The screen flickered on to reveal a dark, static video recording. It buzzed, and a bright neon green date blared in the lower right corner of the screen.

A dark room was revealed. It wasn't too dark, however, to not be able to make out the details. A lone lamp sat in the corner of the room, with old couches and furniture about. The holder of the camera was clumsy or reckless, and muffled noises filled the speakers of Belle's TV. A few pairs of feet came into view on the ever-shifting video.

The camera was finally risen up and straightened, and it landed on a very familiar figure.

Belle gasped.

It was her idée fixe.

Rum was in a casual state of dress, not his usual hard leathers and silks. His permed dark hair framed his head and face like a messy mop, curling up in the back like a cowlick, but bouncy and wild like he'd just survived a tornado. The young Scotsman wore a rumpled wife beater with a large wet stain on the front, and a well-worn pair of combat trousers that sat low on his hips. He was barefooted.

There were tattoos covering both arms and shoulders. He wasn't covered in tattoos, or had too much, per se, but the ones he did have were large and/or noticeable. Belle also knew that if Rum were to rip his wifebeater off, he'd reveal the terrifyingly realistic crocodile tattoo on his back.

It seemed as though the crocodile tattoo was Rum's trademark.

The Scotsman had an unlit cigarette between his lips, and he brought a lighter up to his mouth with cupped hands, where he flicked the ignite switch a few times before it finally caught. He lit his joint, shoved the lighter into his pocket, and looked toward the camera. Someone asked a question to Rum. He blinked, smiled sheepishly, and drew his cigarette away between his first and middle finger carelessly. He blew a cloud of smoke out and responded with, "Whit wrang wi ma breeks?"

"They're too old. Get a new pair," someone else said, and a tall female with black hair and wearing a black surgical mask walked past him. She wore a black leather jacket and a ratty black skirt. That was Mal, Belle thought with an ear-to-ear smirk.

"Tae auld?" Rum echoed, looking hurt. He drew another puff off his joint. "Ye haverin', Mal. This bae classic."

Mal sarcastically glared, but walked off with a wave of her hand to sit on the couch. She picked up a beer bottle and bit the top off.

Cruella came over next. She was speaking in rapid French, and the cameraman was not keeping the recording still enough for Belle to see properly. Eventually, Cruella spoke English, and turned toward a pleasantly-relaxed Rum. "What do you say, darling? If we kick the bucket as a band, what shall you do first?"

Rum blinked owlishly, taking a drag from his cigarette as he stared off in thought. He turned to the camera, and smiling a little, says, "Mm… Ah'll gae tae law school."

Everyone burst out laughing, and the recording shook as the cameraman dropped it, and shouts of different languages swamped the tape. The video eventually flickered and died.

Belle was quite literally on her seat with anticipation. She watched as the screen became lit again, and it settled on the well known interviewing room the national news channel uses.

A middle-aged woman with platinum-blonde hair wearing a stylish white dress and an elegant diamond necklace sat at a comfy purple chair with her legs crossing at the knee. A file was sitting in her lap, but it went unnoticed for the most part as the camera zoomed in on her warm, naturally pale face.

"Hello, and welcome to O'Malley News. I'm your host, Duchess Katz," the woman explained with a smart French accent. "Tonight we will be talking to three extraordinary women who were involved in the musical movement that shook the world to its core. It has been twenty-five years since anonymous bandleader, a man called Rum, vanished from the spotlight and media with unexplained rationales. Since then, fellow ex-band members, Mallory Coatl, Vanessa Adetokunbo, and Ella Duval Feinberg, have kept silent about the affair until tonight."

The camera zoomed out to reveal three other women sitting adjacent from Katz.

Belle immediately recognized Ursula (Vanessa). She was the woman sitting to the far right, in a fine colorful dress of wealth and beauty. Beside her, in the middle, was Cruella (Ella), in a black dress with a fur wrap around her shoulders, smoking from her famous cigarette holder. Ella smiled wickedly at the camera, and Belle shifted her gaze from her to the third woman.

Mal was very different from what Belle had seen of her younger self. As Maleficent, Mal was an all black wearing, spit-fire of a girl who never, ever showed her face. It was her own quirk, as all the RATQOD members had quirks, but it was a little odd that she refused to show her face. When Mal revealed her true identity back in early 2000, she didn't show her face then. Now she was.

Mal had well kempt flaxen hair put up in a low bun, a black top, gray suit jacket, gray tie, and a long gray wool skirt. She was dressed for business, and had a respectable amount of makeup on. A hat sat in her lap, and a large, witch-worthy handbag sat at her feet.

"Evening, ladies," Ms. Katz greeted with a welcoming smile, nodding at the three other women. The Queens of Darkness nodded themselves, smiles traveling around. "I hope the trip here wasn't too tiresome? How far is home?"

Ella spoke up first. "Airlines keep getting worse and worse!" she complained in her English accent, raising her gloved hands into the air, drawing smoke symbols with her cigarette. "The people here—Don't know how to drive."

"Well, that is New York for you."

"Hm. London is no better," Ella sniffed, taking a drag. Puffing smoke, she then said, "We just prefer having tea before getting into a yelling match in the middle of the street."

"Big cities…" said Mal, shaking her head with a rueful smile. "Not for me. I'm happy right in my quaint little Wissembourg."

"Oh, I am so there with you, sister," Vanessa added with a roll of her eyes. "That's why I stay on the coast."

Ella shot irked glances at both of her companions. "Mal, Wissembourg is a minuscule spot on the map that hasn't gotten the memo that we're in the twenty-first century! It's so… so medieval. City is where the good stuff is."

Ms. Katz effortlessly cut in and calmed the situation, moving to her next question with ease. "Mrs. Feinburg, how do you like to be called?"

"Ella is fine, darling," Ella said, smiling. "The one on the right of me is Dragon Bitch, and the one on the left is Fish Witch."

Mal and Vanessa fussed at that, quarreling playfully. "Just called me Mal," she said, gesturing to nothing in a sign of explanation.

"And I'm alright by Vanessa."

"Alright then, Ella, Mal, Vanessa. H—?"

Belle doesn't catch the last part of what Ms. Katz has to say, for her bathroom door opens for a split second, and clicks shut after. She shifts her attention back to the TV, but of course, her watchful blue eyes return to the bathroom door.

Mr. Gold walks out with the most hunted expression she's ever seen on him. He tugs at the long black sleeves of his shirt, glumly scratching the faded Guns N Roses symbol. The pair of sweats Belle had lent him was a tad too tight, but it did give her a nice view of his backside.

Not that she was noticing or anything.

Flushing, the young woman stands and approaches him tentatively. "All better now?" He nods somberly. Smiling, she gestures toward the other side of the couch. "Come sit with me. Can I get you anything?"

The dressed-down tycoon nods and sits down on the couch grumpily (i.e. childishly, but that sounded too juvenile for Mr. Gold), holding what appeared to be a phone in his right hand. "Miss French—"

"Please, call me Belle."

"Belle," Mr. Gold said, the name sounding like pure butter off his lips. Belle shivered. "I wish to thank you again for this. Most people would have loved to let me drown out there."

Belle tried not to cringe at the thought. "It was my pleasure, Mr. Gold. Can I get you anything? I got snacks and drinks here…"

He shook his head. "No. You've done more than enough. My clothes are hanging over the shower..."

"Don't you want me to throw them in the dryer?"

"No, no, it's fine. Most likely, the power will go out in this weather…"

"I honestly pray that it doesn't."

Mr. Gold grunted. Fiddling with his phone, the man nods toward the TV. "This is it, then? The interview?"

"Yes it is!"

"Then sit and watch, Miss French. I wouldn't want you to miss it. I'm just going to take care of a little business, if that is alright by you."

She smiled. "Of course it is, Mr. Gold. Just let me know if I can get you anything. Or just take what you want." Belle sat beside the man, pretending to not notice the way he tensed up at the mere centimeters that separated them.

Returning her focus back to the TV, she tries to ignore the way he glares at the screen, or how he suddenly becomes very interested as to what's on his phone. Of course, Belle definitely wasn't going to let her crush distract her (of course she was).

When Belle finally toons back to the television, she realizes glumly that she's missed a rather important part.

"—parents never paid attention to me," Mal was saying. "I did everything to get their attention. When my goth stage refused to get a twitch out of either, I went out and did the most impulsive thing I could do."

Ms. Katz looked at her expectedly.

"I went to Scotland."

"Ah. And, that is where you met Rum?"

Mal laughed. "There was this little pub… Called Caisteal Dorcha. The Dark Castle. It was run down, probably broke about a dozen health codes… Three older German women owned it. Each insisted I call them Auntie. There was Auntie Edna, Auntie Helen, and Auntie Birgit. And, when they found me, they insisted I come inside to get pampered. Begrudgingly, I let them. Then he walked in.

"Rum was just a year older. He was this small, scrawny little thing. The Aunties considered him to be the son they didn't give birth to. Bruises covered his face, black eye, missing tooth. He came in and sat the counter, everyone knew him there. Drank rum. Like the drink, rum. And he grins at me, like there wasn't a problem in the world. He asked me in English, 'Why do you look like that?'. Naturally I respond with, 'Why do you look like shit?'

"He just laughed and said, 'You should've seen the other guy. He looks like diarrhea'."

Ms. Katz, along with Vanessa and Ella, chuckle softly at the story. Mal was grinning ruefully, curling a blonde curl with her forefinger. "And like that, we became friends. Over the following years I would sneak away and find him in Glasgow. We'd hang."

Ms. Katz nodded, smiling. "Did he ever explain the reason behind his bruises?"

Mal shifted uncomfortably. After a small hesitation, she says, "Well… You know his song, "Peter Pan is my Papa"?" After a quiet, somber hesitation, she went on to add, "He wrote that after his own father."

Belle frowned. "Peter Pan is My Papa" was one of Rum's darker songs, popularly theorized that it's about an abusive father with Peter Pan Syndrome. Sure, it was a sad song if you just regarded the lyrics, but the music was peppy, and Rum was always so happy on camera…

The Queens of Darkness went on to explain some other stories of Rum, how they met, and some fun tidbits pits that Belle found deeply amusing, and touching. It was clear that a true friendship had been between the ladies and Rum, but Mal did, indeed, seem the closest. Belle couldn't imagine losing a friend as dear as Rum sounded, but then again, Belle couldn't say anything for she didn't know the whole story yet.

Mal went on to explain that her wild behavior finally rubbed off on her parents. They sent her to boarding school. Vanessa and Ella went to the same boarding school. They all decided to play hooky on the same day, and without knowing each other, coincidentally ran into each other at Caisteal Dorcha. As hilarious as it was, none of the girls had planned to meet each other. A big cat fight ensued, each blaming the other for stalking or spying. But, of course, it was Rum to break the fight up.

Then, Rum and The Queens of Darkness was born.

During the next commercial break, Mr. Gold paced her dining room and kitchen, speaking in muted tones in a handful of different phone calls. He spoke often with two individuals he referred to as "Dove" or "Bea".

Belle prayed that "Bea" wasn't a girlfriend.

When the interview came back on, pictures of their early days were shown, along with some more videos.

In one, the four band members were horsing around, throwing jokes in a various different languages: Gaelic, German, French, and English.

In a second, it shows Rum flirting cheekily with a drunk Irish brunette called "Milah". They spoke in thick Gaelic, therefore incoherent. Cruella is visible for a few brief moments, but she's glaring daggers in Milah's direction.

In the third tape, a woman called "Cora" is flirting shamelessly with Rum. They speak rapid French.

In the fourth tape, Rum looks much more solemn than Belle's used to. He wears his signature leather jacket, dark and fearsome on him. Rum's walking beside the camera holder (who is revealed to be Mal) in a wide Scottish valley in the late autumn.

Rum looks glum.

No, he looks depressed.

At first, Belle thinks he's chewing on what looks like tobacco, but once he pulled his hand away, the video shows it to be a bloodied blotch of napkin. His bottom lip if split.

"What will you do if it's yours, Drummond?" Mal asked.

Drummond. Drummond…. Belle puts the name to memory.

Rum was silent for a long time. He spits out a bit of saliva and blood. "Ah' dinnae ken. Ah' dinnae ken, Mal. Ah' can pay bairn support, an' whit nawt. A' dis fuckin' money I dinnae whit tae dae wit..."

"Still doesn't fix slander. What if that bitch does go public?"

Rum suddenly stopped walking. He doesn't look at the camera, but ahead into the sunset. "Ah'll chust dae whit Pa did."

In a fifth, Rum (shirtless!) is working out like a madman; it's as if he's prepping for some serious bodybuilding. Or the army. He doesn't look happy about it. He's panting and sweating buckets. The camera holder complains about something before the screen changes to another tape.

In a sixth, the camera holder is in a panicked frenzy. The tape's sound is as static as crumbling paper. The screen shakes around too fast for Belle to figure out the setting. Someone is screaming in Gaelic, another in German, but someone finally shouts in English. Belle thinks it's Mal. "Hold his fucking arms down! Hold him down! It's another one of his's fucking episodes—" Belle hears Rum scream something in the background.

Screaming something like bloody murder.

Belle was so enwrapped with the confusing videos that she was deeply disappointed when they went on break. Huffing and taking a long drink of her root beer to cool down, she almost realized that she forgot about Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold was off in his own world. Texting furiously, he was so intent on whoever he was communicating with that he didn't notice Belle lean toward him.

The person he was texting was an overseas number, and wasn't named.

Talk or show anymore and I'll make you regret this.

Or u'll do what? (X'D) Cry? B'sides, u brought this on urself.

Then you leave me no choice. I'll do what I do best.

Cry?

Raise Hell.

Belle looked away. It felt a bit shameful that she was spying on him, but, then again, this was probably the most intimate situation she would ever get into with Mr. Gold. It was now, or…. Well, Belle would probably never get a chance to sit next to him again so casually.

"Mr. Gold?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your name?"

Mr. Gold lowered his cellphone and gave her a wry smirk.

"I am Mr. Gold. Always have been."

"No, no, not that," Belle said as she pulled her knees up, hugging them. "Your first name."

"Why is this information you desire to know?"

"Because," she smiled ruefully, "I happen to think you're a very interesting man, and if it's alright by you, I'd like for us to be friends. Can't I know my friend's first name?"

The Scotsman glared incredulously. "I don't have friends, dearie."

"Well, you do now."

Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes more, staring at her like Belle was a huge impossible puzzle waiting to be solved. Finally, he relaxed and turned back toward the TV, where a commercial for makeup was playing. "It's not a name I'm particularly proud of."

"Oh, come on," she pressed. "I know plenty with terrible names but they're amazing people. How bad can it be?"

"You may call me Gold, Miss French."

"What?"

"I said, you may call me Gold."

"…But, that's what I already call you—just without the Mister."

"Precisely."

"Why can't you tell me your name?"

He have her a waned frown. "Don't push it, dearie." And like that, Gold turned back toward his phone and began texting again. Clear dismissal.

The interview came back. Belle moved her attention away from Gold and back to the TV, eager to hear the words of the Queens.

Some pictures, in which Belle wasn't familiar with, were shown with a little more backstory on the Queens themselves. She saw a few with Rum lounging around cheekily with a tumbler of alcohol, some with girls sitting next to, or, to Belle's slight dismay, on him. A few pictured Mal and Rum hanging out, cooking, or tuning instruments. Others had the three women shopping or fussing about on something. When it appeared that the screen would turn back to Ms. Katz and the Queens, the picture suddenly flickered.

Then everything glitches.

Belle's lights flickered.

Then everything turned off.

The only light came from Gold's cellphone, which glowed an eerie shadow across his sharp face. His dark eyes met hers in that moment, silently except for the rain beating against the building. Other than that, it was as quiet as the grave.

Belle couldn't process what happened. But shock and panic filled the back of her throat like bile.

"I told you this would happen, Miss French."

"Uh..."

Gold cocked his head to the side. "Are you alright?"

Unable to speak, Belle just shakes her head. Gold turns his phone off. Belle could hear him breath softly. "I take it you're upset."

All Belle is able to do is whine. "I was… waiting for that—for, for years—Oh my God, do you think Granny's still has power?"

"Dearie, you'd sooner get washed away than get to the Lucas's. And I'm sure you can find the answers you're looking for soon enough. They don't say patience is a virtue just for shits and giggles."

The young librarian snorted at Gold's brief but shocking vulgarity. This was the first time she'd ever heard Gold curse so crudely. "Right. And everyone else is getting to know while we sit here in the dark. Literally and figuratively."

Gold sighed deeply, putting his phone back into his pocket. He gingerly picked up a soda can off the floor. Gold is quiet for a small while, but when a flash of lightning illuminated his face, casting shadows across the angels of his face, he speaks. Toying with the soda unperturbed in his hands, he says, "Why is this so important to you?"

The russet haired woman rubbed her hands together on her lap. She's silent for a moment, just to gather her words. "It's special."

"Why? It's just a band."

"Right. A band that, if it didn't exist, would be the reason of my non-existence."

Gold shifted in his seat. "Pardon?"

"Rum and the Queens. They're important to my parents."

"Your parents?"

"Yes. I'm alive because of them. Not just my parents—of course they are the reason of my existence, but without Rum, they never would have gotten married."

Gold gave her a hard, incredulous look.

Belle sighs. "Mum and Papa had been dating for years. Mum kept wondering when Papa would make them official, you know? No matter how many times she suggested they take what they had further, Papa would always remain hesitant. Mum was thinking about breaking up with him. Until one night, when they went to a Rum and The Queens of Darkness concert.

"They had entered this contest months ago, that gave out concert tickets and backstage passes to meet singers or musicians. This was the concert they won tickets to. After the show, they went back to meet Rum and the Queens. My Mum…" Belle laughs, "she always says that Rum knew what their problem was, and fixed it. Papa proposed three days later."

"Wow," Gold deadpanned.

"I know, right?" Belle sighed dreamily, ignoring his rudeness. "If it wasn't because of Rum, I wouldn't be here right now."

A heavy, long silence follows.

Then Gold speaks.

"…At least the little bastard did one thing right."

"Excuse me?"

She saw the shape of his hand wave her off in the dark. "It is but nothing. What I see as pointless is that while you can be grateful to this punk all you want, it doesn't change anything. He was not God. He's gone. Why do you wish to know what happened after all these years? It won't change anything if you knew he was a fat, ugly old man living in a retirement home or a drunk dead in a ditch."

Belle twisted the ends of her shirt in her hands. "My mom's dying wish is to speak to him one last time. To thank him."

Gold shifted in his seat, facing her a little more. He stays silent. Belle explained.

"She has breast cancer."

"I'm sorry," he responded softly.

"Don't be. You didn't cause it."

He's silent for some time. The rain continues to pour, tapping rapidly against her windowpanes and roof. Howls of wind push against the building.

After their thoughtful yet glum vigil, Gold pipes up. "I'm glad you came about."

"Hmm?"

"Because of the band. Inevitably, Madam Mayor would have hired another librarian instead of you. One that would have been quite happy to kick me off his or her doorpost—in this weather—to drown elsewhere."

Belle sniggered.

~.~.~.~.~.

After fifteen minutes of silently sitting in the dark, snacking idly, the two decided to retire for the night.

Belle was, indeed, terribly disappointed the power went out. However, she's not distraught. The interview will be recorded and probably re-aired by tomorrow, or posted on O'Malley News' webpage. It wasn't the end of the world. Belle would just have to find out tomorrow. Sighing, she stands and gropes around for her phone, and uses it's light to guide her way to her kitchen, where she scavenges around for some candles and a lantern. Plus a few glow sticks.

With the living room illuminated a bit better now, Gold looked ready to either mock her or tease her for the glow sticks, but Belle just blushes and smirks and says, "You're never too old for glow sticks." Belle then throws him a glow necklace. Gold grunts at this, but puts it on the top of her TV stand.

"The couch is a pull out. But if you want, you can take my bed—I just changed the sheets this morning. It's more comfortable."

Gold shook his head as he assisted her in pulling the couch cushions off. "I'd rather you not give your bed to me. If your interests and your outward personality clash within those walls, I'd die before morning."

Belle gives him a playful glare, putting her hands on her hips. "Now, now, how would that be the cause of your death if not a little thunderstorm?"

Thunder sounded from outside.

Gold wrinkles his nose briefly; he gestures toward her being. "It would be so… You. All rainbows and sunshine and glitter and shit. Then heavy metal."

"Hey! It's called rock and roll, not heavy metal. Though, I do have some Kiss, Black Sabbath, and Iron Maiden in my album collection."

"Exactly. So, no, I'll happily take the couch, thank you very much," Gold says snippily, but instead of the impassive, bitter tone she's used to from him, his tone held a bit of playfulness. Belle smiles at that.

"Well, alright then. I'll go get some sheets."

Belle hops off with a cheer in her step, carrying the lantern with her. In the hallway, she produces a set of plain cream sheets and two heavy fitted blankets. And a wool throw blanket.

It would be cold tonight, after all.

Coming back, Belle catches eye of Gold pulling the mattress out and settling it flat. His arms are stretched out, just for a moment, and the librarian's sharp eye catches a dark mark on an exposed wrist.

"I've got the blankets," she starts.

Gold's head shoots up at her presence, looking deeply hunted for a split second before it shifts into a glare. He straightens and nods, motioning her closer.

"Don't sneak up on people like that," he says a little resentfully, tugging his sleeves down. Gold doesn't meet her eyes as she places the sheets and blankets on his bed.

"I'm sorry," Belle gently apologises, urging his gaze to meet hers as she steps closer. "If it makes you feel any better, I get freaked out by people all the time, too."

He smiles grimly, briefly, but doesn't say anything else.

Do the brave thing, Belle reminds herself. She thinks back to those women who flirted with Rum. They made it seem so effortless. So why couldn't Belle flirt? Probably because Mr. Gold certainly wasn't Rum, and Rum was much more… charismatic than her crush. In this case, Belle decided as she prepared to speak, she would have to be a little forward—or just keep running in circles.

"Forgive me terribly for intruding, but, I heard you speaking with someone you called 'Bea' earlier on the phone… Was that your girlfriend?"

Okay, so maybe that one was a little too forward.

Gold looked awfully confused for a few seconds, but then he broke out into a soft laugh. "No. No, Miss French, no girlfriend…" he tilts his head to the side, looking at her as if Belle was a new species of animal and he found her both fascinating and amusing. "Bea is short for Beathan. Beathan is my son."

Oh.

A son.

Gold had a son.

Belle wasn't sure if that was worse or better than the prospect of Gold having a girlfriend or a lover. But he did say "no girlfriend"… Oh well, the more she knew about him, the closer she could get.

And know if he was an ax murderer or not.

"Ah," she says, pressing her cheer a little more than necessary. It wasn't her place to question everything about him, or intrude on his business, but Gold was being more open than normal, and Belle wanted to know him. "Does he live very close?"

Gold snorted ruefully. "Bea's been at NYC for four years. He's studying to be an engineer."

"Oh, wow! You must be proud!"

He chuckles, smoothing out the sheets. "He's my pride and joy."

An easy smile comes to Belle, then. "You must miss him. How old is he?"

"Twenty-three."

"Nice," Belle says thoughtfully, nodded to herself and the universe as she throws a blanket on Gold's bed. She steps away politely, chiding herself for being too nosy.

But she couldn't shake the fact that Gold's son was just two years younger than her.

Hm.

Belle mentally sighs. "Do you have everything for tonight?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Goodnight, then. Help yourself to whatever you'd like from the fridge."

Gold just nodded, and mutely watched Belle as she departed for her room.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Belle awoke before dawn.

Sitting up in her full-sized bed, the russet haired woman rubbed her eyes and yawned. It took a moment or two for her thoughts to get together, but together they came, and she looked around her room nervously.

Gold was just down the hall, in her living room, sleeping on her couch.

Gold, her crush, was sleeping on her couch.

Belle squealed with a private glee, pushing her pile of blankets back as she got up. Her bladder was begging to be relieved, and she could no longer hold it, but the sheer giddiness Belle received from knowing her crush was literally a room away kept her from leaving right away.

What if he was a light sleeper and she woke him up? What if he got mad at her for waking him too early? What if she does all this and makes a complete fool out of herself, making him hate her so much that he declares he never, ever wants to see her again!?

Belle sighed. Her mind was running ahead of herself. She just needed to pee, not propose to the man.

Quietly as a mouse, the young librarian sneaked out of her bedroom and crept to the bathroom. The power had yet to come on, but the rain had stopped to a light shower.

Once Belle relieved herself, she tiptoed back into her bedroom. She was close to shutting her door, but a dark looming figure behind her forced her to pause. She turns, startled.

Mr. Gold stood behind her, cloaked in darkness. She couldn't distinguish any real figures, but it was definitely him. Belle tries to open her mouth to speak, but the man brings a hand up and lightly strokes her left cheek with the back of his knuckle. Speechless, the librarian watches helplessly as he steps closer, closer, forcing her to back up into her room.

Somehow, some way, they make it to her bed, where he pushes her down and climbs over her, leering impishly like a hungry predator.

"M-Mr. Gold-" she tries, and fails, to stop him. He was warm, too warm, and impossibly close. The man hums in pleasure, leaning down until his lips where by her ear.

Belle felt as if she'd explode.

"You just love to play with the beast, don't you? Poke at it and call it friendliness… Why? You're such a sweet lass, Miss French. Or is that the allusion you just give everyone else? You want this, don't you? You actually want this old beast? Naughty girl..."

She writhed beneath him. He was so hot, so hot, she was burning...

"Quiet now, dearie. Just let this happen."

God, she wanted this to happen.

He placed featherlight kissed along the shell of her ear, trailing down her jaw, her chin, her cheek, and finally-

Belle's phone went off.

She shoot out of bed like a madwoman, frantically looking about as if an intruder just barged in. Yet there was no intruder, just her wild imagination and a dream much too tempting to return to.

The power had come back on. Her clock flashed red numbers, needing to be reset. The apartment hummed as if alive as the heater was kicked into gear, and Belle's thermal pj's-what she had changed into before bed-felt like a second skin from the way they clung to her with her sweat. An image of a snake shedding its skin came to mind as the young woman stripped herself of the winter nightwear. She felt better in just her panties and a tanktop; finally better, she put on a robe, grabbed her phone, and made her way outside.

Unlike her dream (Belle blushed at the memory), she had not awoken before the sun could quite rise. It had to have been past breakfast time, and the afternoon sun shinned brightly through her white translucent window curtains.

Maybe, Belle thought to herself, if Gold was still here, she'd make brunch for them.

To her dismay, the pull-out bed had been put back, the couch cushions returned to their rightful place. Blankets were folded up neatly on the arm, and a pillow sat beside the pile. Atop the pillow, beneath a unopened soda can, sat a note.

It read:

To Miss French,

Much thanks for the use of your shelter from the storm.

~G

"Well, at least he left a note," Belle mumbled under her breath, accepting that she was alone in her apartment.

An hour later, Belle found herself at Granny's with Ruby and her grandmother in a three-inch deep dinner pool. Volunteers to help clean the damage of last night's storm were scurrying about, splashing in the indoor puddle like overly determined ducklings in loose-fitting rain boots. Belle nearly giggled at the thought.

"This is just ridiculous," Granny swore as she opened the cash register to check the money amount. "Gold should've taken care of those weather boards ages ago!"

Ruby rolled her eyes as she helped sweep water out. "He tried to do it last week, old woman. But noooooo, we can't waste a few precious pennies for something so alien as weather boards!"

Granny glared at her granddaughter's disrespect, but said nothing else. Belle laughed under her breath, albeit quietly. Ruby came up to her then.

"I'm so sorry for you about last night. Are you okay? No mental break down?"

Belle playfully swatted her friend. "I'm fine, really. I'll just watch the rerun or go online."

The other girl should have nodded and agreement, or pouted at being brushed off, or laughed, or something. Not stare at her in shock and pity. But yet, lo and behold, there Ruby was, doing just that.

"What?" Belle urged, a slight panic rising within her.

"Oh, honey. You mean you don't know? Power didn't just go out here. It went out in every East state."