vegetables for his lasagna bianca. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Madonna mia, it was two o'clock already! He rocked the knife against the board faster; he needed to hurry if he was going to have this batch ready in time for tonight's first dinner reservations.

As he finished chopping the peppers, agitated footfalls sounded outside the door. Belle stormed into the kitchen, shoving the swinging kitchen door against the wall with a crash. Surprised to see her in the middle of the afternoon, Marco wiped his hands on his apron. "Buona giornata, Bella," he greeted, then snapped his mouth shut at the mutinous expression on his sweet girl's face.

"What's so good about it?" She brushed past him and ducked into the refrigerator, emerging with the cassata cake he had prepared for tonight's dessert special.

He watched her cut a large wedge and stomp to the booth in the back corner of the kitchen reserved for his staff to eat during their breaks. She plunked her slab of cake down on the table. Eyebrows raised, two of his waiters scurried out of her way, carrying their spaghetti lunches out the back door. He would have chuckled at their befuddled expressions, had Belle not looked so devastated. Her brow furrowed, marring her dewy skin as she glared at the cake in front of her.

"Something wrong, Bella?" He set down the chef's knife and took a hesitant step in her direction. "You're chasing my staff away."

"I chase everyone away," she said, chin wobbling as she rifled through bins of cutlery looking for a fork.

"Ridiculous." He clucked at her, then brought over a fresh set of utensils and a starched napkin. "Anyone with any sense adores you. Is it Edith?"

"For once, she's at the bottom half of my list of problems," Belle shot back, then pressed her lips together as if she'd said too much.

"Che cavolo! What problems?" he asked, growing alarmed at the anguish in her voice.

"It's nothing." She smoothed the napkin over her lap, refusing to meet his eyes. "Don't worry. Besides, I don't want to talk about it."

"Not Signore Gold?" Marco clenched a dishtowel. He liked Gold, thought he was a wonderful match for his sweet girl, but if Gold hurt his Bella, he would summon his ancestors to haunt the man's dreams for the rest of his earthly days.

"No," she said, her expression softening as tears filled her eyes. "It's not Gold. And don't go dragging him into all this!"

"Into all what? You say it's nothing." He shrugged, offended that Bella would think he couldn't be trusted with a secret. He was no chiacchierone, but he didn't object to employing a little well-meaning guilt. He was Italian, after all. "I'm just an old man who makes pasta. Who am I to get involved in your love life?"

"I mean it, Marco." Belle suspended her fork in midair. "Don't call him."

Anger bubbled under his skin, not unlike the spicy marinara simmering on the stove. Everything had been going so well. Bella was surely, albeit slowly, finding love and building a future. But now she was once again closing herself off to the world for reasons she wouldn't tell him. She needed the comfort and confidence of his friendship more than ever. Friendship…of course! He nearly smacked himself for being such an old fool.

"I promise not to call Signore Gold," he said, crossing himself. And he meant it. He wouldn't call Gold. He would call Emma. And then she could call Gold. There was more than one way to skin a cat, si?

"Please, Marco, I know you want to help. Could you just leave me alone for a little while, though?" Belle begged.

Her voice was hoarse and her eyes red-rimmed, like she would burst into tears at any moment. Marco struggled between what she wanted and what was best: being alone was the last thing she needed. That was Belle's entire problem—she internalized every struggle, and hid herself away from other people. Then, alone in the dark, she consumed her demons' weight in fudge instead of facing them.

"Si." Marco nodded solemnly, and stepped quietly back from the table. Leaving Belle to her own counsel for the time being, he scurried out of the kitchen to the telephone behind the bar. He punched in the number for the Storybrooke Mirror, hoping that Emma would answer instead of Gold.

"Bella, she stormed into the restaurant and cut herself a fettona of cake," Marco confided when Emma answered his call.

"Fettona?" Emma paused on the line. "Is that a new flavor or something?"

"No. Come si dice...how do you say in English?" He gesticulated wildly, not that Emma could see his arms waving as he searched for the words. "Ah! Big piece of cake."

"Oh! Yeah, I think I know what this is about," Emma said. "And I can feel you wringing your hands. Don't worry. I'll be right there."

Groaning, Marco hung up the phone and mopped beads of sweat off his brow with the corner of his apron. Turning out perfectly al dente pasta creations during the dinner rush was nothing compared to this stress.

xoxo

Her stomach tightening, Belle toyed with a sliver of toasted almond on top of her cake. Everyone knew they were a couple now, and it was only a matter of time before Gold thought better of his decision to get involved with Belle French. Nice going, Belle. In less than forty-eight hours, she had lost her shiny new status as Gold's girlfriend. She poked and prodded the offending morsel as her mind played the events of the past days on a sadistic loop.

The visit to Gold's had been idyllic, until her father and Edith had arrived to humiliate her. After their abrupt departure, she and Gold had managed to salvage the rest of their morning together, finishing their breakfast without another mention of her parents.

Had the mechanic at the garage looked at her strangely? All Belle knew was that everything had been fine—until yesterday when she'd picked up her car and gone back to work.

Word of Belle's overnight visit to Mr. Gold's home had spread faster than the oil leak the garage had discovered beneath her broken-down car. How and where the rumors started didn't really matter; from the sidewalk to the library to Granny's, everyone stared at her and spoke in hushed tones. Since she'd arrived at work yesterday, her brain had tortured her with round after round of the dreaded game Guess What Is Everyone Saying?

"Did you hear that Belle French is sleeping with Mr. Gold from the newspaper? Yes! He's more than twice her age. I knew she didn't get along with her stepmother, but I didn't realize she wanted to replace her father…that's so creepy!"

"I wonder if such a little man could actually please a woman her size? You know they do say the bigger the cushion. I'll bet he needs climbing gear to get up there!"

"What if she rolls over and crushes him in bed?"

Less than twenty-four hours after an innocent overnight stay, their fledgling relationship had become everyone's business, if not in fact, then in her overwrought imagination. Fresh tears filled her eyes and she dropped her fork and buried her head in her hands.

The argument in Gold's foyer with Edith. The deafening silence from her father. While she'd been with Gold, Edith had rifled through her room again. She hadn't said anything to give herself away, but Belle had known by the subtle way her things were shifted around. Edith was a sloppy snooper. But that wasn't the worst of it. Yesterday afternoon she'd escaped the library to eat a quiet lunch at Granny's and come face-to-face with one of least favorite people.

When Belle looked up from her tuna melt and her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, Ashley Boyd, Sean's girlfriend, was sliding into the seat across the booth. She frowned down at Belle's basket of fries and wrinkled her nose. "Wow, Belle. How do you do it?"

"Excuse me?" Belle asked, annoyed by the interruption. Mr. Darcy was about to propose to Elizabeth Bennet for the first time and she was in no mood for pleasantries.

"How do you eat all that? I can't eat a huge, sandwich filled with mayo and butter and cheese in the middle of the day."

"Special talent," Belle snapped back. "Pairs really well with the fried ravioli I had for breakfast."

"It's not only that," Ashley simpered. "I mean, you're so brave...dating a guy that's thinner than you. Thank God Sean can span my waist with his hands. I wish I had your courage, hon."

"I wish I had yours," Belle replied sweetly.

"Oh yeah?" Ashley looked confused.

"To date a guy another woman's already dumped. Now that takes moxy. As you can plainly see," Belle gestured at herself, "the only seconds I like are the ones on my plate."

Ashley stiffened, her eyes turning as cold as ice chips when it dawned on her that she'd been insulted.

Belle's face had burned as Ashley stalked away, but her embarrassment was trumped by the satisfaction of finding her voice when confronted with someone horrible. I should not have said those things. She sighed—yesterday she'd managed to send doubt and regret on a brief holiday. Now they were back, and guilt had joined the party.

Then there was the scene she made at the library this morning.

Cordelia had pounced while Belle was trying to unload a shipment of new books before story hour. Bless her heart, she was positively effervescent—bubbling over about how handsome Mr. Gold is and pumping her for details on everything from their dinner to the movie they watched to what color and thread count the sheets were on Gold's bed. Busy hefting crates of books and only half listening, Belle had grunted monosyllabic replies until Cordelia announced that if she were twenty years younger she would steal Gold away from Belle and marry him.

That had captured her attention.

"What do you mean, steal him away?" Seething, Belle rounded on Cordelia, her hands on her hips. Sweat was trickling down her back and between her breasts and her lungs were burning with exertion. She needed a snowball snack cake more than she needed her next breath, but she wasn't letting that comment go.

Cordelia's eyes widened. "Well, that is…I meant to say…if you don't want him, dear…"

"You can keep your man-eating clutches to yourself. Gold is mine!" Belle bellowed at the top of her lungs.

Everyone in the library had turned to gawk at her, no doubt wondering why the head librarian was screaming at her assistant during quiet time.

It was simply all too much. She had ignored Cordelia's sputtering apology, ripped open a packet of snowballs, shoved one in her mouth, and stomped back to her office.

If the rest of the town didn't already know about Belle French dating Mr. Gold, well, they would now. It would be even more humiliating when he broke up with her for subjecting him to public embarrassment.

Belle startled when Emma Cassidy appeared at the kitchen door, forcing her out of her thoughts. She crossed her arms over her chest and arranged her face in a severe frown that she hoped said Do Not Disturb.

Failing to take the hint, Emma plopped down with her typical casual grace. She looked adorable in ripped jeans and a turquoise hoodie that brought out her green eyes.

Belle sighed, "Can no one read?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Next time she wanted to hide in the back of the restaurant and eat all the cake, she would tell Marco not to let anyone disturb her. "I don't think I'm great company right now, Emma."

"Let me be the judge," she said pleasantly, propping her elbows up on the table. "Your face is gonna freeze like that if you aren't careful. So what's up?"

Apparently no one could read or hear.

Belle dragged the plate of cake back into fork's reach. "I already told you—nothing."

"Likely story." Emma pointed at the slab of cassata cake. "Do you really want that?"

Belle snatched up her fork and pointed it at a threatening angle. "Now you're going to start on me too?"

"Nope." Emma held up her hands, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Guilt trips aren't my style."

"You don't have to do this. Pretend to be my friend." Belle didn't need or want Emma's pity. She certainly didn't need her judgment, or her well-intentioned-yet-insulting encouragement to make healthier choices.

The blood drained from Emma's face and she sank back against the bench. "Oh, I see. You think this is all about you."

"What?"

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I want to be your friend? That maybe I need one too? Look, forget it. I'll go." Visibly upset, Emma stood, struggling to shrug her jacket over her shoulders.

"Wait. Emma, please. I-I'm sorry." Belle shoved the cake back to the center of the table. "Stay. I have cake," she offered stupidly.

"You know, Belle," Emma said, "that day we went shopping? I had so much fun. I thought you did too, and I was so happy to just spend some time doing, ya know, girl things." Emma grew uncharacteristically sheepish as she played with the zipper on her red leather jacket. "I don't have that—lots of friends. Sure, I have Neal, and Henry, and Dad, uh, Gold… but no one I can just grab coffee with or whine about periods or anything like that." She smiled wistfully.

Belle felt the flush of shame overtake her face as she rose from the booth. Walking over to Emma, she placed a tentative hand on her arm.

"Emma, I am truly sorry," Belle said in earnest. "You're right, I was being selfish. You've been wonderful to me; your whole family has. I'm honored that you would call me a friend." Smiling, Belle gestured to the booth. "I could use a friend to talk to and a cake-eating partner. Join me, please?"

Emma smiled broadly and tossed her jacket back on the bench, eyeing the cake. "Looks delicious. Besides, friends don't let friends scarf Marco's signature dessert alone. Got an extra fork?"

Relieved, Belle handed her the spoon from her cutlery set. "We may as well eat it all. I'm already out of Gold's weight class."

"It's not a wrestling match, it's a relationship!" Emma murmured around a mouthful. "Belle, ignore whatever crap that airhead Ashley was spouting and anyone else around town who's blabbering. They're jealous."

"Ha! Jealous of what?" Belle dug into the cake and the smooth flavors and textures of rum-spiked custard, fluffy white cake, and chocolate filled her mouth. Why question people and their motivations when you could eat?

"Are you kidding? No one knows what to do with Dad. Beyond the business of running his newspaper, he keeps to himself besides you and us." Emma dropped her voice and wiggled her eyebrows. "You've been in the beast's lair."

Belle choked. "You did not just say that."

"He's so love-struck, you could strike a match to that ghastly mausoleum he calls a house and he'd probably thank you for it…wow, this cake is fantastic!" She turned around, looking for Marco, who was busy chopping and stirring, he and his sous chef speaking to one another in rapid-fire Italian. "Marco, what is in this?"

"Special, secret recipe," he said, dramatically drawing his finger to his lips.

Belle rolled her eyes, and when she turned back to Emma she was grinning. "What?"

"Wipe the frosting off your nose, Belle," she said, tossing her a clean napkin. "Your white knight has arrived."

At once, Belle heard the familiar cadence of Gold's cane tapping against the tile and shot Marco an accusing look. He looked down in a rush, pretending to busy himself by slicing a loaf of ciabatta bread.

"Before you freak out and shout at Marco, I'm the one who called Gold," Emma admitted, sliding out of her seat to make way for him. Pulling on her jacket, she smiled brightly as she turned to leave. "Just no make-up sex on the table, okay guys? You don't want to shut Marco down for code violations." She laughed as she scurried from the kitchen.

Gold shook his head at his daughter-in-law's retreating form. "I don't know if I could put up with her if she weren't so perfect for my son," he quipped, sliding into the booth.

Belle stared at the vinyl gingham-printed tablecloth as Gold reached across the table for her hand. She was finding it nearly impossible to look him in the eyes, frightened that she would find only regret in their warm depths.

"Gold, I'm so, so sorry." Belle trembled as she tried to get the words out.

"Belle, hey." He pulled his hand back in confusion. "Talk to me," he urged.

She pushed the cake aside, no longer hungry. The way his brow furrowed in concern clenched at her heart, squeezing until Belle lost control and tears began to stream down her face.

Wordlessly, Gold slid out from the opposite bench at the booth, and Belle was certain he was about to leave, but he edged in closer, settling himself beside her so they sat thigh-to-thigh.

Belle caught her breath. Being this close to him made her nerve endings trip like live wire. Here he was, dashingly dressed in his signature three piece suit, not a hair out of place, and smelling bloody fantastic. She lifted her face to his and attempted a brave smile, but faltered when she met his piercing gaze. He stared at her intently, searching her soul, and she was mesmerized by the tenderness in his eyes. Mercy, had they always been flecked with amber?

It wasn't fair; he was completely at ease while she practically needed life support to sit next to him.

His lip twisted as he fought a smile. "So you broke Leroy's Kline's nose. Threw a book at his head."

"Heard about that did you?" she said feebly.

"The library is right across the street from the paper." He grinned, his white teeth flashing. "A bystander or two might have called in with an anonymous tip in the name of free press."

"He was mean to you," she reasoned, her neck prickling with renewed fury. "Calling you a hack. Saying that I was an awful person for…" Belle swallowed. "I didn't mean to break anything, but I suppose War and Peace is rather a heavy book."

"Is that why you're hiding from me, sweetheart?" He covered her hand with his. "Because of Leroy?"

Belle looked down. She didn't have an answer. Not a good one, anyway. "Among other things," she evaded. "You wouldn't understand."

A sweet smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "Try me."

She shook her head. "No one wants to see us together."

"I don't think that's true," he said calmly.

Incredulous, she stared at him. "Haven't you heard? The things people are saying," she clarified.

Before she could explain further, Gold's warm, slightly calloused hand closed around the back of her neck, his long, elegant fingers catching a few locks of hair. He hauled her into his arms with a strength that caused a gasp to slip from her lips. Before she could draw breath, his mouth was covering hers, his warm lips gently massaging, tongue teasing her lips apart in a bid for entrance. Helpless to deny him anything, Belle sighed softly and opened like a flower thirsty for rain. The kiss was deep, passionate, and Belle paid no mind to the waiters coming and going through the kitchen, or to Marco or the sous chef stirring at the stove.

He pulled away, cradling her jaw in the palm of his hand. "Sweetheart, do you remember the day we met?"

###

Italian Word Guide:

chiacchierone = blabbermouth

che cavalo = what the hell

fettona = big piece

cassata = Italian creme cake
Madonna mia = Oh Virgin Mary