Belle had been dwelling on the fact that she had kissed Dr. Gold's cheek for the past two hours, and was still dwelling on it while she waited for him at the bar in Granny's diner, trying to read a frayed copy of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Granny Lucas had given her a free chocolate milkshake in congratulations, and she sipped at it with ever-growing dread of the moment that Dr. Gold walked in.

She had kissed him. In his classroom. With her lips. She had put her lips on the side of Dr. Gold's face, in front of people. She had even been wearing lipstick—what if there was now a lip print on his face that he hadn't noticed, and he had been walking around all morning with a visual reminder that she had violated him with her mouth? She wanted to die.

"You know, love, if you're not going to read, there are other things you could be doing to occupy your time."

Belle looked up at the unfamiliar voice to see the most attractive person she had ever seen in the entire state of Maine. She had opened her mouth to respond, when he continued with, "What I'm saying is that I think we should have sex," and winked.

For a second, Belle sat there, stunned. The stranger had a lopsided grin situated in his dark stubble, and he plopped himself on the stool next to her like they were old friends.

"I beg your pardon?" she managed, feeling a bit like this was all a dream.

Instead of apologizing, he offered his hand. "Killian Jones. It's a pleasure to meet you…?"

"Belle," she said, shaking his hand without thinking. When she realized she was touching the person who had walked up and propositioned her, she yanked her hand away like his was poisoned.

"Ah, Belle. What a lovely name. It suits you well. Killian doesn't suit me at all, but most people just call me Hook."

Belle was curious in spite of herself. "Hook? Like the captain?"

"The very same." He smiled, and she had the fleeting thought that maybe he wasn't so bad.

"Because you're a codfish?"

His laugh was deep and baritone, and even when it was only a small chuckle, it felt like it filled the room.

"No, and I'd rather not embarrass myself in front of someone as lovely as you by sharing the story quite yet."

"Tell me something else instead, then." She marked her place and closed her book, folding her arms. "Does your opening line usually work?"

His grin grew, and it was like his presence grew with it. By all rights, he should have looked shadowy and slight—black shirt, dark jeans, dark hair—but it was like he commanded the space around him, bending it to highlight his own existence by the way it contained him.

"Well, it got you to talk to me, didn't it?"

At this, she had to chuckle, ducking her head so that she didn't have to meet his eyes. Perhaps he wasn't so bad. He was certainly more clever in their minute of conversation than Gaston had been in hours of conversation last Saturday—and he cared that they were having one, which was a vast improvement. She'd gotten the impression from Gaston that he wouldn't mind too much if she were mute.

"Well, if that was your aim, then I suppose you've hit your mark."

"I've always been an excellent marksman."

He was charming, she would allow him that. Even Granny, who was nigh unflappable, looked flushed by his smile when he beckoned her over so that he could order himself a vanilla milkshake. She didn't even balk when he leaned forward, looking conspiratorial, and asked her to add a dash of vodka.

"Hope you don't mind." He leaned back, propping his feet on the railing below. "I've taken the liberty of joining you."

She closed her book, marking her place with a paperclip, and turned toward him. "I don't mind at all, but I should warn you that I'm meeting someone in a few minutes."

"Well, then you'll just have to give me your phone number, won't you?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "What if it's my boyfriend that I'm meeting?"

He shrugged. "I see no ring on your finger. I'm not worried."

"Well, just because we're not engaged, it doesn't mean—"

He cut her off with a raised finger, much in the way Dr. Gold often did. "If you'd wanted to deter me by having a boyfriend, you'd have said you were meeting your boyfriend. Even if that's what you're doing—which I doubt you are—you didn't feel it was necessary to let me know."

Belle couldn't argue with that, and she found herself more flattered by his logical conclusion than the fact that he was so determined to hit on her. She pursed her lips to keep them from spreading.

"All right, you caught me. I don't have boyfriend." Planning a second date with Gaston hardly counted. "But you can't have my number until you answer one question."

He rubbed his hands together, looking like a gleeful pirate about to steal treasure. "Ooh, I love a good bargain. What's your question, then?"

"Well, both of your hands seem to be in working order." She settled so that she was facing him, tucking one ankle behind the other.

"That they are. Did you want to find out already?"

She was certain that she should have been uncomfortable with the way he wiggled his eyebrows at her, but it just seemed like such a reasonable gesture coming from him that she found she couldn't mind it. Still, she pursed her lips like a chiding schoolteacher, choosing to ignore him.

"Why 'Hook?'"

He sighed, and stretched like a contented cat. "Well, love, it seems you've got me trapped between a rock and a hard place."

"Oh?" She took a sip of her milkshake, perhaps puckering her lips a little more than necessary, taking note of the way that he actually kept his eyes on hers instead of straying to her mouth.

"Either I lose my dignity, or I lose your phone number."

She watched him stroke the stubble on his chin, biting her lip to keep from grinning like a silly schoolgirl being approached by an older boy for the first time.

"And your verdict?" She couldn't help it—she twirled a curl of her hair around her finger.

"My dignity seems a small price to pay to hear your voice again."

Her hair tightened around her finger, but she tried to be cool by just ducking her head in acceptance of his answer. Belle had always been pretty—her father used to say she was the spitting image of her mother—and she was used to being hit on, but she was also used to being disgusted by her suitors, or accidentally turning them off with her bookishness. Since she valued a it so highly, it was hard to understand how so few men could appreciate a good wit.

"Very well. Once upon a time, I was suffering a traumatic breakup." He paused, waiting for her to nod and hardly looking as though said breakup had traumatized him. "It happened the morning after Halloween, for which I had dressed as a pirate, and I spent the rest of the week in a bit of a slump. So, the next weekend, my friends all decided it was time I get out and get over her. At our first bar, we were thrown out, because I started yelling. At the second bar, we knew the bartender, and he gave us free shots. Many free shots. So many free shots, that I really don't remember anything else. And there you have it."

He was still grinning, but Belle pressed her lips together and folded her arms.

"For some reason, I feel as though you are leaving out key details—for instance, how any of this relates to you being called 'Hook.'"

He put on a big show of sighing, but he didn't look at all unhappy about her assessment. "It seems you cannot be fooled. All right, if you must know, after the third or so shot, I apparently went round the room telling everyone that I was Captain Hook. This followed me for so long that there were still girls passing me in the street weeks later and calling me that. The name stuck." He shrugged.

She snorted with laughter, and he jumped.

"Did you just snort? Like a pig?"

"It's not nice to call the woman giving you her phone number a pig," she retorted, reaching into her purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. She came up with a crumpled grocery receipt, and scrawled her number on it. It was much less formal than when she'd exchanged information with Dr. Gold, and she felt a small twinge of guilt that she was giving it out again so soon. She pushed that thought down, though, because he was her professor and he hated everyone and it was silly.

"Well, here you—are you okay?"

While she'd been looking down, his face had darkened, all traces of the easy smiles and devil-may-care laughs gone. He was staring at a point over her shoulder, and she was afraid that she would see some woman with perky breasts and legs for miles stalking toward him if she turned around.

"Fine, love," he said, but he looked distracted. "An old crocodile just walked in."

She knew it was presumptuous of her, but she couldn't help that her heart went out to him for looking so pained, and so she took his hand and squeezed. When she had his flickering attention, she pressed her number into his palm, and then turned to see what the commotion was about.

She saw no woman, but she did see Dr. Gold standing at the hostess' stand, looking for her. It didn't matter that she'd spent her time waiting for him being hit on by an attractive, clever, attentive man—she could not possibly have been this happy before he walked in. He looked the same as usual, like someone had chiseled his face from the loneliest, most weathered stone they could find.

It was obvious that he could see her—he was looking right at her—but when she waved, he made no motion to indicate that he had noticed. Frowning, she waved again, and then squinted to get a good look at his face. He was not looking at her, as she'd thought—rather, he was looking at a point behind her. Pressing her lips together, she turned around. Hook and Dr. Gold were locked in a stare charged with so much hate, Belle was tempted to just slink away. Instead, she waved a hand between them.

Both men blinked, and Belle turned to watch Dr. Gold instead of Hook. She knew when he noticed her, because he paled, and she felt her cheeks starting to flame. He was remembering the kiss—he was totally remembering the kiss and how much he hated her.

Forgetting, for a moment, that there was some sort of unexplained hatred between the two men surrounding her, she watched Dr. Gold approach with growing trepidation. His steps were slow and even, cane clunking out a dull rhythm. It was as if the whole diner had hushed to watch him make his way toward the counter—but that would have been silly, because there was no reason for all of the diner patrons to care about some cranky old professor.

She opened her mouth to greet him when he reached her, but he continued past her stool as though he hadn't seen her, stopping instead in front of Hook. Then, he shifted toward her, and Belle had the oddest sensation that he was trying to put himself between her and the other man, like he was trying to protect her.

"Jones."

It was the same voice he used to threaten students, but a thousand times silkier, a thousand times more dangerous. Belle felt a shiver race down her spine, and she wasn't quite sure what it was from.

"Gold."

It was like watching two lions fight for dominance. Belle was almost afraid to get in the way, but after looking at Hook's hardened face, and seeing the way that Gold's fingers drummed against his cane—waiting to break something with it—she figured that it was her duty. After all, she had promised Gold that she would work on his people skills.

She couldn't think of anything to say, but she wasn't sure they'd hear her even if she could. Instead, she did the first thing she could think of—closed her arm around Dr. Gold's wrist. It was like she'd just popped a balloon in his ear, and he stumbled a bit before catching himself on his cane. There was still something feline about the way he turned toward her, and she almost expected him to flatten himself on the ground in preparation for pouncing and ripping her throat out.

"Yes, Miss Blue?"

His tone wasn't any less silky, any less dangerous, but she had never been afraid of him before and she wasn't about to start now. This was her day—something she'd forgotten in all of the hubbub—and he was going to support her if it killed him. Though he was looking at her, he wasn't meeting her eyes, so she placed her free hand on his cheek and pointed his face toward hers.

"I thought we were having lunch, Dr. Gold? So that I can tell you my news?"

It was like watching him piece together a puzzle—like he was trying to remember where her edges fit with the edges of his life, and then mesh them together. She knew now that any anger she'd seen before was nothing compared to this anger, this emotion that was like a transformation.

"Not here," he said, when he had managed to rest his gaze on her own.

"What?" That wasn't what she'd been expecting.

"This is no place for a celebration." He swept away from her, picking up her book and purse as though it was something he did every day, and she spluttered after him.

"Wait a minute, this is my celebration! I should be able to—" But there was no use in arguing, because he was making his way back to the door with all of her things. She sighed and turned to Granny, who was staring off after him with pursed lips. She must have heard his quip.

"Could you put that in a to-go cup, please?" she asked, chewing her lip. She wished she could tip the woman, but she was lacking any of her personal items, including her wallet.

Without speaking, Granny grabbed her cup and stomped away. Belle felt terrible, and this feeling only increased when she turned to find Hook staring at her.

"I am so sorry," she said, wishing she had something to hide behind—her book, her milkshake, a wall.

"No worries, love. I had no idea you liked antiques."

Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into an indignant scowl. "That is my professor, and I've just been published, and we are celebrating. So, if you'll excuse me." She hopped off the stool, taking much less care with her skirts and her shoes than usual, and then smoothed herself out. Granny handed her the milkshake, and she took it with a whispered apology, thanks, and promise to be back that night with Ruby and Mary Margaret.

When she was starting to leave, sure now that Hook was disgusted with her—and finding that she didn't actually care as much about that as she probably ought to—she felt a rough hand on her wrist.

"Sorry, love," he said when she'd turned to face him. "Old habits, eh?"

"Right." She nodded, though she wasn't sure to which habit he was referring—was it customary for him to glare at middle-aged cripples?

"Can I still call you?" He raised the receipt with her number, dangling it over the counter like he held its life in its hands. Closer inspection revealed that he was dangling over a puddle of condensation from her milkshake, as though he was going to make it walk the plank.

"If you promise to be polite."

He pressed a hand to his heart. "You have my word."

Dr. Gold was not happy when she exited the diner, and he made his displeasure known with his deafening silence during the car ride. Belle was almost afraid to sip her milkshake, not wanting the abrupt slurps to jar him out of his focused anger. She studied his profile while he drove, waiting for some indication of his thoughts, and assumed she would have to stalk him all afternoon to get him to talk to her. She wasn't watching out the window, but she was certain that he was taking her back to campus. He didn't seem to want to spend any more time in her company—of course, she was going to force it on him no matter where they were, but he didn't need to know that.

When the car eased to a stop, Belle expected to see the towering red brick of UMS. It was a testament to how intently she'd been watching Dr. Gold's face that she didn't realize that nothing was familiar. She turned to see where they had ended up, and she almost choked on her straw.

They were parked at the edge of the downtown area, in what seemed to be a parking lot designed to shield murderers from wayward eyes. Though Gold started to move around, Belle sank back further in her chair. He was out of the car before he realized that she hadn't moved, and, gripping his cane, he poked his head in.

"Belle, what are you doing?"

She noted that he was back to using her first name, which meant that he must not be mad anymore. In fact, he no longer looked mad—rather, he looked a bit like a cat playing with a mouse it had just trapped. This gave Belle courage—or, at least, it gave her defiance.

"Your seatbelt is stuck. Could you get it for me?" She sucked down the last of her milkshake—because, judging by the shadiness of the lighting and the conveniently placed pillars, this could have been her last one ever—and then raised her arm to give him access to the button.

"Cadillac seatbelts don't break," he said, but he started to stretch in anyway. "I think this is a user-problem."

"Insulting a lady on her day of celebration isn't very nice, Dr. Gold."

"Perhaps the lady should learn how to use a car."

She was expecting to feel the brush of his hand when he released the seatbelt. It was inevitable, since she had only moved her arm out of the way, not her whole body. She did not, however, expect to feel heat rush to her cheeks, or a violent tingling on her hip where his fingers touched, and she jerked out of his way. He paused, hands hovering over the center console while he looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

"Are you all right, dearie?"

"You shocked me," she said, trying to sound accusatory. In truth, she knew that he hadn't—and that he would have known if he had—but she was going to stick to this lie like her life depended on it.

"I shocked you."

Belle knew that, when he resorted to repetition, it always meant that he thought whatever was being said was stupid enough that he didn't need to make fun of it. "Yes." Her embarrassment had her forgetting her earlier fear, and she scooted out of the car as soon as she was free. "Static electricity is a problem among young people these days." What was she even saying? She needed to shove the milkshake back into her mouth, but it was still in the cup holder.

"Is it." He was making his way around the car, still cat-like. "Must be why I didn't feel anything."

Sometimes, when they walked, he would put his hand on the small of her back and guide her. Though she had first wanted to balk at this—she could walk on her own, thank-you-very-much—she soon realized that it was not meant to be a show of dominance. Instead, it was his way of being affectionate, of doing the gentlemanly thing, and making sure his pupil knew that he was behind her in case she faltered.

He did not do that today. He didn't walk in front of her, but there was enough of a shift in his stance that made it obvious that he was leading, and she was following. She said nothing, deciding that he was doing this because he was making sure the coast was clear of all danger as they walked. To do her part in the scouting, she kept her gaze in constant circuit of her surroundings until they were well past the parking garage.

She was just relaxing into a normal walk when Gold stopped, and she bumped into him. He made no quip about her clumsiness, which she thought was odd until he gestured for her to follow him into what looked like a cement nook between buildings. Was he going to be the one to murder her?

"Where are we?" she asked, ducking away from a low-hanging decorative vine.

He didn't answer, just beckoned her forward. She stepped closer, expecting him to now put his hand on her back, but he seemed determined not to touch her.

She only had a second to feel disappointed about this, before she realized that they had stepped into a restaurant. It did not have the soft lighting or elegant symmetry of Sakura, but it was just as lovely, fulfilling every notion that Belle might have had about a Mediterranean countryside. The walls were faded terracotta, and they tapered off in every direction, leaving only one room of diners visible from the entrance. All along the walls were strips of decorated tiles, hand-painted in bright yellows, oranges, and reds, but done with such craftsmanship that Belle hardly noticed how bright it was. The floor was wood, scuffed by foot-traffic and polished over to give it a cozy-kitchen feel. The waiters and waitresses were all in tailored suits, and all of the waitresses had a hibiscus pinned to the sides of their ponytails.

"Where are we?" Belle had to raise her voice to be heard over all of the chatter. She had the feeling that, even if it had been empty, it wouldn't have been silent.

"Castillo de Santa Maria."

The Spanish that rolled off his tongue was tinged with his brogue, and Belle felt it more than heard it. It went straight to her knees, like his voice was trying to sweep her off her feet. As she tried not to consider the implications of this, the trilling of classical Spanish guitar filled the room.

"Oh," was all she could manage. Was this restaurant as expensive as Sakura? It didn't look it, but, knowing Dr. Gold, he wouldn't take her to a cheaper restaurant when a celebration was in order.

His fingertips came to rest on the small of her back, and he leaned close to be heard above the din. "You like Spanish food, don't you?"

"Yes." She hoped that she sounded less breathless than she felt. When had she become so concerned with where his fingers were on her back? Did this happen in their four-day absence?

She wasn't sure whether he intended to speak again, but soon both of their attentions were drawn to a huddle of people in a corner. A petite woman with a yellow hibiscus in her thick, black curls broke away, looking a bit like she had drawn the short straw. By the time she got over to them, though, she was all smiles and winking and curves.

"Bienvenido, !"

Belle had been to places where people spoke Spanish, and had been friends with enough people who were Hispanic to know that this girl's accent was terrible. She had a bit of Spain about her, but Belle thought that might have had more to do with the way she wore her makeup, accentuating her almond eyes and making her look dark and mysterious. Her eyeliner was smudged in the corners, probably from working all morning, and some of the red paint on her nails was chipped.

"Are you ready to seat us?" Dr. Gold asked, and Belle couldn't find it within her to chide him for his rudeness. Under normal circumstances, she would have, and she wouldn't have noticed the fact that the buttons on the girl's top were undone to her vest, displaying an un-ladylike amount of cleavage—today, however, it was the only way she could find to distract herself from whatever it was that boiled in her chest, in her throat, in her stomach when the hostess twitched her hips at Dr. Gold.

"We have our best table free for you, Mr. Gold, if you'll follow me this way."

She grabbed two, swishing her hips toward the back of the restaurant, and it was only when Belle continued to feel the comforting weight of Dr. Gold's hand on her back that she realized that the woman had already known who he was. That was weird.

"Dr. Gold, why does everyone know you?"

"I've lived here a long time."

She wasn't sure that was an accurate reason, but Storybrooke was small, so she accepted it for the time being. Hip-Swisher led them to a table tucked into a corner, much like the one they'd been given at Sakura. This one had a vase with a single marigold, and an unlit candle. The table was bathed in sunshine, and in clear view of a large oak tree covered in Spanish moss.

Dr. Gold pulled her chair out for her, and then it wasn't until he turned to his own chair that they both realized that it was on the same side of the table. It was a small table, but two people could easily have sat across from each other. Instead, the chairs were wedged closer together, giving both seats a perfect view of the man playing Spanish guitar. After a second's hesitation, Dr. Gold sat himself in the other chair, putting his cane between them.

"Your server will be right with you," the hostess said, and Belle was certain that her hip-swishing was aimed directly at Dr. Gold. She endeavored to ignore her sauntering away by thrusting her nose into the menu.

As suspected, the restaurant was so far out of her price range, it made her wallet hurt. It was like Dr. Gold was reading her thoughts, because when she looked up at him to protest, he was already giving her the death stare he gave to students who dared argue a grade. She kept her mouth shut, and when next she looked at him, he was back to his normal level of scariness.

"See anything you like on the drink menu?" he asked, setting his menu down to watch her.

"Drink? It's noon."

He snorted. "That didn't stop you when we got free champagne. Besides, as someone keeps reminding me, it's a special occasion."

It wasn't like she could argue with her own words, so she let out huffing breath and turned her attention back to the menu. "Well, fine. Is there anything you think looks good?" When they went out, they got drinks to share—a bottle of champagne, a pot of tea—and all of the drinks here seemed to be in shareable portions. There was a full bar, but the house specials were wine, and plenty of them were sold by the bottle. The sangria was by the pitcher.

"Belle, this is your celebration, not mine. Pick whatever you'd like, and if you even so much as glance at the price, I will fail two students."

She was about to respond to his threat when she realized what it was, and yelped.

"That's right, dearie," he said, lips twitching in mirth. "The fate of two random students is held in your dainty little hands."

She narrowed her eyes. "Fine, but since I'm not looking at the prices, you have to be a little more lenient with two students that you know are trying, but just not getting it."

Instead of annoying him like she'd hoped it might, her response seemed to delight him more. She told herself that his expression was making her heart race with fear, even though she'd never really been afraid of him.

"You have my word." He pressed a hand to his heart. "Now, what would you like?"

She turned her attention to the menu, poking her tongue out between her teeth in thought. "Well, the sangria looks good, but you only like wine made from the tears of children, right?"

"If you mean red wine, then yes, that is my preference. But as long as you don't pick grape juice, I'll toast to you with your beverage of choice."

She peeked up at him, and they shared a tiny smile. It was a gesture so small, but so intimate, that Belle felt her cheeks flushing. She hastened to speak.

"Well, since you like red wine, and I like sangria, let's get the red sangria."

He nodded his assent, and when their waitress came—another petite, swishing woman that Belle had to pretend that she didn't want to stab a little bit—ordered a pitcher of that as well as the tapas sampler. A few minutes later, she came back with a tray full of fruit, bottles, a glass pitcher of ice, and two wine glasses garnished with pineapple, and then proceeded to make the sangria in front of them. Belle was delighted, having not realized that it would be made tableside, and by the time she had a glass in her hand, Dr. Gold was watching her, the corners of his mouth softened as he did. When her eyes met his, he cleared his throat and leaned back, hand clutching his wine glass.

"So, Miss Blue." He took a sip, watching her.

"Hmm?" She was going to have to figure out this pattern of name-use—did 'Miss Blue' mean that they were talking business? Was he her professor when he used her surname?

"How do you know Killian Jones?"

She took a sip of sangria to hide her pursed lips. Maybe it just meant that he was about to say something unpleasant.

"I don't. We just met a few minutes before you got there." She didn't know if he'd seen the number-exchange, but she wasn't going to mention it. Ever.

"I see." His voice was like a winter breeze—soft enough when one has no direct contact, but cold enough to sting if met head-on.

Dr. Gold's face was unreadable, and Belle wasn't sure what sort of crisis she was going to need to avert. Neither man was forthcoming with information about their animosity, and she was sure that, if left to his own devices, Gold would sit and stare and brood until everyone in the restaurant was cowering behind him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"Are you jealous, Dr. Gold?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes while she took a sip of wine.

She didn't expect him to answer, but she did expect to jar him out of his stupor, and she was not disappointed. He blinked, and then pursed his lips at her, taking a gulp from his own glass.

"Hardly."

"Well, it's not like we spent hours chatting and sharing life stories. We'll probably never even see each other again. So you can stop fussing."

"Probably?" He frowned. "What do you mean, 'probably?'"

"Ugh, nothing. Look, here comes our—" The rest of the words died in her throat. She watched their waitress—carrying a tray loaded with their appetizers—dodge not one, but two chairs backing out, only to be hit by a waiter in reverse, mere feet from their table. Belle let out a throaty screech of surprise, the sound swallowed by the waitress' own scream as she and the tray toppled forward. At the same time that the waiter lunged to save the waitress, Belle lunged sideways for Dr. Gold to avoid the shattering ceramic headed straight for them. His hand was closer to her than it should have been, and, as she closed her fingers around his palm, she wondered if he'd reached for her, too.

The waiter managed to keep their waitress from falling to her doom, and she was letting go a steady stream of apologies to them, but Belle was certain that she and Dr. Gold were both preoccupied by the same thing. His hand flexed under hers, and she loosened her vice grip on him. She was torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to pretend that the whole thing never happened, but then Dr. Gold twisted his hand until they were equal parts holding each other, instead of Belle just clinging to him.

Despite all the noise, the crowd of people gathering to help clean up and assure them that they would be brought a speedy replacement, Dr. Gold tilted his head toward her, indicating he wanted to speak. She leaned in to show that she was listening.

"You had something to tell me," he said, voice low. "What was it?"

"Well, I was planning on letting you have at least two glasses of wine before telling you." She almost squeezed his hand, but stopped herself just in time. It was best to just pretend that their hands were part of the scenery—separate from their minds and bodies, holding each other of their own accord.

"I think now will work just fine." He sounded a little ragged, a little breathless, and Belle could feel her ears heating.

"Well, some poet was supposed to be giving a reading next Thursday—you know, they have that series in the ballrooms?" He nodded. "Anyway, the poet cancelled, so they're giving it to me as a congratulations for winning."

She was certain that the smile he gave her was genuine, the most real smile she'd ever seen on his face. She also could have sworn that he looked proud, but she wasn't sure that this was an emotion she could associate with Dr. Gold quite yet, so she settled for him being pleased.

"Belle, that's fantastic. Why did you want me to be drunk?"

"Because I wanted to invite you." It was strange, inviting someone to come see her show off, but she wanted more than anything for Dr. Gold to be there to share the moment with her.

He looked taken aback. "You did?" He looked away, like he was trying to do math in his head, and when he looked back, he still looked baffled. "Why?"

If there was ever a moment to squeeze his hand, it was now—if that wasn't reason enough for her to want him there, she didn't know what was. She also wasn't sure what else to say.

"Because—well—I consider us to be good friends, don't you?"

"Don't you have other friends that you want to go?"

His confusion made no sense. She was being as clear as she could be. "I can invite more than one friend, you know. You can even invite someone. Bring a date, if you want."

She couldn't help that she bit her lip, or fluttered her lashes. It was a natural reaction to saying something like that, not because she wanted to dissuade Dr. Gold from agreeing to bring a date, obviously.

He snorted, though there was no amusement to the sound. "No, I don't think I'll bring a date, but I will be there."

"Good. I'm glad." This time, she didn't stop herself from squeezing his hand.

After that, they found new and discreet ways of touching. She never tried to hold his hand, and he never tried to hold hers, but that wasn't the only way to show affection. When they walked, his hand sat heavier on her back, and if a seating host was male, his hand would slide over until his fingers curled over her hip. If he was sitting at his desk, grading, she would come up behind him and rest her hand on his shoulder, leaning over until their cheeks could have touched. If she was the one working, his hand would go between her shoulder blades, and he would sometimes lay his hand over her writing one to still it, so that he could read whatever note she was writing.

Nights were reserved for Ruby and Mary Margaret, because Mary Margaret was still upset about David, and Belle was unwilling to look unavailable at all. She spent as much time as possible in Dr. Gold's company, but by being free every time Ruby beckoned, she was certain that this fact was hidden. Even though their time spent together was innocent, she knew that Ruby would misinterpret it.

Thursday was her second date with Gaston, but it wasn't quite a date because his friends Billy and Victor were there, as were Ruby and Mary Margaret. Really, it was an excuse to get Mary Margaret drunk enough to forget that she was sad, and Belle offered to be the designated driver. Though her wits were about her, Gaston still managed to corner her without her knowledge, at which point he leaned in close enough to kiss her, and asked her to go out with him again on Saturday. She'd agreed, if only to get him away from her face, and then felt an overwhelming sense of guilt that she refused to acknowledge.

Hook had also been texting her—another fact to file away in her unacknowledged guilt folder—and Belle was grateful for the distraction. They had clever conversations with clever quips, and though there was always an undercurrent of flirtation, he never asked her on a date. He was the one she ended up telling about Gaston. He advised her never to have sex with him, and she agreed.

She spent most of Friday curled up in Dr. Gold's office, catching up on some reading for one of her classes. Saturday, she wandered his shop and allowed him to put her to work dusting until she had to leave and get ready for her date. It wasn't the best date she'd ever had, but it wasn't the worst, and when Gaston walked her up to her door, she didn't balk when he kissed her. This was good for her, she reminded herself. She'd always dated people like Gaston—it was safe and normal to be with him. Like the date, his kiss wasn't the worst, and she could feel his tongue pressing against the back of his lips, so she ended it while it was still chaste. Before he let her go inside, he told her he wanted to see her again, that he was glad that she was his.

She didn't know when she had become his, but she agreed to see him again. Once alone, thinking it over, she recoiled at his self-righteous possession of her, but there was nothing she could do now. They had dinner again on Sunday, after she had lunch with Dr. Gold, and then again on Monday.

Tuesday, she got news that was even worse than finding out that she belonged to Gaston, and she sighed her way into Dr. Gold's office wearing her sad jeans and sad hoodie. She hadn't had to drag this outfit—threadbare grey jeans and a navy sweatshirt from American—out of her closet since she was rejected by Harvard for not being able to pay their doctorate tuition. Under most circumstances, she was optimistic, but there were days when she felt the need to wallow in her own misery like anybody else, and today was one of those days.

When she shuffled into Dr. Gold's office, he was bent over his desk with his tweezers and metal pieces again. As soon as he saw her, however, he stood up and dragged the other chair over to his side of the desk. This cheered her up a little, because it had been her plan from the start, and she curled up next to him, legs drawn to her chest. The chairs were close enough that, when he leaned back from his work, he could rest his elbows on her knees. When he did, she curled closer to him.

"What's wrong?" He would only look at her out of his periphery. Maybe sad women intimidated him.

"It's my father." She sighed, slumping down in the chair, while he knitted his eyebrows together.

"Is he okay?"

She hadn't told him anything about her family, and he hadn't told her about his—except that his wife was an ex-wife—so he had no way of knowing that her father was in fine health, if a bit of a sot.

"He's fine. He just—he's not coming on Thursday."

It had taken her father all week to figure this out, wavering between 'definitely going to be there' and 'not sure that he can swing it,' until he called this morning to inform her that it was a definite negative.

"Why not?"

"He can't afford it at such short notice." When he'd said that over the phone, she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from saying that, maybe, if he'd set aside his booze money for a week, he could have easily bought a plane ticket.

"Not even for such a special occasion?" Though he was still watching his desk instead of her, she could see that, now, it was because he was thinking, not because he was afraid to meet her eyes.

"It's hard. He's a florist, so unless he can get someone to watch the shop, he can't exactly take off much work. And he didn't have the notice to put money aside, or make arrangements, so it makes sense." Of course it made sense, and she knew that this would have been her father's excuse, too.

"I see."

"It's fine," she assured him, as though she hadn't gotten dressed with the specific intention of being sad. "Really. I didn't expect him to come."

All he did was grunt, though, and then slide his arm off her legs to stand up.

"Come on. I'm hungry."

He held his hand out to help her up, and she took it, but it didn't make her feel much better.