Nothing more is brought up about Belle's therapy or the Regina incident. They revert back to normal, teasing and joking with each other. The days start to get a little longer again, the wind and snow dying down at the seasons move steadily towards spring.

With her birthday in early March, she divulges that she'll be spending a weekend with Ruby. He doesn't think anything of it, not until the Thursday appointment before, when she recounts a story of her turning 21 and the chaos that Ruby had brought down with it. He panics slightly, imaging that she'll do something crazy while they're gone. So tentatively, he asks her plans.

"I don't know what we'll do for my birthday." She frowns slightly, curling her legs up under her as he loops his tie around his neck. "Ruby will probably drag me to a club to see if she can pick a guy up for me."

"No doubt you'll be awash in potential suitors." He says wryly, to disguise the flair of jealousy rising in him.

"Well, you know what I always say." She says sweetly. "I like my men like I like my whiskey."

"And how is that?" He asks, thinking about how they haven't drank together since Valentine's Day with the Johnnie Walker.

"Scottish and twice my age."

"Belle!" His hands slip on the silk and he's forced to start over, the tie a useless knot around his neck.

"And that one was a quip." She gets up, taking pity in him and using her long, nimble fingers to gently pluck at the knot that is his tie. "You cannot take what you dish out, can you?"

"Belle." He's trying to keep his temper under control, trying not to fly off the handle. She doesn't deserve it. He has no claim to her. Except one. "I don't know what kind of impression you have of me but I will not tolerate you bringing strange men into my home."

"What?" Belle gapes at him in shock. "No, I— Never would— No! No! God, no! I'm not Ruby!"

"So you understand why I forbid it?" He's a little surprised at that she's agreeing to his possessive boundaries so easily.

"Yes." Belle finishes off the tie and leans back against the counter. He pulls his jacket on slowly. "It's your house, if you lived with me and had a parade of random women traipsing through I'd be disgruntled too. Beside, I don't take guys home. Never have. I am not a one night stand kinda girl."

"No." His face is unexpectedly warm so he winds a scarf around it to shield himself from Belle. "You are not."

"Glad you think so." Belle watches him with amusement. "But I'll probably spend the night at Ruby's regardless. Don't want to disturb you with the whole short girl in high heels shtick."

"You walk like an expert in high heels." He reminds her. "In fact, I'm partial to believing that if you're not barefoot, you're in heels, no in between. They litter the house. You've more heels than I suits."

"Not possible. And I like being tall." She says defensively. "I don't get that chance very often."

"I know." He smiles at her, amused. "You two have fun, dancing the night away." He's got to leave her now, before he makes an ass out of himself, demanding that she stay with him.

"You know me, I'd rather be in bed by 9:30." Belle grumbles and he smiles at her, the old lady.

"Go, live while you're young." He gently pats her cheek. "And call me if you need anything."

"Will you bring me greasy hangover food?" She asks innocently and he chuckles, gently swiping a thumb over her cheek, thinking about how adorable she must be hung over, grumpy and crabby and sleepy. He wants to see all sides of Belle, including this one.

"You just have to call."


The house is quiet without her in it and he finds he hates it. He sits in the library, drinking a tumbler of bourbon, trying not to look at Belle's open chair. He feels like a lovesick teenager once again, pining over his crush. He's a grown man and she's a grown woman. She's free to do as she pleases. He has no reason to be sitting here, waiting on a call that's never going to come.

At 1:38 am, the chiming of his cell phone awakes him. Groggily, he rolls over, mind going to the worst, always. Bae. Something has to have happened, at school. He might need his father, he might be hurt, or he might be—

"Belle?" He reads the caller id and answers it, bewildered.

"Hi." Belle sounds passably sober and that surprises him. "Rum. Sloan. Gold. Master. Sir. Papa. You have so many names that I call you."

"Belle." He wants to be amused, but he's sleepy and tired and if this is a drunken call to ramble, she can do that on his voicemail.

"What name do I call you when I need you?" She asks curiously and he sits upright, startled.

"Belle, what's going on? Are you all right? Did something happen? Are you hurt? Belle!"

"No, no, no." Belle makes a humming sort of sound, drowned out by the thumping bass from a club. She must be outside, calling him from the streets. "But I need a ride. I got separated from the girls. I want to come home."

"Home?" He knows he should be worried not thrilled, or concerned at the very least, that tipsy Belle is outside a club alone, but he can't resist. He's a weak man, and Belle is an honest drunk. "Here is home?"

"Yes." Belle rambles as he gets up and gets dressed, pulling on layers and even a hat. He limps to the foyer; phone nestled between his ear and shoulder. "Home is where the heart is, and all that jazz."

"Why don't you call a cab?" He asks, realizing the stupidity of himself driving through Manhattan at 2 in the morning.

"Oh, a cab." Belle sighs. "I lost my wallet. The guy at the bar, his name was Will. Did he steal it from me?"

"He better not have." He says darkly. "You tell me where you are?"

"I sent you my pin!"

"What in the bloody hell is a pin?" A second later, his phone dings and he has the option to view her location, and the fastest route to her. Thanking the marvel of modern technology, he sets the directions for her location and goes for the Cadillac. Rarely does he drive on his own anymore, but it's not a forgotten luxury. It takes longer than he likes, but eventually he arrives at the dingy club. A moment later, he spots Belle's small figure, tottering on high heels in the alley beside the club, and a man hovering over her.

Rage fills him, hot and furious. He slams on the breaks, throwing the door open. He hardly needs the cane to cross the sidewalk, uncaring that he's practically left the car parked in the middle of street. As he gets closer to Belle, he can hear what she's saying.

"Please, I'm sorry, I don't have my wallet. I don't have it, I'm sorry, I can't… I'm sorry, I can't, I don't have it." She's stuttering.

"C'mon, I'll get you a cab. A ride home." He's trying to be persuasive and smooth and Gold hefts his cane, readying his swing.

"I have a ride." Belle insists.

"Who?" The man scoffs and the golden hilt of the cane shines in the lights of the city at night as it makes contact with the man's skull.

"Me." Gold growls, and brings the cane back to strike him with savage pleasure, again and again, until the man's groaning and partly unconscious. Only then does he remember that Belle is standing off to one side, watching him. He briefly closes his eyes, not wanting to see the expression on her face. Then, small fingers close around his wrist.

"Rum." Belle is whispering in his ear, rubbing his back. "C'mon. Get in the car. We need to go."

"What?" He turns to her in bewilderment.

"We need to get out of the street before anyone sees. We need to go." She carefully tugs him back to the car, putting him in the drivers seat. "Drive. We need to go home."

"Home?" He asks, a little dazed.

"Yes. Take me home." Her hand is on his knee and it anchors him to the world, letting him know that this is real. Once he gets a couple blocks away, real life sets in and he realizes what he's done.

He's beaten a man. In front of Belle. She pulled him away, so that no one would see. She probably saved him from an assault charge. He hasn't lost his temper like that in years, but he did tonight, in front of her. She's not going to see it as sweet or kind or protective, she is going to see him as possessive and psychotic. He has messed it up, he has messed it all up.

By the time they get home, he wants to pull over and throw up. Belle is still sitting in the car beside him, hand still on his knee. It's the only ray of hope in the darkness and he's certain that the second they get home, she will bolt away from him. She has to be disgusted with him. There's no way she'll forgive him after this. He has ruined everything.

"Belle." He says quietly, once he's parked the car.

"Come on, come inside." She orders quietly and he obligingly follows her, meek as a mouse, desperate to stay with her for as long as he can until she kicks him out. She leads him inside and sets about making tea. He sits at the kitchen table, hardly registering what she's doing until she comes to him with a wet washcloth and he realizes he has blood on him.

"Belle." He repeats quietly. "Belle, please, talk to me. I need you to say something to me."

"Drink the tea." She points to it and he realizes in relief that she's given him the chipped cup. Surely all hope isn't lost if she's giving him the cup that has been there from the beginning. He does as told and lets Belle clean him up. The tea relaxes him, but the way Belle moves is setting his teeth of edge.

"Please." He begs. "Belle, please, say something. Yell at me. Scream. Cry. Something. Anything."

"I think…" She says slowly and quietly. "That we should go to bed. We can talk about this in the morning."

"I don't want to go to bed." He states and Belle sighs, leaning her head against the fridge.

"Rum." She sounds tired and the blue sequin dress she's wearing must've been alluring in the strobe lights of the club but here looks trashy and his heart clenches imagining the looks she must've received from the men in the club. He wants to make this better, he wants to be a good man for her, but he can't. Not right now, when his emotions are running so high.

"Belle." He says, trying to reach out to her but she stays out of reach, staring down into her tea.

"I would really appreciate it if we both went to bed and talked about this in the morning." She says firmly and so he watches her, dismayed, as she disappears quietly into her bedroom.

He hardly sleeps the night. He keeps straining for the sound of Belle, desperate to hear her. When he wakes up in the morning, he knows instantly what's happened. The house is empty. Belle has left. Her personality fills the space, and he knows when she's gone. All that's left is a letter on the table beside her chair in the library and he picks it up with trembling hands.

Rum,

I'm sorry to leave in the middle of the night like this but I had to go. I'm sorry but I couldn't think straight. I need time, away, from this all. I'll be at Ruby's. I'll let you know when I'm ready.

You are a good man. I mean that. I just need some space.

Don't do anything stupid. Don't lash out. Do not take this out on Mary Margaret. I'll see you soon.

-Belle

Vision blurry with rage and tears, he stumbles to Belle's bedroom, desperate to smell her, to reassure himself that she once was here. Her room is flawless, organized and beautiful. He collapses onto the bed, burying his face in her pillows and pulling his knees to his chest to contain his grief. Then, through the haze of tears, he spots it.

The ballerina sculpture. It sits on the bedside table, turned to face the bed. He realizes, belatedly, that she must look at it every night before she falls asleep. A little bit of the tension releases. Belle wouldn't leave forever without taking Bae's gift with her. She will be back. He pulls himself back together enough to sit up, taking a deep breath.


It's a week however, a week of no Belle. No therapy, no yoga, no chess lessons in the library, no dinners together. Jefferson and Mrs. Potts wisely keep quiet about Belle's disappearance, though Mary Margaret makes only one thinly veiled reference to it, commenting that he shouldn't let his anger get the best of him. She also refuses to bring him cinnamon muffins.

Halfway through the week, he gets it in his head to order her back. She's an employee, damn it, she should listen to him. She lives with him, she works for him, and he could destroy her if she doesn't come back. But then he remembers just whom he's thinking about. Belle. Good, sweet, beloved Belle. And he restrains every base urge to lash out and instead stays where he is, giving her space, doing as she wishes, even if it kills him.

Then, on a random Wednesday afternoon, as he sits in his office, he receives a text, from Belle. It's only two words, but it sends him into a nervous rant. Mary Margaret seems to know what's happening and watches him run around, yelling at underlings, until she finally catches him and points to the phone.

"Read it. Out loud." She orders and he does as told.

"I'm ready." He says and looks at her with wide eyes.

"Go." She orders and so he does.


He shifts from foot to foot in the elevator, nervous beyond reason. It's silly, of course. She'll be here; he double and triple checked the schedule to make sure this is when her class would end. Of course, this means that people will see him at a yoga studio, but that's worth it. If it means Belle will look at him and smile and laugh once again, it will be more than worth it. He just needs to see her.

When the elevator stops on her floor, a gaggle of women with yoga mats slung over their shoulders stand aside and let him walk out of the elevator. They're chattering and pay him no mind. They're followed by the assortment of typical New Yorkers. He glances at a couple men, wondering in the part of his brain not panicking if they are drag queens. Then he pushes the door to the studio open and is greeted with the sight of Belle.

She is indeed sitting atop the white desk, chattering with everyone who's still pulling on coats and boots. She's laughing at something a middle-aged woman has said, oblivious to his entrance. He hovers, not sure what to do, and waits for her attention to fall on him. When it does, she goes quiet.

"Hello." He says gently.

"Kim, I'll see you tomorrow? At candle flow?" Belle asks the woman who's heading out the door.

"For sure! Have a good rest of the week Belle!" The woman breezes out and Belle is sure to thank the remaining stragglers for coming, smiling and answering questions as they trickle out, in pairs and alone, until finally he is the only one remaining in the lobby. Belle looks at him, wide eyed.

"What are you doing here?" She questions him, looking a little angry but more so surprised.

"You said you were ready and I needed to see you. I needed to talk." He says honestly and she folds her arms, her lip coming out in the little defiant pout he's always adored, except when it's directed at him.

"I didn't think it'd be right now. People saw you. They might go shouting from the rooftops that big, scary Mr. Gold was spotted at some yoga studio." The words are meant to string like barbs, but he is prepared for this. He is prepared for her anger, because he is deserving of it.

"Let them." He says eagerly. "Let them, because it's true. I am here, I like yoga, and I am desperate to see you."

"That doesn't sound like you." She remarks, her shoulders dropping some. "Mr. Privacy."

"I know." He braves a step forward, reassured when she doesn't get up and storm away. "Belle, I was…" Words fail him, so Belle steps in and helps.

"You were an ass, you were insane, you were out of control, you were rude, and way out of line?" She suggests pointedly.

"All of the above." He admits and Belle sits back, satisfied with that answer. "But Belle, you have to know why I reacted the way I did."

"No. Tell me." She commands and he struggles for a moment, trying to evade her, but it's futile.

"You call me and ask for help. Me." He lets the awe slip into his voice and Belle cautiously lets a smile creep onto her face.

"I live with you, you silly man. Of course I call you."

"Still." He holds up a hand. He's got to get this out. "You're scared and want me. So I pull up to see you… His hands, on you! And Belle, if it had been what you wanted, I would've driven off then and there, I would've left you to it, I never would've said a word. But you didn't. And I saw that. I saw how you didn't want to be touched, and I lost it. I told you, I do dark and terrible things to protect the people that deserve it. You are a sunbeam, sweetheart, and I couldn't stand the thought of anyone diminishing that, even for a moment. So you must understand, that's why I reacted the way I did. And I was an ass, insane, over the line, completely uncontrollable. But I lost my head when I saw you in danger." He tries to explain to her eagerly and she just blinks, unimpressed.

"Why?" The single word makes him almost moan. He needs to tell her the truth, but he is terrified, hanging onto memories of the past. How will she react? How could she ever react positively, after all this?

"Because you are mine." The words come out unexpectedly possessive, not a question but a statement. She's already seen how beastly he can get, how awful he can be, so there's nothing left to hide from her. "Because I don't want another man to touch you, ever. Only me. Because when men do, especially against your will, I see red. Mine, Belle, I want you to be mine. And if I overreact and fly off the handle in regards to you, it's because I'm fairly certain that if anything happens to you, I won't survive it."

"So what are you trying to do?" Her face is impassive as she carries on her honesty crusade, making him flinch, but he's already this far in, so he might as well finish it out.

"I am trying to court you, Belle. And I know that usually you don't start off with the whole beating a man senseless in an alley, but that is the man that I am. And I desperately need you to know that, because I don't think there is a soul on this earth that knows me like you. And I need you. So please, please," He's begging, standing in front of the desk, pleading. "Please be mine. Come home."

"Are you 13?" The words burst from her and he has to stop himself from physically recoiling. A little bewildered, he tilts his head. "You can't go about smacking people with your cane when they touch your toy."

"You are not some godforsaken toy." He says darkly. "You are a human, Belle, and you are mine."

"No." Belle wags a finger at him. "No one decides my fate but me."

"Belle, of course, I simply meant—" He tries to fix his blunder, trying to backtrack, but then Belle's hand darts out and snatches his tie, pulling him closer to the desk. Stunned, he's absolutely silent as her legs snack around him and pulls him until he's flush with her. He looks down at her wordlessly, wondering what this means, with her wide eyes and quirked lips.

"No one decides my fate but me." She reiterates and he nods eagerly. "Now get down here and kiss me senseless." He complies without hesitation, bowing his head and meeting her lips. Soft, supple, tasting like the berry shake she usually has for lunch instead of a meal. He feels like he's floating away, because his beautiful Belle is sighing into his mouth and tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling ever so slightly until he can't help but moan.

"Belle…" He drops the cane so that one hand can grab her waist and the other can find her neck, anchoring her to him. She makes a little noise of satisfaction, further exploring his mouth and when her legs tighten around him, he thinks wicked thoughts.

"Oh, your hair." She mutters when they lean back, gasping for breath. "Do you know how many times I've wanted to do this?" Both hands run through his long locks, scratching his scalp, and when she reaches the end, she pulls just slightly. He has to stifle a groan by burying his head in her neck. "And how many times I'd hoped you react just like that?"

"Darling Belle." His hands ghost up and down her arms before stopping on both sides of her face. She looks up at him with wide eyes, innocent in every sense, and he has to suppress blurting out three words that will likely alarm her. "If you want to run, now is the time. Because after this…" He trails off, but his unspoken words hang heavy in the air. He's not a one-night stand kind of man and he means to take her forever.

"You want me to run?" Belle questions and he is quiet, because there's nothing more than he wants to do than throw her on the floor and have his way with her, but he must respect her if she decides to leave. "You are not allowed to beat strangers for touching me." She states and he raises an eyebrow.

"Belle, he could've hurt you."

"I'll not be having you get arrested for assault." The way she says it, with a hint of a dark smile and a flash of her eyes makes him weak in the knees.

"Belle." He whispers, fast losing control. "Belle, tell me to leave. Tell me I am an evil, dark old man. A bastard."

"Come here." Belle drags him down to kiss her again, but this time her hips are pressed to his and he feels like a teenage boy again, breathless at the possibility of being near a woman. "Mine." She marks his skin with her kisses, his lips, cheek, jaw, neck, the space beneath his ear that draws something akin to a whimper from him. "Mine, mine, mine."

"It's forever, dearie." He says roughly, more to her hair than to her as her lips trail down his neck.

"Good." She says honestly.

"What a woman. You force of nature." He mutters and then tries to show her his appreciation for her with more kisses. Belle responds in kind and he's lost in the beauty of her.

AN: Bring on the yelling! I welcome it! I encourage it! Please don't think we're done- we're only halfway. If you haven't left a review before, now is the time! Thank you for reading all my exclamation mark sentences! I am excited!