A/N: Having had a couple of days of relative rest, I feel much better, so I wanted to get a new chapter up.

Last time, Belle and Gold danced at the wedding, and Gold promised to be honest with her. Belle is, obviously, a naturally curious person...

New Year's Eve was a quiet affair, and Belle was relieved. She had ventured out to the town to watch the fireworks at midnight, but had sneaked back to the diner soon afterwards, leaving Ruby to enjoy the celebrations with Emma and their other friends. Laughter and faint music drifted up through her window as she lay in bed with her arms behind her head, thinking over the events of the past terrible, soul-crushing year. She hoped the next year would be better, that she would somehow manage to keep it together and pass her S.A.T.s, that she would eventually stop bursting into tears over a familiar smell, or a song, or the memories that flooded into her head when she passed the empty flower shop. There was a sign in the window now, informing passers-by that the shop was available, and she wondered who would end up taking on the lease. A part of her wanted it to be another florist, even though it would hurt to walk past the shop every day and know that her father wouldn't be in there, bustling around with buckets of roses and lilies, the green scent of growing things flowing out to greet her.

She inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling with the out-breath. She had not been to his grave since the funeral; it had been too soon, too raw, but she thought that perhaps she ought to go. Perhaps it would help. Turning onto her side, she pulled the covers up over herself, hoping she would sleep, but her mind was busily running over everything that had happened in the past few weeks. She had not seen Gold after she had left the wedding, not that she had expected to. He appeared to be waiting for her to come to him, and she was glad of it. Their time together had been limited to the dance on the terrace, the brief, stolen kiss made all the sweeter by its illicitness, and she had been thinking over what he had said to her ever since.

It was strange, she reflected, that their time together on Christmas Day had made things no easier. They had declared their love, had shown it in the most intimate of ways, but physical closeness could not fix what was broken between them. Opening up was hard for him, she knew, far harder than it was for her, but if they were to make this work she would settle for nothing less than complete honesty from him. A part of her was almost afraid of what she might hear.

New Year's Day dawned crisp and bright, the sun gleaming off the fallen snow, a strong breeze whipping up dead leaves and ice crystals outside Granny's. The diner was closed for the day, so the kitchen was dark and silent when Belle went downstairs, Granny and Ruby still sleeping. She debated whether to go for a run, but she was tired from the late night and too little sleep, and so instead she made herself a piece of toast and some tea, and sat in the lounge with her feet curled under her, reading a book as the sun rose and the town gradually came to life. By the time she had finished her tea, she had decided to walk over to the cemetery, and so she pulled on her coat and the cashmere scarf Granny had bought her for Christmas, a dark blue cloche hat tugged down on her head.

The air was freezing, and fresh snow had fallen overnight, leaving the roads white except for the odd track left by a passing car. She made her way slowly out to the edge of town, to the cemetery where she had laid her father's body to rest. Pushing open the gate, she realised that she could have brought some flowers. The convenience store sold them: bright bunches of yellow chrysanthemums and red carnations in plastic buckets near the vegetable racks, but none of these were right. Perhaps whoever took the lease on her father's shop really would open up a florist's, then she could buy some of his favourites and bring them out to lay by his headstone. Irises and daffodils in the spring, and sunflowers later in the year.

The snow in the churchyard was unmarked, the headstones standing out against the brilliant white, and she walked slowly around to the rear of the small church and up the rise to where her parents' grave lay. She brushed snow from the top of the headstone, her fingertips sweeping fine white powder from the smooth dark granite, and straightened up, looking down at his name cut into the cold stone.

"Hey, Papa," she said quietly.

The wind caught at her hair, blowing strands of it in her face, and she spat out a dark curl, brushing it behind her ear. The air was crisp and cold, stinging her cheeks when the breeze rose, and she shuffled her feet awkwardly.

"This feels weird," she said eventually. "I don't even know if you can hear me, but I guess there's nowhere else I can talk to you."

The silence in the graveyard was heavy, even the distant cars muted by the evergreens that ringed the cemetery, the thick snow on the ground seeming to muffle the sounds of the world around. Belle looked around briefly before turning back to the grave.

"Well, you were right," she sighed. "He did want me. To be honest, he already had me, when you and I talked, Papa. I know you were afraid for me, and I know you wouldn't approve, but it was my choice. I wanted him, too."

The breeze rustled the branches of the pine trees, the silence broken by the faint chirps of birds, the nearby cawing of crows. Belle worried the end of one finger of her leather glove before looking at the grave again.

"You said - you said he'd hurt me," she said hesitantly. "You were right about that, too."

She looked around again, checking for any other early morning visitors, worried about being overheard, and then squatted down on her heels before the headstone.

"I do love him, Papa," she whispered. "He loves me, too. I know that's not enough, I'm not stupid. But it's something, right?. We're trying to make it work. He says he wants to be honest with me, but I don't know if I trust him enough."

The wind blew again, scattering tiny grains of ice and snow, sparkling like diamond dust in the air. Ice crystals dropped on her lower lip, and she licked them off.

"It's not that I think he'll intentionally hurt me again," she added. "It's just - I know how private he is, how there are things he keeps hidden. So many things, I think. I don't know if he'll ever open himself up to me that much. I don't know if he'll ever trust me enough, either. I don't think he trusts anyone."

She sighed, running her gloved hand over the face of the headstone, feeling the grooves that bore his name, and her mother's below. It seemed too little to mark the impact they had had on her world, on each other: their dates of birth and death, the inscriptions of Beloved Wife and Mother, Devoted Husband and Father, insufficient to show what they had been as people, what they had been to her. She had long ago lost her mother's gentle kindness, her vivacity, and now her father's solid dependability and generosity was also gone, buried deep in the earth and reduced to a few lines carved in cold stone. She was facing the world without her family, and the thought was terrifying.

"I'm eighteen this year," she said, her voice cracking a little. "I have to start applying for college and acting like a grown-up, and I'm not ready, Papa, I'm not! Everyone thinks I have it together, and I just feel as though I'm coming apart at the seams!"

She could feel the tears forming, a tense pricking behind her eyes and a heaviness in her chest, around her heart. The cold was chilling her feet through her boots, and she sat back on her heels, not wanting to leave the grave just yet.

"Ruby helps," she said quietly. "And Granny, of course. Emma and Mary. And - and him. Everyone else looks the other way, like I'm cursed. Like it's catching. They try to be kind, but they don't understand."

Tears were stinging her eyes, welling in her lower lids, and her mouth tightened as she tried not to cry.

"I miss you," she whispered, and a single droplet tracked down her cheek, cold against her skin when the breeze caught it. "Every day I miss you."

She wiped away the tear, dashing off another that fell, and pushed herself to her feet, laying her hand on the top of the headstone, as though she could touch him.

Gold had spent a bad night, plagued by dark dreams whenever he dropped off, and at five-thirty he had given up trying to sleep and had got up to make himself some coffee and read a little. He had been restless though, unable to concentrate, and eventually had made his way out in the cold dark of the early morning, hoping that a walk would clear his mind. He had walked slowly around the edge of the town, passing no one, his shoes squeaking in the fresh snowfall.

The sun had risen, its pale light gleaming off the snow by the time he turned back towards the centre of town, walking alongside the low wall with its iron railings that ringed the cemetery. As he reached the gates, dark wrought-iron against pale grey stone pillars, he hesitated, fingers twitching on the handle of his cane. Reaching out, he pushed at one of the gates, a faint squeak the only sound beside the background noise of the town: birdsong and the rustling of trees, the distant purr of cars.

He stepped inside the cemetery gates, blinking in the light of the low winter sun. He was certainly not religious, and had not been inside the church since he moved to Storybrooke, but there was something calming about the cemetery, about the order of its sweeping rows of headstones and the darkness of the evergreen trees that ringed the graveyard and spread out towards the surrounding woods. It was a peaceful place, he had found, with few visitors to interrupt his thoughts, his internal monologue. A place to reflect, to be alone. To think about his mistakes, his weaknesses. His failure.

Tightening his jaw, he stepped forward, meaning to take the path that led towards the church. He followed it around, past the ancient pine that cast its shadow over the granite headstones surrounding it. He rounded the side of the church and strode out towards the rear, out to where many of the graves were old and unvisited, the descendents of their inhabitants long dead. The wind blew hair in his face and he brushed it out impatiently, his eyes flicking open to where a splash of colour caught his gaze amidst the monochrome tones of the landscape around him. A lone figure, bright against the fallen snow in a blue coat, dark hair blown by the breeze to whip across her face in curling strands. Belle.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised to see her here, at the turning of the year, at the time to think of those who were gone. He hesitated, unsure whether to approach her, reminded all too vividly of the last time they had stood together in the graveyard. Pulling a face at his own weakness, he made himself step forwards, the cold seeping through his shoes and chilling his bones. Pain was his constant companion, and the bitter Maine winter made his leg even worse, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving, the snow building up on the toes of his shoes as he went. Belle looked around as he approached, sending him a wan smile. She was wearing a new scarf, the colour making her eyes startlingly blue, but she also looked tearful, and his heart ached for her.

"I didn't think I'd see you here," she said. "I didn't think I'd see anyone, to be honest."

"If you want to be alone, I can go," he offered, and she shook her head.

"It's okay. I said what I wanted to say. It feels weird, talking to a headstone, but there are things I needed to tell him." She gave him a brief, nervous look. "Do you think - do you think he can hear me? Do you think he's watching me?"

He hesitated. "I like to think that those we love never truly leave us," he admitted. "Perhaps he is."

She nodded slowly, still watching him. Her gaze was a little unsettling, as though she could see into his soul.

"What about you?" she asked. "Who did you come out here to talk to?"

He looked away, pretending interest in a crow as it picked its way across the snow-covered ground, black head bobbing.

"I came out here for a walk," he said. "I don't have any relatives buried here, if that's what you mean."

"It's not," she said gently.

He breathed in, the cold air burning his lungs and chilling his heart, and she was silent for the space of two breaths, waiting as he stood there with mist streaming from his nostrils like smoke.

"You lost someone, didn't you?" she said, her voice soft. "Will you tell me about it?"

His mouth twisted, but he looked back at her, at her wide blue eyes and her gentle smile, seeing her love, her compassion, the beauty of her face clouded by her own grief. At the pain she carried with her like a heavy shroud.

"Will it make you feel better?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But it might make you feel better."

"It gives me no pleasure to speak of it, I assure you," he said evenly, and she nodded.

"I guessed as much," she said. "But I said I wanted you to be honest with me. That means sharing the painful stuff as well as the pleasant, doesn't it?"

"Yes." His voice had fallen to a whisper, but she waited patiently, and he made himself speak, made himself pull the words from the depths of his soul.

"When I was young, and even stupider than I am now, I had a son," he began. "His mother didn't want him, and she left when he was too small to remember her, so I raised him alone."

"Oh." Belle looked at the ground, seemingly unsure how to react to this new information. She chewed her lip a little, glancing up at him, and he waited for her next question. Given that he had been trying his hardest not to speak of the worst night of his life with anyone for the past seventeen years, the sudden,strong feeling that he wanted to tell her, needed to tell her, was unexpected and a little alarming.

"What - what's his name?" she asked hesitantly, and he looked at her gravely.

"His name - was Neal," he said heavily. "He was beautiful: the best, the most important thing I had ever done with my entire miserable life."

His jaw worked, his lip wobbling as he struggled to find the words, and she waited patiently. Acid rose in his throat, burning him, and he swallowed hard.

"And I killed him," he said thickly, the words seeming to cut him on their way out, to shred his soul into pieces.

She paled, straightening a little, her fingers flickering as she tried to work out what to do with her hands, but she didn't run, and she didn't back away. That was something, at least. She raised her head, nodding for him to continue, and he sighed, looking at the ground.

"Perhaps I should explain," he said quietly. "I was in my final year at university, doing my Master's degree, working in the local pubs whenever I could get a babysitter. We had a shitty little flat in Glasgow, just two tiny bedrooms and no working lift half the time. Neal was almost five."

Belle could see how painful it was for him to speak of his son. A part of her didn't want to hear any more, as from the look on his face she was certain that his tale wouldn't end in anything other than tragedy, but she had asked for honesty, and hearing him out was the least she could do. She waited for him to continue, but he hesitated, glancing up at her briefly.

"Go on," she whispered, and he looked away again, grinding awkwardly at the ground with the end of his cane.

"It happened the night before Christmas Eve," he said. "We'd put the Christmas decorations up a few days earlier. Neal was more of a hindrance than a help, and he almost pulled the tree over twice, but he was so excited." He smiled fondly at the memory. "He loved the Christmas lights especially, all different coloured stars on a string."

Belle nodded, and his mouth twitched, his jaw working a little.

"I'd worked a double-shift, and paid off the babysitter when I got home," he said then. "Neal was in bed already, and I sat down in front of the fire. I - I swear I only meant to close my eyes for a moment!"

He lifted a hand, finally looking at her, his eyes pleading with her, and she wanted to touch him, to run her hand across his shoulder and brush away some of the pain and heartache that had made him bow his head.

"What happened?" she asked then, and his face twisted.

"The lights," he sighed. "The Christmas tree lights. An electrical fire. I woke up and the place was full of smoke, the tree burning. I ran to his room, snatched him from his bed, but it was too late to get out of the front door. The fire had spread, eating up that cheap old sofa like it had been doused in petrol."

His eyes had a far-off look in them, his mouth set in a grim line at the memories.

"I can still feel the heat on my face," he said softly. "The way it burned my lungs when the air was sucked from the room. So I broke the bedroom window, took him in my arms, and jumped."

Belle swallowed hard, feeling desperately sad for him. He was shaking his head, as though that would loosen the visions, make them fall from his mind and torture him no longer.

"You asked about my leg," he said. "That's - that's how I did it. Broke it in a dozen places or more. I was lucky not to lose the thing. Blacked out as soon as I hit the ground and woke up in hospital."

Belle waited, dreading the inevitable conclusion, and his mouth worked, his grief still there, still powerful. He squared his jaw, and looked at her.

"He was already gone," he said abruptly. "Smoke inhalation. He was dying even as I slept on that fucking sofa. He was already dead when I jumped."

Belle pressed a hand to her mouth, wanting to cry again, and he looked away, as though to acknowledge her sympathy would be to deserve it. She could see where at least some of his self-loathing came from, now.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I can't imagine how terrible that must have been."

He shrugged, digging at the frozen ground again with the end of his cane, stabbing coin-sized holes in the fresh snow.

"It's quiet out here, especially in winter," he said then. "I like to think of him at this time. Remember how I failed him."

She shook her head. "It wasn't your fault," she said gently.

"Of course it was." His voice was curt, dismissive, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"It was an accident," she said. "Just a stupid accident. You can't blame yourself."

"Whose fault was it, if it wasn't mine?" he asked bitterly. "I was supposed to protect him. That was all I had to do, protect him and love him. Raise him right. I should be with him, now. Taking him back to university, or something. Not - not standing in fucking Maine, miles away from him, and…" He cut off, a frustrated expression on his face, gesturing at nothing. Belle was silent for a moment.

"I guess I can see why you don't celebrate Christmas," she said, and he gave her a wry smile.

"What the hell do I have to celebrate?" he asked, and she nodded in understanding. The wind blew, rustling the branches of the pine trees, ruffling his hair and making her eyes sting.

"How - how old would he be?" she asked then, and he screwed up his face, pain tightening his features.

"Twenty-two," he said hoarsely, looking at the ground, and Belle sighed.

"Rum, you've been carrying this guilt around with you as long as I've been alive," she said softly. "You need to forgive yourself."

He looked up sharply, shaking his head, his face stricken.

"I'll never forgive myself," he whispered. "Never!"

His eyes were bright with pain, with bitterness, and she caught her lip between her teeth, blinking rapidly to stop the tears. She knew what it was to lose a loved one, of course, but she couldn't imagine the agony of feeling responsible for their death. His breath had hardened with emotion, his chest heaving, and she wished she could help him. Hesitantly, she slipped her hand into his, threading their fingers together, and he looked down at their clasped hands in surprise.

"Let's walk," she said gently, and pulled him with her, away from the cold granite headstones, those reminders of impermanence, of mortality. She walked towards the woods, where the trees pushed rough, russet trunks up towards the heavens and life was abundant even in the depths of winter. They picked their way around twisting roots and trailing strings of ivy, where the forest had been for thousands of years and where it would continue to grow long after they were both dust. Belle clutched his hand tight in hers as they walked, until they were out of sight of the graveyard, and then she slowed to a stop, turning to face him. He was watching her curiously, almost warily. The cold had made his cheeks and nose redden, and his breath misted out towards her. She tugged off her glove, pressing her palm to his cheek, the cold biting at her exposed fingers. His skin was smooth, only a hint of regrowth on his jawline, and she gazed up at him.

"I understand," she said gently. "I understand that you feel guilty, that you feel responsible. I want to tell you that you're not, that it's not your fault, but I know that won't help. I know you won't listen."

Gold gave her a brief, wry smile, loving the sincerity in her eyes, the compassion shining out from her.

"No," he said, because despite her love, despite her understanding, it would always be his fault. He had accepted that long ago.

She sighed, and leaned in, resting her head against his chin. He tilted his head, pushing his nose into the soft woollen hat she wore, but he couldn't catch her scent, and she looked up at him from beneath long, dark lashes.

"I wish there was something I could do," she said. "I wish you didn't hate yourself so much."

He took a long, cold breath, and his fingers stroked her face as he exhaled deeply, trying to imagine that some of the bitterness and self-loathing was leaving his body on a plume of mist.

"You are not responsible for either my failings or my happiness," he said quietly, and her mouth twitched, her brow crinkling in concern.

Belle stretched up to kiss him, and he pulled her close, his mouth warm on hers. He tasted good, and she pushed him against the trunk of a large pine, its sweet, herbal scent drifting into her nose as he leant back against the fissured bark, his hands sinking into her hair. Eventually she pulled back, breathing deeply, her cheeks flushed, and he looked a little dazed.

"That was - unexpected," he said, a little breathlessly, and she smiled, nuzzling his nose with hers.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For being honest with me."

He smiled briefly. "I'm trying, Belle."

"I know." She kissed him again, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him as their lips met. The kiss was slow, deliberate, his tongue gently touching hers, his hand cradling the back of her head, and she relaxed against him with a sigh, enjoying the closeness, losing herself in reconnecting with him, however briefly. His lips pulled at hers, breaking the kiss as he leant his head back against the tree trunk, and she settled back on her heels with a contented noise. He brushed her cheek softly with a gloved fingertip, the scent of leather in her nose.

"Will you come to the cabin again?" he asked quietly, and she stepped back, out of his grip, straightening her coat.

"Not yet," she said uncomfortably. "I don't think it's time. I mean, it's not that I don't want to…"

"I understand," he said gently. "I'll be waiting, Belle. Whenever you want."

She gave him a tremulous smile, and took a further step back, away from him.

"I should go," she sighed. "Ruby and Granny should be awake by now. I said I'd help Granny with the breakfast today."

"Alright." He was watching her, his love for her shining out from his face. But there was anxiety there too, and pain, and the fear of rejection. He still thought that he didn't deserve her, that he'd lost her, and it made her heart ache that she wasn't ready, that she couldn't reassure him.

"I don't know when I can see you," she said. "I guess - I guess we'll just have to see how it goes."

"Yes." He smiled at her briefly. "Goodbye, Belle. Happy New Year."

She shrugged. "Couldn't be any worse than last year, right?"

He raised an eyebrow with a grin.

"Do you really feel that tempting fate is the way to go here?"

"I suppose not." She shuffled her feet a little awkwardly. "Well - Happy New Year to you, I guess."

He inclined his head, still with a tiny, slanting smile on his face, and turned away from her, limping slowly across the frozen ground, his feet sending up tiny puffs of fresh snow in front of him.

By the time she reached Granny's (she still couldn't quite bring herself to call it "home", even though she felt that made her seem ungrateful), Belle was cold, her fingers and toes numb and her eyes streaming. It was a relief to go into the warmth of the kitchen, where Granny was already rolling out the pastry for one of her apple pies, a dish of sliced apples beside her. She eyed Belle, gold chain swinging from the arms of her glasses as she worked the rolling pin.

"You were up early," she remarked. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I slept okay," said Belle. "As well as I ever sleep, anyway."

Granny nodded briskly, setting the rolling pin aside and picking up the sheet of pastry to line the pie dish.

"Well, I can make you breakfast, if you want to wait," she said. "I just want to get this in the oven first."

"I had some toast earlier," said Belle, and Granny snorted.

"I meant some proper breakfast, girl," she said sharply, and Belle couldn't help grinning.

"I'll wait for lunch," she said. "Is Ruby up?"

"Dead to the world," sniffed Granny, tucking the pastry into the edges of the dish. "It's like she hibernates whenever there's a holiday. Good luck trying to get her out of the door for exercise today."

"Oh, I didn't run, anyway," admitted Belle. "I went to see Papa's grave."

Granny straightened up, dusting flour from her hands.

"How are you feeling?" she asked kindly, and Belle shrugged.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I keep telling myself I have to try to take my mind off things, that I should study, or something, but focusing is hard."

"Let yourself grieve," said Granny, picking up the dish of apple slices. She glanced up at Belle as she began to lay them in the pie dish, overlapping rows of red-skinned crescents. "There'll be time enough for studying. Remember your father, and say your goodbyes. It gets easier. Eventually."

Belle recalled that Ruby's parents had both died when she was a small child, and realised that she had never asked Granny about it. She hesitated before speaking.

"I guess - I guess everyone loses their parents at some point," she said. "I can't imagine how it would be to lose a child."

Granny paused momentarily, fingers holding a crisp apple piece that wavered in the air before being placed alongside the others.

"Well, I hope you never have to suffer that," she said. "I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone."

"I felt guilty, when Papa went," admitted Belle. "Do you think that's normal?"

"Grief and guilt go hand in hand," nodded Granny. "I'm guessing you feel there's more you could have done, or that you could have spent more time with him, or been more patient. When you lose a child, that guilt is magnified. And the anger. I was angry at the whole world, it seemed. I could have torn it apart, trying to find the driver that killed them."

"Didn't anyone get caught?" asked Belle, surprised. Granny nodded grimly.

"Eventually. Some kid who'd been drinking with his friends and stole a truck. He went to prison, but it didn't bring them back. It didn't help." She sighed, looking suddenly weary. "The way I felt, I may as well have been driving that damn truck."

"But you can't blame yourself for the accident," protested Belle, and Granny's chuckle was dark.

"Oh, but you do," she said dryly. "You always blame yourself, no matter how illogical it is. If I hadn't agreed to babysit, they wouldn't have gone out. If I hadn't suggested they take an evening for themselves one time, it would never have happened. The fact that their car was hit by a kid who'd been drinking wasn't even something I thought about. Anita was my daughter, so of course it was my fault."

Belle winced, picking up a small scrap of pastry and rolling it between finger and thumb as Granny scattered cinnamon and sugar over the sliced apples.

"How did you cope?" she asked, and the old woman huffed, picking up the pastry lid she had made.

"I had Ruby," she said simply. "I had someone who needed me. Someone who loved me. And it was a part of her, too. A part of Anita. Ruby looks like her. Just as headstrong." She gave Belle a wry look, and Belle smiled. Granny crimped the edges of the pastry with nimble fingers.

"You'll heal," she said. "That loss will always be there, but you'll heal, I promise. You have people that love you, just as I did."

"Yeah," said Belle quietly, and Granny dusted off her hands again, stepping back to give the pie a final once-over.

"You take all the time you need to grieve your father," she said. "This world could always use more love in it, Belle."

The day passed peacefully, with roast pork and apples for dinner, warm apple pie with ice cream, and card games afterwards. Belle was pleasantly full and content when she went to bed, and she lay in the dark for a long time, thinking over what she had been told that day. She had enjoyed kissing Gold; it had felt so easy, so natural, but she had been scared of letting him back in too quickly, of shattering the fragile peace they had made, of giving him false hope when she wasn't sure what she wanted. She rolled over, tugging the covers up under her chin, remembering her conversation with Granny about love and loss. It had been seventeen years for him, and almost as long for Granny, from when each had lost their only child, and the pain was still there, the guilt still holding him in a tight, pitiless grasp. Granny's words, her explanation that having Ruby, having people she loved, had made it easier on her, made Belle wonder how it had been for Gold, whether he had had family, someone to care for, someone to love him. He had never mentioned any family, so perhaps they were gone too. She wondered how different he would be, if his son had lived. She wondered if he would think more of himself. If he would be happy.

Restless, she turned onto her back. A part of her wanted to see him, to touch him, to reassure him that she, at least, didn't hold him responsible for his son's death. She remembered the kiss they had shared at the wedding, the kisses in the graveyard, the warm feel of his lips on hers and the scent of him in her nostrils. She wanted his touch, to feel his hands on her, to feel him pressing down on her, their bodies fitting together like perfect puzzle pieces. She wanted to comfort him, to be close to him, despite not being sure whether she was ready to move forward with him. She wanted to feel him. Belly tightening with desire as she remembered the pleasure of his touch, she threw off the covers and stood up.

She pulled on some running clothes, her mind already forming the excuse of an early morning run, should she get back when the others were awake. It was after one in the morning, and she crept downstairs as quietly as she could, the house silent and dark. The door squeaked quietly as she let herself out, and she winced, pausing momentarily and listening hard for any movement from the bedrooms, but there was no sound other than her own breathing. Slowly, she closed and locked the door, pulling on her gloves in the freezing air.

She ran across town, the wind making her eyes stream, her hair billowing out behind her in a tangled mess, snowflakes melting on her lips and eyelids. When she reached his house, it was dark, and for a moment she considered going back, but then she spied a small light upstairs, and so she knocked on the door. It seemed to take a long time for him to answer, lights flicking on in the hallway and shadows moving behind the rippled glass as he approached. The door opened, light and warmth spilling out to meet her, and Gold stood there in his robe, belted tightly at the waist and open at his throat. She ran her eyes up from that warm patch of skin to meet his own, her heart thumping from more than the run. His mouth was slightly parted, his eyes glinting at her in the light from the hall lamps, and she licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Hey," she said weakly. "I - um…"

Without a word, he stepped to the side, holding open the door, and she almost ran inside, turning to face him as he closed and locked the door.

"It's late, Belle," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you…" she said breathlessly, and he smiled briefly.

"You didn't, I was reading." He put his head to the side. "Is everything okay?"

"I don't know," she said. "I just - I needed to see you. I needed to kiss you."

He raised his eyebrows at that, but she took a step forward, and he reached for her a little awkwardly, his hands hesitant as they touched her shoulders. She was breathing hard as he bent his head to hers, his lips brushing against her, at first soft, then harder, pushing her lips apart, his tongue entering her as his hands cupped her face. Belle ran her fingers beneath the robe, fingers sliding over the solid warmth of his chest and down his sides. She pressed herself against him, and he made a noise into her mouth, a deep, contented sound that made her heart flutter. He dropped his hands to her hips, pushing her back against the wall and covering her mouth with his, and Belle moaned in pleasure as they kissed, his hands sweeping up her sides to cup her breasts. Her hands wandered, stroking over his warm skin, and she tugged at the belt of his robe, pulling it open and revealing his torso, naked above the waist of his pyjama pants. Her hand curled around, moving between his legs, and he let out a strangled gasp as she gripped the hard length of him.

"Belle!" he whispered desperately, his breath hot on her face, her lips slippery with their mingled saliva and his forehead pressed to hers. She kissed him again, the taste of wine on his tongue, and she wanted to taste all of him, to take him in her mouth again and make him come. His fingers pushed through her hair, his stubble scraping her chin, and she wanted him between her thighs, wanted his mouth on her, wanted everything. He tore his mouth free and kissed down her neck, making her shiver, his tongue swiping up her throat to her ear.

"Stay the night, my love," he whispered, his words vibrating low in her chest and turning her world to heat and flame. "Stay with me."

"Yes!" she breathed, and she kissed him again, undulating against him before she pulled back and took his hand in hers. His hands were shaking a little, his breath coming hard in his chest, and he stood for a moment, calming himself, looking her over before pulling her with him towards the stairs, and his room, and his bed.

A/N: Well, they're making progress.

Next time: Gold opens up a little more, and there's an unexpected visitor