Chapter 12: Then somebody bends
Curled up on the couch, hibernating underneath a blanket, Belle tried to keep her attention focused on 'The Thirteenth Tale', one of the more surprising books she'd found in the antique dealer's overflowing bookcase. The story - in many ways a re-telling of Jane Eyre - was definitely captivating, but despite the compelling intrigue, Belle felt her mind constantly wandering to a more frustratingly mystery right under her nose.
She'd been staying at his house for three days now as sheriff Swan was still chasing after Frollo and everybody and their grandmother deemed it unsafe for her to be on her own.
It wasn't that she minded staying with him, quite the contrary in fact. She had been surprised by how easily she'd felt at home in his house. He liked to keep to himself and it was clear that his house, with the heavy drapery in front of the windows and the dark furniture that was his sanctuary. But once inside, upon closer look, the dark, impressive house harbored a thousand little interesting things that enchanted her. Books she'd never suspected to come across in his bookcase. The beautiful, idyllic painting above the fireplace, the delicate china set on the buffet. His extensive music collection… in a way, the house was very much like the man himself, intimidating on first impression, but full of surprises once you managed to get behind the exterior.
Only she felt that lately she hadn't been able to really get behind that facade he kept up. He was sending her so many mixed signals that it made her head spin. Truth to be told, ever since the day he had all but thrown her out of his shop, she had no idea were they stood.
When he had abruptly ended their budding friendship, it had hurt her more than she'd ever thought possible.
From one day to the other, he was avoiding her like the plague and she'd wrecked her mind trying to figure out what she'd done wrong.
Eventually she concluded that she had probably grossly intruded on his privacy the night she had brought him home from The Rabbit's Hole. Him being the intensely private man that he was, it made sense. And although a small, stubborn part of her refused to truly regret her actions, she accepted that his distancing himself from her was probably her own doing.
But if that had been the case, it didn't make sense why he didn't seem to mind her staying with him for days on end now.
She reasoned that perhaps her wishful thinking had made their friendship into something more than it really was. After all, most of their contact had been initiated because of library business. And even if their conversations had strayed from that, it still meant that they shared nothing more than a very comfortable working relationship.
And yet… if she truly wasn't more to him than the town's Librarian, someone more or less in his employment, then why had he gone out of his way to keep Gaston away from her, even going as far as threatening him? And why had he been so involved in rescuing her after she'd been abducted?
Alone in the dark, half-frozen and scared to death, she had cried in relief when she'd heard his voice. Up until then she'd managed to stay calm, be brave and keep it together. But when she heard him call out her name, his voice rough with anxiety and fear, her tears had come and suddenly she'd wanted nothing more than to be in his arms.
And in his arms she had been, minutes later when he had untied her and wrapped her up in a tight embrace.
She had never felt so safe as in that moment, her nose buried in his chest, his arms around her, his scent enveloping her.
The first twelve hours or so after Gaston had struck her were blurry and unclear. She vaguely remembered being in a car, once again held in his arms, she remembered dreaming about hearing voices, talking about taking her to the hospital, her fright and his reassurance that he would keep her safe.
She wondered if it had been a dream, because the next morning she had woken up in a strange, huge bed, tucked underneath soft sheets and duvets, warm and comfortable and very, very safe.
In many respects, Belle wasn't used to feeling protected. After her mother had died, she had quickly learned to take care of herself. Her father, unstable and emotionally distant, often very self-centered because of his affliction could never be bothered with her problems and fears. Belle wasn't used to turning to other people for help, not in the habit of troubling other people.
She had been shocked to learn of the lengths he had gone to protect her from Gaston, even going as far as threatening him to stay away from her. She worried about the amount of trouble he could have gotten himself in on her behalf and yet… it was a wonderful feeling to know that someone was looking out for her, that someone cared about her safety.
If he actually did… since he had made it very clear that he wasn't interested in her, aside from her occupation.
She had missed him horribly in the weeks after their fall out. She missed seeing him at Granny's in the morning, missed the half-smiles he gave her, missed his dry humor, missed the sound of his voice, missed the rush of excitement that fluttered in her stomach when he was near her.
And now she was staying in his house and she was more confused, more puzzled by his behavior than ever before. Up until yesterday, she had spend a lot of time sleeping, worn out by the scaring events of the previous day. Today was the first day she was properly up and about and noticed fully just in what kind of peculiar mood he was. He hardly left her side during the day, apart for the hour or so he popped down to the backroom of the shop to work on some repairs. But even then, he kept the doors of the hallway wide open as if he couldn't bear to let her out of his sight. More often than that, he brought his repairs upstairs, or poured over massive account books. He was constantly near her, guarding over her like a hawk.
Yet, at the same time he was also quiet and withdrawn. He only fleetingly made eye-contact with her, barely talking to her. She felt his eyes on her often, but safe for the few times she'd been to quick for him and caught him staring at her, he was always quick to avert his eyes.
There had always been a bit of tension between them, but before she had, in her hopeful naivety, always attributed it to the chemistry between them and the slow burn of their growing attraction. The tension had been there, but they had never lacked a subject to talk about, they had always been comfortable with each other.
Now their silences were awkward and stretched out until she felt her stomach churn with nerves and her brain freeze helplessly.
And then, just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, just as she was about to suggest that it would be better if she just returned to her own apartment, there was something in the way he looked at her briefly, or the way he said her name that send shivers down her spine.
She didn't know where they stood. Whether he was angry with her or not, if he even liked her or not, she just didn't know. She couldn't figure him out anymore.
In the afternoon he spend some time at the shop, almost having finished mending the wreckage Gaston has caused. He needed this deprive from Belle's presence, just so he could clear his head and get a grip on himself. After spending two days mostly sleeping, she'd woken up clear-headed that morning. For the most part, he delighted at her speedy recovery. Just knowing she would suffer no lasting effects from her ordeal took a huge weight off him.
But now he felt there was no escaping the clear, blue eyes that were constantly looking at him, questioning him, imploring quietly. He knew she deserved answers, deserved an explanation and he didn't have a clue were to start.
In the end, he couldn't stay away from her for more than an hour, before the need to see her again, to be near her became too great. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was setting himself for up for a lot of heartache if she was eventually going to leave him again, but he couldn't help himself.
Once back upstairs he found her reading on the couch, as he had expected, curled up underneath a blanket. Suspecting she was still soaking up every bit of warmth she could find after spending a full day in a freezing underground shelter, he offered to lit the fireplace.
To his surprise, she blushed deeply at his suggestion, turning red to the roots of her hair, but nodded eagerly, her eyes shining.
To be honest, he'd never bothered with the fireplace before, but as luck would have it, he still had a small supply of dry wood - he would stock up first thing tomorrow - and after they'd had their dinner he managed to build a decent fire. Soon the living room was toasty warm and Belle was watching the ever moving, dancing flames as if hypnotized by them, the soft light of the fire giving her face and hair a warm glow.
He couldn't keep his eyes off her and used her momentarily distraction to stare unashamedly at her, taking in her beauty and committing every detail of her to his memory.
Suddenly she turned around, her eyes fixed on him and he froze, unable to break their gaze or look away.
"Can I ask you something?" It wasn't really a request, more a very soft-phrased demand and he nodded wordlessly.
"Did I upset you that night? When I took you home from The Rabbit's Hole? Were you angry with me?"
"Wha- No!" he replied, shock clear in his voice. "Of course I wasn't… why would I be?"
"Because afterwards you acted as if you didn't want to know me anymore…" There was a tremor in her voice and she bit her lower lip vehemently to keep it from trembling. "You shut me out…"
"Oh god… Belle…" His heart sank to the bottom of his feet. The confession he owed her, the one he should have given her months ago, before she had started to consider him as a good sort or man could no longer be delayed. Especially when she was faulting herself for something that had been his doing entirely.
"It wasn't anything you did, I swear. You are so good and caring… and I am such a wretched fool…" he looked up for a moment into her stunned, wide-opened eyes and cringed in mortification.
"I was ashamed you'd seen me like that… a pathetic, drunk old man… I had embarrassed you…"
"No, you didn't!" she interrupted him fiercely, her voice just as adamant as his had been moments earlier. In much gentler tone she continued, "How much do you remember about that night?"
"Enough!" he spat bitterly, disgusted with himself. "I remember what I said… how I acted…"
"Well then, if you remember then you know you did nothing untowardly," she said convincingly.
"Belle…" He started in a tormented voice, before breaking off and gathering his thoughts. "I… I had drowned an entire bottle of Scotch… wasn't fit to stand on my own two legs… even less than usual… leaving it to you to see me home… I wasn't supposed to go down that far… scoop that low…"
"So what happened?" Her voice was still incredible soft and gentle. "Granted, I never took you for the type to drown you sorrows, so what made you go down that road?"
"It was an anniversary of some sort," he replied and as he spoke the words he realized he'd gone past the point of no return. The story, the whole despicable truth of it was going to come out now and once he'd told her, she'd be gone and she would despise him as much as the rest of the town did.
"What has Grandma Lucas told you about me?" he asked.
"Not a lot, she doesn't really like you," she confessed, a little perplexed at his question. "She told me you've been married once… but that's about it…"
"Well, I was…" he answered, fixing his gaze firmly on his hands that were tightly balled into fists. "Twenty years ago I was married and I had a son… a beautiful boy named Baelfire.,,"
And with that the story unfolded. He told her about the early years of his marriage to Milah, the struggle to make a better life for her and mostly for Bae. He told her about joining the fire brigade and how he had believed that it would change his life around.
And he disclosed every painful, humiliating detail of the night of the fire. Of his fear and panic, alone in that burning building. Of his cowardly flight when he should have gone upstairs to that second landing to make sure no-one was there.
Of his cow hearted lies and cover-up, only so he wouldn't be exposed for the coward that he was.
Of the stupid accident that ruined his ankle permanently and made him cripple for the rest of his life.
When he got to the part of Bae's death he almost couldn't go through, his voice cracking with grief. Voicing his guilt, putting his transgressions into words made them somehow even more repulsive.
When he was done he felt worn-out, his emotions shredded to pieces and he braced himself for her response, every muscle in his body tensing in anticipation of the condemnation that was to come.
When he felt her hand on his arm his breath choked in his throat and his shoulders cramped up. She pulled at his arm, insistently forcing him to turn towards her and his stiff, rigid body followed powerlessly.
He finally looked up at her face again, fully expecting to see her look of revulsion and disgust, steadying himself for her rejection.
And then she was around him, her hands caressing his face and hair, tears falling from her eyes, her arms winding around him, pulling him close, her voice whispering tearfully: "I'm so sorry this happened to you… I'm so sorry…."
And he broke. He could feel himself shattering, every wall of self-preservation crumbling against her warmth and compassion, all the pent up grief and pain, everything he'd bottled up for so many years fighting it's way out.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, desperately holding on to her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Her arms were around his upper back and shoulders, her fingers softly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, her lips pressed against the crown of his head, whispering soothing words.
And he wept, his pain too much to remain inside, but finally bearable enough to come out.
A long time later they drew apart. He pulled back and ran his hands over his face, retreating a little and Belle sat back, understanding he needed some space to gather himself, but reluctant to move too far away from him.
She settled for moving back a few inches and curling up on the couch, her feet tucked underneath her, facing him directly.
He leaned against the back rest of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him and she could tell by his posture that he was exhausted. His eyes were wary and red-rimmed, his hair slightly tousled.
Still, when she offered him a tentative smile, the corners of his mouth turned up and more importantly, the lines around his eyes crinkled and Belle felt her heart swell, feeling some of the former comfort between them returning.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you," she repeated her earlier words, hoping he would hear the sincerity of her words.
He seemed accepting of her words at first, but then bowed his head, his expression darkening.
"It was all my own doing. If I hadn't been a coward, my boy wouldn't have died."
His words made her heart ache for him. She understood him so much better now. For months she had wondered as she had caught glimpses of a softer, more feeling man behind the cold and harsh exterior, had suspected that somewhere along the line something had hurt him so deeply that he had retreated into himself and pulled his walls up. Now she knew the truth and it was more painful, more heart-breaking than she could have imagined.
Not just him losing his son and his wife, but the horrible events surrounding their deaths, his self-imposed guilt and the harsh condemnation of the town. Hadn't any of them realized what he'd lost, what he'd gone through, she thought indignantly to herself.
There was so much she'd like to say to him. She longed to convince him that he wasn't to blame, to use all her passion and conviction to persuade him that none of this had been his fault, but she also recognized how fragile he was, how deep and cutting and completely unhealed this wound in his soul was. Any thoughtless word would only hurt him only more now.
She bit her lower lip thoughtfully, trying to determine what to say and what to remain silent on.
He gave her a curious look, his eyes holding her gaze and she noticed with a small thrill that most of the reticence was gone from his look.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
"It wasn't your fault," she ventured carefully, closely watching he reaction.
"It was." His voice was flat and resigned, but he didn't move away from her, his body remaining perfectly still and relaxed and she took that as a good sign.
"I should have checked the second floor and I didn't. Most likely they were there when the fire started and they couldn't make it downstairs."
"Would you have been able to go up those stairs had you wanted to?" she asked, "or were they already impassable?"
"It doesn't matter," he replied shaking his head. "It's no matter if I could have gone up there, I should have. I should have tried everything to save my son's life. And I didn't. The blame is mine."
A sudden thought struck her, causing her eyes to widen and she wondered if he had ever considered this, if anyone else ever had for that matter…
"You said there was another child up there with Bae?"
He seemed surprised at the question, but nodded silently, a sad smile crossing his face. "A girl… her name was Morraine… she was Bae's best friend… they'd been thick as thieves since kindergarten…"
Realization dawned on her and her heart twisted painfully, knowing that the bitter truth was perhaps as painful as the guilt he'd carried around all these years.
"So they were up there together?" she asked gently. "Say you had been able to reach the second floor and had found them… would you have been able to save them both? Would you have been able to bring them both down to safety?"
His head shot up and he gaped at her. "I… I would have… I couldn't…"
He stumbled, her words slowly penetrating his understanding. "Not at the same time, no… If they had been hurt I could have taken only one at the time…" His eyes were now dark with terror, the desperation rolling off him in waves.
"I would've had to choose and…I…" His face twisted in horror… "God forgive me… I would have chosen my son… I would have brought him to safety first…and then come back for Morraine… but it would have been too late… "
"And you would have spend the last twenty years feeling just as guilty as you feel now because of Morraine…" she finished for him.
He collapsed against the couch, running his hands over his face once more. "It never could have saved them… one way or the other…" He anger was still there, but it was tinged with helplessness now.
"There wasn't anything you could have done," she soothed him "You were alone in a burning house, that was on the verge of collapsing… you couldn't have known your son was up there and as much as you wish it, you couldn't have changed any of these circumstances. It was a terrible accident and there's no one to blame for it."
He shut his eyes tightly, his breathing shallow. "But it couldn't have just been an accident… I can't have lost my beautiful boy to an accident… There has to be a reason… there has to be someone to blame…" He looked up at her, giving a frustrated sigh. "I know I'm not making much sense…"
"Oh, you do…" Belle replied, feeling the tears sting behind her own eyes now, curling up a little. "When my mother died I blamed that truck driver for months. She was my mother, she couldn't just die… for no real reason apart from a pointless accident… so I hated the man for a long time…"
His eye shot wide open at her words and she could see something click within him. "You understand…" he breathed, looking at her as if he was seeing her for the first time.
She smiled sadly at him. "I do… I wanted to hate someone, because somehow that made it easier. I even refused to see him when he came to see me and my dad weeks after the accident… I was horrible and resentful…"
"You were hurting.,," he replied instantly, turning towards her.
"So are you." Belle rested her head against the couch, fatigue suddenly overtaking her. "In the end I accepted that my mother's accident had been just that… an accident. I still resent it, but… I don't want to put blame anymore."
He reached out and took her hand in his, gently interwinding their fingers, taking Belle completely by surprise and causing a tingling warmth to spread through her. He never initiated physical contact and now he was holding her hand. She recognized the touch for what it was, a basic human contact, seeking comfort and giving it and she curled her fingers around his.
"I don't think you're even capable of hating or even blaming someone for a long period of time," he told her quietly, with a soft, knowing smile. He met her gaze and held it, with a hint of shyness in his eyes, sending her heartbeat into overdrive.
"Well, you've been blaming yourself for all these years and you're hurting because of it. And I do hate to see you in pain."
"You do, don't you?" He asked, his eyes filled with wonder, closing his hand more tightly around hers as she nodded.
"I… " He took a deep breath, trying to formulate his thoughts into words, clearly overwhelmed. "I don't think I'm there yet… I don't know if I ever will be…"
"I know," she told him gently, snuggling into the couch, her mind turning a bit fuzzy and it occurred to her that this might be the first time ever that he had even entertained even the possibility that he wasn't to blame. And for tonight, that was more than enough.
He looked at her and suddenly the dazed, introspective expression on his face cleared and was replaced by acute worry. "You're exhausted!" he exclaimed softly. "I've kept you up for hours."
"I'm fine," she was quick to reassure him, but then a wide yawn unexpectedly overtook her and she blushed slightly. "Sorry…" she said sheepishly.
He got to his feet and pulled her up as well.
"Off to bed with you, you're still recuperating. I'll bank the fire."
"All right then…" Now that she was on her feet she truly felt how tired she was and it seemed pointless to argue with him.
Then she noticed how close he was standing.
"Belle… thank you… "
He was looking at her with that same unguarded, wondrous look in his eyes as on the night she'd taken him home from The Rabbit's Hole and he had told her she was beautiful. Only now he was stone sober and completely tongue-tied.
So instead she smiled and stood on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck in a brief hug, feeling her heart swell as his hands went up her back to return it.
They were going to be all right.
Author's note: 'The Thirteenth Tale' is an actual book, written by Diane Setterfield and a great read.
As always, thank you for reading and reviewing the story!
