A/N: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING AHLGKJFG YOU ARE ALL AMAZING AND SUPPORTIVE ILY333333333

Gold didn't know why he was doing it. He never did anything for anyone else, without definite knowledge that he would gain something in return. This time, however, the only thing he would get in return was Belle's happiness—and that wasn't even a sure thing. He just assumed—hoped—prayed—that he would, and somehow, that alone propelled him forward.

It was an easy enough thing to do. He knew her full name, after all, and so it was simple to pull her file and get the information he wanted. Dr. Hopper—a professor that he might have called his friend, if the circumstances ever arose for him to name friends—had found him rifling through the records and tried to dissuade him, so he'd had to tell him what he was doing against his better judgment. He couldn't deny, though, that Dr. Hopper's approval eased his mind.

Information acquired, he was now sitting in front of his computer, one hand resting on the office phone in the corner. He had called strangers thousands of times for thousands of business reasons, but this particular stranger was making him more nervous than he'd like to admit. He considered begging Dr. Hopper to do it for him, but the thought of such a display of weakness drove him forward, and he soon dialed the number.

It rang three times, and then, "Game of Thorns, Moe speaking, how can I help you?"

Had he dialed the wrong number? What was Game of Thorns? He racked his brain for a possible solution, while the man on the other end repeated 'hello?' a few times.

He supposed that 'Game of Thorns' could have been a flower shop. Belle had said that her father was a florist, right?

"Yes, hello. I'd like to speak to Mr. Blue, if he's available."

"Speaking. What can I do for you, sir?"

He must have grabbed the work number instead of a house number. Perhaps Belle had given the work number for her emergency contact? If she had, that seemed unsafe. It meant she could only have an emergency during regular business hours. He would have to discreetly add himself to her contact list.

"This is Dr. Gold, and—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, your order was supposed to be there this morning, I know. Don't worry, though, the delivery boy's on his way. The shipment came late, but it's all in—"

"I'm not interested in a shipment, Mr. Blue." Why didn't he know who he was? He had been sure that, by using his title instead of his first name, he would recognize it. Did he never talk to his daughter? He refused to believe that Belle had never mentioned his name.

The other end was silent. He gave Moe a chance to puzzle it out, tapping his finger against the desk while he waited for him to recognize the name.

"I'm sorry, whose doctor are you?"

He couldn't help the gusty sigh that escaped his lips. "I'm not anyone's doctor, Mr. Blue. My name is Raphael Gold, and I am professor at—"

"Oh, you're Belle's professor!"

His shoulders relaxed. It may have taken some prodding, but he was now assured that Belle had at least mentioned him before.

"That's right. I'm calling about a gift I'd like to send her, in honor of her upcoming publication."

Moe was again quiet, and he wished he could see his face to know what the other man was thinking.

"Are you asking me to ship flowers to Maine? Isn't there a florist there? Wouldn't that be more practical?"

Gold sighed again. Doing nice things was so difficult. "Not flowers, Mr. Blue. You. I would like to ship you out to Maine."

This silence, he expected. It wasn't every day that a random man called and offered to send someone as a gift to his own daughter. Gold waited, bringing up travel websites on his computer while he did, and soon, Moe cleared his throat.

"Beg pardon?"

Really? He had waited so long for that? He sighed again. "Mr. Blue, your daughter is very upset that her father won't be at her performance. She can't do anything about it, but I can. I would like to fly you out and put you up for a night."

"I don't understand. Why?"

This was a terrible idea. He should just hang up now, pretend it never happened. Except, there was always the chance that Moe would talk to his daughter, and then Belle would know, and be disappointed. He clenched his teeth. If this made Belle happy, his discomfort was worth it.

"Because she deserves it."

In Moe's silence, he continued to repeat to himself that Belle would be happy, assuring himself that this wasn't for naught.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you, Dr. Gold."

Gold tried not to let his relief be audible. "Don't tell Belle."

"Sorry?"

"Keep this a secret from Belle, and we'll consider the debt even. Can you afford to stay two days? If you can, I've found a good rate."

"Oh, please, don't go overboard on my account—"

"Mr. Blue, this is my gift to Belle. I would like to do it right."

It seemed that Moe could not argue with this, and so quieted to allow Gold to talk out the arrangements.

Wednesday came and went. He could see Belle's nerves growing with every passing minute, so he took her to Granny's for lunch, which seemed to calm her a fraction. He did the same on Thursday, and Granny didn't charge him for her meal—which was nice, because Belle hardly touched it.

"Darling, you have to eat something."

The new, more affectionate, endearment didn't even seem to faze her, and Gold was worried that he was going to have to deal with pale, nervous Belle all afternoon. He had hoped to be able to send her home at the normal hour, because he knew she wanted to change, and he didn't want to be force-feeding her dinner when she should be at home. She'd told him that she'd treated herself to a new dress for the occasion. It wasn't exactly a fancy affair, but the university did hold its monthly readings in the ballroom.

"I'll eat tonight." She forced a smile, shredding a piece of lettuce from her hamburger in her twisting fingers.

"What did that poor vegetable ever do to you?" he asked. Was it bad form if he ate lunch while she merely massacred it?

She looked down at her hands, and blushed. "Oh. Maybe I'll just get a to-go box?"

"So that you can kill your food in the comfort of my office?"

She tapped her toes against his under the table, and he felt a jolt up his leg. It intensified when he saw that she was now smiling at him. He would watch her kill a thousand hamburgers if it meant she would look at him like that.

"I just don't think I can eat right now, and I don't want to waste it. Might as well bring it back to your office."

"Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off?" It killed him a little to suggest it. Since their four-day separation, he hadn't spent an entire weekday afternoon away from Belle, and he did not relish the idea of doing so now.

"Maybe. Maybe I should practice." She chewed her lip, and he considered attempting to replace it with a fry, but dismissed this plot for being far too complicated.

"Maybe you should get a massage." His lips twitched when she glared up at him, apparently not thinking that her nerves were dangerous at all. Ruby was working today, and before he spoke again, he waited a few seconds until she was within earshot. "Or a pedicure."

It worked like a charm. One second, Belle was about to protest again, and then the next, their almost-naked waitress was scooting into the booth with her.

"Belle, he's totally right. I can't believe I didn't think of it. You deserve a mani-pedi for your big night."

Trapped between him and her friend, Belle seemed to deflate—which was doubly good, because she reached for a fry without looking, and popped it into her mouth.

"Bring us the check?" he asked, knowing he had won. "And a box for her."

Ruby gave him the same annoyed look that she gave him every time he spoke—the same look her grandmother gave him, as well—and got up, assuring Belle that she would get off work as soon as they were all paid up. He was glad that they rarely managed to catch her working.

"I guess I'm getting my nails done," she said, and pulled out her phone.

After a brief flare-up of jealousy over whoever she was texting while she was with him, he realized that she wasn't texting, but checking her bank statement. He felt a stab of guilt somewhere behind his sternum. Before she could finish, he was checking his own wallet, thumbing through the bills.

"How much is it?" he asked.

"Hmm?" She looked up, pushing some buttons on her confusing, young-person phone, and then stuffed it in her purse. "Oh, it's fine. I can swing it."

"Didn't you just buy a new dress?"

"Well, yes, but it was forty percent off." She eyed his hands at the wallet, and he tried not to focus on her while he searched through his mental catalogue of businesses in the town. He was certain that he at least owned a salon—now he just had to draw up the price list in his head.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He couldn't remember the list, so he pulled a crisp hundred out of his wallet, and pushed it toward her. Somehow, she paled more. He pushed it closer.

"Dr. Gold, no. I can pay for myself."

"I know you can," he said, though he was not sure of this at all. "Consider this my gift to you."

"But you've already given me so much—"

"Well, this is a practical gift." He wasn't sure what he was saying anymore. He was getting a little antsy about the hundred just lying on their table—not that he thought anyone would steal from him, but if anyone saw Belle take it, she might have a problem.

"How?" She folded her arms, looking like a cross librarian. He tried to ignore the tingle that crept along his neck.

"If you're so nervous tonight that you throw up, it'll reflect poorly on me. I need you to relax so that I look better."

This was a lie, and he knew that she knew it was a lie—no one would even think to relate Belle to him, and if anyone did, they would think her nerves justified—but her features softened nonetheless.

"Fine." She pulled the bill over to her with something akin to reverence, as though she had never seen one before. Perhaps she hadn't.

"There's a salon a few streets down. I'm sure Miss Lucas knows it—Envy or something. They'll treat you well. And I don't want change." He didn't relish paying for Ruby as well, but he hoped that Belle knew he intended for her to. She nodded at his assertion, meeting his eyes, and he told himself that he saw a flicker of understanding. He wasn't sure when he had decided that they could communicate telepathically, but he needed to believe it.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Gold. Ruby's waving to me, so I'll see you tonight, okay? Seven?"

He nodded. "Seven."

He was expecting her to get out of the booth and walk away. Instead, she got out of the booth, walked over to his side, and pecked him on the cheek. He was still sitting in shocked silence when she and Ruby walked out, and it almost made him forget to call the salon, and tell them to take the leftover cost of two manicures and pedicures with the works out of next month's rent.

Short of wearing a tux, Gold wasn't sure how he would be able to showcase that he was trying to look nice for Belle's special night. Since he was never seen in anything other than a suit, wearing a suit would just make him look like he didn't care.

He wandered through his walk-in closet for over an hour, trying on and discarding shirt after shirt, tie after tie, vest after vest. He reminded himself a bit of his ex-wife, on the rare occasions she was convinced to go out with him and wanted his opinion.

"God," he said, throwing a shirt over his mirror before he was tempted to punch it. "She's turning me into a woman."

Eventually, he decided that the only way to look like he cared was to dress with care, considering what it was that Belle would think was special. As a pawnbroker, he knew more than anyone that monetary value was never as great as personal value, so perhaps he was looking at the wrong section of his wardrobe. He had pulled a selection of his most expensive items out of his closet, trying various designer combinations to see if he could strike gold, and he was amazed that it took him this long to consider that a display of his wealth would not make Belle feel special, as if he had tried for her.

Instead, he turned his attention to his dresser. It wasn't large, since most of his clothing hung in the closet, and its main purpose was for housing all of the things that appeased his vanity—like his cologne and his comb. He didn't have jewelry like a woman had jewelry, but he had a selection of handsome metal things with which he adorned himself, though only his ring was an everyday piece. His valet box—which was more ornate than his wife's jewelry box had been—was not his destination today. There was one thing that he kept elsewhere, to keep it safe in the event he was robbed.

The catch to the top drawer on his dresser had given him troubles when he'd first purchased it, but now tripping it was as easy as opening any other drawer. He had some important papers there, but what he wanted was the small box in the back. Inside was the one pair of cufflinks that he never wore, because he was terrified he would lose them. They were golden fleur-de-lis links, inlaid with dark teal swirls, and they were the last thing his son ever bought him. He was seventeen, and he'd saved up lawn mowing money and his own allowance to be able to afford this gift for the father who didn't deserve it. Gold would never have worn a blue cufflink, but as soon as he'd opened the box, he and his boy had gone out in search of a matching tie.

After his closet adventure, he'd ended up in a light grey silk shirt, and not much else. This would match the cufflinks, and he was pleased to have made a decision. He only had about half an hour to spare. Glad that no one was there to see his private ritual—and only mildly confused as to why he would even consider that factor—he pressed his lips to each cufflink before attaching it. Next came the charcoal waistcoat, the matching silk tie, and the solid black pants and jacket. His pocket square was gold, because he couldn't help indulging himself on occasion, and he slipped his ring on before going to check himself in the mirror. All of his folds were in place, his suit was tailored to fit him exactly as it should, and there was nothing more to do but put on cologne and shoes.

By the time he got to Ballroom C, he was confident. No one else would notice that he had put effort into his appearance, but he just knew that Belle would be able to see it, and that was what mattered. She wasn't there yet, but he was a little bit early, so he busied himself with making sure that the flowers he'd brought were perfect. He'd wanted to get her a dozen red roses, but that had seemed too forward, and too un-professorial. Instead, he got her a mixed bouquet, the roses ranging from gold to peach to light pink, with a solitary red rose tucked into the side. He had researched all rose color meanings to make sure that, in case Belle knew them, there would be no wrong impressions—the one red rose would not be enough to cancel out the whole bouquet's friendship feel.

There were a lot of familiar faces, and he was not the only one with a bouquet. He saw Dr. Hopper standing with Mary Margaret, carrying carnations. Her cubicle mate, Jefferson, was standing around in a top hat with his daughter. Clusters of students that he recognized as being in his class were there, standing with clusters of students that must have been in hers. He counted two bouquets among them. He couldn't tell if it made him nervous or jealous to see that so many people had come to support her with blatant displays of affection, but he quelled any emotion that wasn't indifference, and stared at the door to wait for her to come through it. The event started at seven, and it was almost time, but he had the feeling that, if she was with Ruby, she would be late. It didn't matter, because she wouldn't be reading until eight or so, but it played with his already-frayed nerves like a cat batting at string.

The mayor was in the corner, talking to her pet reporter. He didn't think it was normal for city officials to attend such an event, but perhaps, during the anti-pimp seminar, she, too, had taken a shine to Belle. He filed it away as odd, but explainable, and returned his gaze to the entrance.

Were any of these people her father? He allowed his gaze to dart away from the door every few seconds. Would he know her father if he saw him? Would he just be a taller, older, male version of Belle? He couldn't imagine Belle sharing features with any man, but maybe they had the same blue eyes, or the same symmetric nose. He tried not to think about needing to make a good first impression. It didn't matter what Belle's father thought of him.

Regina was trying to catch his eye—she was not subtle when she decided to stare—and he allowed his attention to flicker to her just enough for her to know that he had seen her. Then, her gaze went back to Sidney, and the doors opened and Belle stepped through, and Gold was ninety-eight percent certain that his heart stopped beating.

She was with Ruby, as he'd suspected, who was wearing about what'd he'd suspected—tiny red dress, huge red heels, a lot of red makeup. The only reason he noticed her was because she was impeding his view of Belle. He could still see enough, though, to know that she looked thousands of times more beautiful than any person had a right to look. His heart stuttered back to life, and now it refused to beat at any sort of normal pace, no matter how tightly he clutched his cane. He drew on a lifetime of stoic looks to make sure that no one could see what he was thinking.

Belle was wearing a black lace boat-neck dress, whose hem scalloped out modestly at her knees. Underneath the lace was a slip of color, the exact same color in Gold's tie and cufflinks. Her curls were piled on top of her head, two tendrils snaking down to frame her face, and he was sure that he had never been more thrilled to see anyone's bare neck. He wasn't close enough to see anything else, but he appeased himself with the knowledge that she would come to him as soon as she got her bearings.

Then, she walked past him to Mary Margaret, not even sparing him a glance. Had she not seen him? Perhaps he had made himself too scarce in his corner. He tried to put himself in her line of sight, but it was useless, and he felt like a schoolboy with a crush. He should just go up to her—he was her professor, after all, and it was completely normal—but he couldn't bring himself to move. Instead, he waited, staring at the expanse of back revealed by the not-quite-immodest dip of her dress, each minute crawling by and adding agony to agony to agony, while she greeted Mary Margaret and Dr. Hopper and Jefferson and anyone who came up to her.

He was giving in to despair, determining that he would go to the bar and get himself a scotch instead of waiting to buy her a drink as well, when she looked over her shoulder and their eyes met. His first thought was that she would glare, angry with him for retreating to his corner when everyone else was being so forthcoming, but he had forgotten that she was Belle, and that she was accustomed to him being antisocial. She flashed him a wide smile, and then turned away.

Seconds later, she had excused herself from the group and was shouldering her way through the growing crowd over to him. He knew that this shouldn't have made his heart pound, that his lips shouldn't have curved up in the smile he saved only for Belle—she was his student, and it was his job to be professional and advise her.

And then he saw that both her fingers and toes were painted gold, and what little control he had over his thoughts exploded.

"Oh, Dr. Gold, I'm so glad to see you!" She didn't hug him, but that was okay, because she had chosen to stand with him over her friends.

"You look—" There were so many things he wanted to say—'beautiful,' 'amazing,' 'delicious'—but all that he could stammer was, "—nice."

It was inadequate, but Belle's cherry lips broke into a smile anyway, and it looked like she wanted to laugh.

"You look nice, too. And it appears that we match." She reached forward to run a finger along his tie, adjusting it at the knot, and his heart flapped against his ribcage like a canary having a seizure. Needing something to do, he brandished his bouquet at her.

"Is there a place for these? It looks as though you're getting quite the collection."

Her hands flew to her mouth, and based on his observations gleaned by stalking her from the moment she entered, this was the only bouquet that had caused her this much pleasure. He couldn't help feeling smug, and he was certain that it crept into his grin.

Then, she hit him on the shoulder, and he jumped in surprise.

"I'm sorry, did you just hit me for buying you flowers?" He rested his hands on his cane, giving her his annoyed-professor look. She returned it with her hands on her hips.

"Stop buying me things. You're spoiling me. I'm surprised you even let me buy my own dress."

Feeling smug again, he shrugged, glancing away so that he could remain aloof. Looking at her face was making him grin too much—a terrible sign for his liquor cabinet once they parted for the night. "I can't help it, dearie. I've no one else to spoil." He hoped that he didn't sound like a doting father—he even considered praying that she didn't think of him that way.

She flattened her lips at him, but reached for the roses anyway. "Well, thank you. I'll just go—"

"Hello, Raphael."

If Belle had warmed him up, this voice just broke a barrel of ice over him. What he wanted to do was throw Belle behind him, or crush her against his side so that he was sure she was there and safe and with him. Instead, he looked at the ground, a mirthless smile playing at the corners of his lips.

It didn't matter that he hadn't heard that voice in person for over a decade. He would know it anywhere. When he looked up, turning on the balls of his feet, he was unsurprised to see his ex-wife standing there. She was the same as she'd always been, just a little older, and a little less sad looking. She had no right to look less sad, but he supposed that, with Belle standing there, he didn't look as sad as he ought to, either.

"Milah," he all but growled. Belle was still standing there, clutching her roses and looking from face to face in confusion. He let his hand hover over the small of her back, resting it heavily on her bare skin when she inched closer to him. It calmed him down to have her near, even though the circumstances weren't ideal.

"How have you been?" She was holding a glass of red wine, and he noted with grim satisfaction that there were no rings on any of her fingers.

He could tell she was making an effort at being civil, but he was not so good as to play along.

"What are you doing here?" The last time he'd seen her face, she was screaming that he was coward, that she hated him, that she never wanted to see his disgusting face again. Why had she sought him out?

Belle, however, was having none of this. He was almost afraid that she was going to hit him with the flowers, but instead, she elbowed him in the ribs. Even that made him want to wrap his arms around her, but he kept still other than to flick her a dark look. His gaze stayed otherwise on Milah, who was watching with narrowed eyes.

"Where are your manners? He's fine," Belle said. She turned to his ex-wife, and offered her hand. He had the urge to bat it down, not wanting Milah to taint perfect, innocent, beautiful Belle with her scaly snake-touch. "I'm Isabelle Blue, and he would also like to know how you are."

Perhaps she sensed that calling herself Belle Blue would make her sound ridiculous in front of the snake-woman, and Gold was glad that he was the only one in this little conversation who would get to call her that.

"Milah." She reached out and shook her hand, and he could see that Belle's grip was much firmer. "Milah Gold."

For a second, he thought that Belle had stopped breathing. She slid her hand out of Milah's, and seemed to shrink against the hand he had braced on her back. Milah already struck a more impressive figure—tall and square, she had a good four inches on Belle, even in heels—and now his Belle, who had already tamed the beast, was shying away from the gorgon.

"Sister?" she asked, and he thought she almost looked hopeful. Milah folded her arms, looking Belle up and down. He wanted to stand in front of her as her human shield.

"Ex-wife. Girlfriend?"

"Enough," he said, unsure of where the power in his voice came from. He may have been a coward, but he wasn't going to let Belle suffer at the tongue of a serpent. He curled his fingers against her hip, but not far enough around that Milah could see. "What do you want Milah? What did you come here for?"

"I was invited." She took a sip of her wine while he frowned.

"Invited? By who? This is just a reading." He would apologize to Belle for that later.

"The mayor. She's hiring my firm to design the new City Hall."

"And you came all the way back to Storybrooke for that?" He didn't believe this. He did, however, believe that Regina had invited her. It would explain her presence at this arbitrary event.

"I came because she asked me to, and because I decided to come see Baden."

His stomach made a valiant effort to escape through his knees, but he thought he kept his composure. How could she look at him so steadily when, with a single word, she had him reeling? Why wasn't she reeling, too? He tightened his grip on Belle, who was looking between the two of them with her tongue between her lips—her puzzled-and-thinking look.

"You mean his grave?" His voice came out in a hiss, and he felt Belle's arm slip around his waist. He wanted to care what this would look like to other people, but he couldn't bring himself to.

Milah closed her eyes. "Yes. His grave."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Why? You've never visited it before. Why now?"

"Well, perhaps I'd have visited it if I'd been able to attend the—"

He could tell this was about to get vicious, so he whirled on Belle before Milah could say 'funeral,' biting her name out between gritted teeth.

"Yes?" She still had her arm on him, but he let his slide off of her so that he could reach for his wallet. Too frustrated to count out bills, he just handed her the whole thing.

"Here. Get me a Lagavulin. Neat. And get yourself something, too."

"Yes, sir," she said, though she looked startled, and he had to wave the wallet in her face before she reached forward and took it. "A what neat?"

"Lagavulin, dear," Milah said. He wanted to strangle her. "Don't you drink scotch?"

Gold closed his eyes. "Just get me a Johnnie Walker Blue. Neat."

"Right," she said, keeping her eyes away from Milah. "I'll be right back."

When he turned around again, Milah was holding her elbow to keep her wine hand supported. He'd recognize the look in her eyes any day—she was getting ready to pick a fight. Now that Belle was gone, he could take her.

"So, your little chippie calls you 'Sir,' does she?"

He clenched his teeth, counting to three because that was the highest number he could reach before his silence became unusual.

"She is my student." He refused to refute her 'chippie' comment. He would only be able to use words like 'perfect' and 'pure' and 'beautiful,' which wouldn't help his case much.

"So you've finally done it. I always knew you would end up coercing yourself a girlfriend." She took a sip of wine, and he wanted to knock it into her face. Instead, he clutched his cane.

"She is just my student. The only grad student I happen to be advising." If he poisoned her, would anybody notice?

"Do you get flowers for all your students?" she asked, and the look on her face told him that she was sure of her win. This one, however, he had in the bag.

"I do when they get published, and there is a city-wide event coordinated in their honor." He gestured to the small stage at the front of the ballroom, and Milah followed his gaze.

He was about to gloat, when someone else said Milah's name. It was male, which meant that it wasn't Regina, but he couldn't think who else would know her, and he did recognize it. When he turned and saw who it was, he was too baffled to feel the familiar rush of rage along his spine. How did Killian Jones know his ex-wife?

Milah, for her part, looked uncomfortable. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that he was sure her teeth were clenched, and she had wrapped her fingers around the elbow they were supporting.

"Hello, Killian," she said. Gold looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed. Jones was wearing a suit similar to his, though it was clear that it wasn't as well-tailored, and it was all black. He looked like a pirate about to play with his favorite toy.

"Haven't seen you in awhile." He stepped closer to her, while Gold looked between the two of them, trying not to appear as though he were doing so. What was going on?

"How many years has it been?" Milah asked. They sounded like old lovers, but Gold pushed that thought down. Milah was at least ten years his senior.

He felt a small pang when he considered that he was certainly more than ten years older than Belle.

"Three," Jones said, taking a sip of his own red wine. "Too long."

Why were they both even here? Gold considered slipping away, for once okay with the fact that his wife thought he was a coward, since this fact would keep him from this conversation, but then there was a glass being pressed into his hand from behind, and his fingers brushed Belle's.

He started to murmur his thanks to her, but it was lost when she spotted Jones, and gasped in delight.

"Hook!"

"Belle!"

And then, because the universe just wanted to make his night as miserable as possible, she all but leapt into his arms, careful to keep both of their glasses from spilling. Gold fixed his eyes on a point to everyone's left, focusing all his willpower on not downing the scotch in one go.

"Oh, Gold, I didn't see you there," Jones said. Gold looked up at him, sure that he was wearing his blankest look, and said nothing. "Must be because you're so slight."

"Behave," Belle said, taking a sip of her pink wine. He was certain that Milah would mention that later, but he had no time to think of that, because his brain was about to short-circuit. Jones had his arm around Belle's waist, hand splayed over her hip, touching all of the places that were his to touch. He wanted her to rip herself away, tell him that he had no right to put his hands anywhere near her person, but she seemed content to stand in his grip. Was Jones here as her date?

"I'm so glad you came." Belle squeezed his side, and Gold was forced to grip his cane.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, love."

She had been lying when she said they only met at the diner—he was sure of it. He wanted to walk away, or beat someone with his cane, but instead he stood there, forcing out slow sips of his scotch until Belle gasped. He looked up, pushing down the hope that Jones had done something punishably wrong, and Belle was squinting at something far behind him.

"Is that—" She slid out from Jones' arm, coming around to rest a hand on Gold's elbow while she continued to squint.

"Yes, Miss Blue?" Speaking was all he trusted himself to do, since he was afraid that he would grab her and whisk her away if he gave himself control over his own motor functions.

"There's a man over there that looks like—but it can't—"

He tried to follow her gaze. It seemed to be focused on a portly, slouching man, carrying a colorful bouquet of pansies. He didn't have any of Belle's features, but he looked like he could match the voice Gold heard over the phone—jerking his neck around like he feared being attacked, clutching the flowers like they were the only thing that could save him.

"It can't?" He couldn't keep the low growl out of his voice. He was too anxious to see what she thought.

With a squeak, and a final squeeze to his elbow, Belle darted off, leaving him with Milah and Jones. This time, however, he knew that he was going to leave, so he turned to them with his most pleasantly unpleasant half-smile, resting one hand on his cane, and then the scotch over his hand.

"Well, I trust you'll both have a nice evening. Alone." If he'd had a hat, he would have tipped it, but since he didn't, he just inclined his head and pivoted away.

Milah caught his arm. "Raphael," she hissed. He closed his eyes and counted to three.

"What?" He refused to look at her, instead searching out Belle. He spotted her with the man, who looked nervous no more.

"I didn't come over to pick a fight with you." She removed her hand from his arm, but made no move to come stand in his line of sight, for which he was grateful.

"Oh?" He didn't care. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care.

Except he did care, which was why he hadn't just walked away yet. He may never have loved Milah, and she may never have loved him, but they had been married for a long time, and she was the mother of his son, and he couldn't just walk away without knowing what it was she wanted to say.

"I came to make amends."

He let out a chuckle, more of a mocking gesture than an amused one, and glanced at her. She'd said her piece, and he felt a like a tiny weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was, by no means, the sort of groveling he'd imagined for so long, a fantasy that kept him sane after Baden's funeral, but it would do, because he didn't have time for groveling. Belle was just across the room.

"I'm not interested in amends." Before she could say more, he was walking away, sipping at his scotch to keep the impish grin off his face.

By the time he reached Belle, he was sure that he looked reasonably stoic and normal. All he needed to do now was make sure that he made a good impression on her father, and he would consider this a good night.

Before he could introduce himself, Belle had launched herself at him, and he felt the base of her wine glass clink between his shoulder blades as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He staggered backwards, gripping his cane, but Belle planted her feet and steadied him before he had to.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Gold!" She squeezed him, and he tried not to shiver when her nose brushed a ticklish spot on his neck. He wrapped his free arm around her, patting the small of her back. Why did she have to expose so much skin? Her father would think he was an old creep, touching his daughter's bare back.

"For what?" He was still holding on to the idea that Moe hadn't told her about their correspondence, but her arms around him told him that this was futile.

"You know what." She squeezed him once more before taking a step back, and he felt a cold rush of air filling her empty space. She took up her place at her father's side, looping an arm through his and leaning into his belly.

"You must be Mr. Blue," Gold said, switching his cane to his drink hand to offer the right one to shake.

"Dr. Gold." Moe wrung his hand, shaking his arm up and down with clumsy enthusiasm. "I can't thank you enough for bringing me here. Truly, this is the best gift anyone could give a father." He leaned over and kissed Belle's forehead.

"It was no trouble at all." He wanted to pull his hand away, but Belle's flushed cheeks and smile kept him polite.

"Well," she said, gently prying her father's hand out of his. She knew him so well. "I've got lots of people to introduce him to, so we'll see you in a bit, okay?"

Had anyone else asked him this question, he'd have assumed they were making their polite exit, with no intention of reconvening. Belle, however, was searching his eyes, like she was looking for his answer there before he had the chance to speak.

"I'll save a table," he assured her.

After replenishing his scotch, he did save a table. He wished that it just had three chairs, but all of them seemed to have at least twelve, and so he couldn't really be picky. Her guests trickled in and sat one by one, and only Jefferson made any attempt at conversation. Gold chose instead to speak with his daughter, who looked to be about ten, and who was much more endearing than her father—though he supposed that he owed Jefferson for being annoying enough to drive Belle into his office all the time.

Jones did join them, but Milah did not, and for that, he was grateful. The other man sat between Ruby and Mary Margaret, and didn't even try to make eye contact. Belle ended up between him and her father, but she was only sitting for about thirty seconds before a man took the stage to introduce her. For once, Gold didn't even try to keep the pride out of his face, or the grin from playing at the corners of his lips.

It dropped, however, when Moe leaned toward him under the cover of everyone's polite clapping, and whispered, "I see the way you look at her, Dr. Gold, and I'm warning you—don't get any ideas about my little girl."

By the time Gold had processed that his gift was threatening him, Moe was back in his seat, looking like he was about to burst with pride watching his daughter. He didn't know how to respond—he wanted to deny that he was looking at Belle in any particular way, but he also was not about to allow a man who owed him a debt of gratitude push him around.

In the end, there wasn't much that he could say, because Belle took her place at the podium and his attention was riveted.

"Um, hello," she said, giving a self-conscious chuckle. He could see her clenching the lip of the podium between her fingers, and he wished he could stand behind her and whisper encouragements.

"I wasn't expecting such a large audience—they told me no one really comes to these things." There was a forced chuckle around the audience and Belle paled. She glanced at their table, and he smiled at her. This seemed to give her confidence, and she straightened up with a new glint in her eyes.

"Oh, I know, did Dr. Gold threaten all of you to be here?"

This got an actual laugh from the crowd, and he tried not to scowl as everyone moved around to search for him. Jefferson reached over his daughter's head to clap him on the shoulder. Belle smiled at him.

"So, anyway, I'm going to start reading now, because I don't think it really needs much preamble." She paused just long enough to shuffle some papers in front of her, then she adjusted the microphone and began.

Her voice was clear and strong, and Gold was certain that it would have carried even without the microphone. As nervous as she'd been, he was surprised that she could sound so confident, like she had been reading her work for audiences her entire life. The story was about a florist, and he felt Moe jump when this detail was revealed. He hoped that this was where the similarities to real life ended. The protagonist was lonely, and had trouble interacting with people, so Gold assumed that Belle—sweet, innocent Belle—would write a story about him finding hope and love and kindness.

But it seemed that, either his sweet, innocent Belle knew that those sorts of stories did not get published in prestigious magazines, or that she wasn't the sweet, innocent writer he would have believed her to be. It had all the grotesqueness of a southern gothic novel, written in the poetic lyricism that he would have expected from Belle. By the end of the story, the main character had both robbed a grave, and killed the woman with whom he'd been flirting. Moe's jaw was sagging, as was everyone's in the room.

Not his, though. He could no more keep the proud, impish grin from his face than Belle could keep from being amazing, and if he hadn't known before, he certainly knew now that he was hopelessly, insanely, irrevocably in love with her.