A/N: Thanks everyone for your nice words! :D Uhhhh this chapter is lengthy. Like I-went-a-little-crazy lengthy. enjoy?
Gold didn't even have to think about his answer to that question, but in hindsight, saw that he probably should have.
"No, I don't want to come up," he said, wrinkling his nose. He realized this may have come out wrong when Belle stilled. Her eyes glassed over, and her shoulders looked like they were making a huge effort not to let her crumple.
"Oh." Her voice sounded like a ghost.
"Because," he hastened to add, "I don't even want you to go up there. This neighborhood is dangerous. You could die here, and no one would ever know."
Belle only looked slightly less saddened by this, and her eyebrows drew together. "So, I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
No. No, he didn't want to see her tomorrow. He wanted to keep seeing her, forever. This was like the moment she'd denied his invitation in the cemetery, but she'd had much better reasons than he did now. Then, he had been vulnerable, and she had been in a relationship, and her father had been in town. Now, she was single, he had spent the whole evening with her, and she was all but giving him permission to stay the night—because he knew that, if he got up there, he wasn't leaving until morning, even if all he did was watch her sleep like a deranged stalker.
"Why don't you come with me?" he asked, and when she just blinked, scrambled for something more to say. "I'll take you home whenever you're ready."
He hoped Belle wouldn't want him to, because that was a big fat lie. It had the desired effect, though, and her face softened.
"Okay. Let me just run up and get changed into something warmer?"
Changed. She was getting changed. That had to mean that she intended to stay awhile, right? "Of course," he said, clutching at his coat to keep his hands from quaking.
"All right. I'll be back in a minute." She bolted from the car before he could offer her his coat again, sprinting up a flight of stairs to an apartment on the second floor. He made note of the number—621—and then sat back to make sure no one threatening was out and about.
When Jones had appeared in his doorway that afternoon—had it really only been that afternoon?—he had been prepared to ignore him. Even receiving monthly checks from the man, Gold had no sympathy or affection for him, especially not once he had seen him with Belle. Jones was a life ruiner, and Gold had been convinced that he'd forced Belle to be with him just to get even.
His first plan had been to just sit in his study and continue to brood with his scotch and his violent novels, and he thought this was working. Jones had spent a few minutes knocking on the door without reprieve, but it had quieted, and Gold had relaxed.
Then, Jones had started up the ringing. There were few sounds that Gold hated more than doorbells, half because the noise itself was annoying, and half because it meant that someone dared interrupt his solitude.
He endeavored to ignore the persistent ringing, but it seemed that Jones had more patience with being annoying than Gold had with accepting annoying things, and he soon found himself clunking down the stairs with clenched teeth. When he flung the door open, he was prepared to growl and threaten with his cane, but he found himself pausing after one look at Jones. Instead of his usual cocksure saunter, he was shifting from foot to foot, twisting a ring around his finger over and over, chewing on his cheek.
It was some scraps of pity dragged up from the depths of his black heart that kept him from slamming the door. If Jones was coming to him for help, it meant he had hit rock bottom. He had tried not to think that the younger man was coming to him for romantic advice about Belle.
"What do you want?"
"To explain." Jones swallowed, and then looked him straight in the eye. "And apologize."
Gold had found himself unable to speak, and so had urged him to continue with a wave of his hand. He had explained that Belle's bed had broken in the middle of the night, so she'd needed a new one, and he had a truck that would make transportation easier. At the end of his story, he apologized for allowing his grudge against Gold to get in the way of Belle's happiness, and then all but got down on his knees to beg him to come to her birthday dinner.
Even so, he almost hadn't gone. He did trust what Jones had said, but that didn't change the fact that he had spent the past two days mired in a sadness so thick, he'd almost cancelled his classes to stay in bed. He was a coward through and through, and as terrified as he'd been to see Belle after the bed fiasco, he was even more terrified to see her after avoiding her.
In the end, he'd decided that what scared him the most was Jones telling her that he'd stopped by, and Belle being disappointed. Also, he had spent a small fortune on her present, and he needed to give it to her, even if it killed him.
She had left the necklace in the car. He didn't know if this meant something—like maybe she actually hated it and didn't even want to bring it into her apartment—or if she'd just forgotten it in her haste to find something warmer. Or maybe it was a subtle signal that she intended to spend more time around him, and so could leave precious objects in his care.
He could ask her in a few seconds. She was power-walking down the stairs, clutching something in her right fist, and her purse strap in her left. She looked all around, like she was checking for hidden cameras, and didn't acknowledge his car at all. He frowned. Had she forgotten where it was?
No, it seemed not, because even though she never looked at him, her path went in his direction, and he made sure the door was unlocked. She was wearing jeans now, and boots, with a burgundy coat he hadn't seen before, and a scarf and gloves. Her purse seemed to have doubled in size. When she plopped into the car, she had to work to wedge it in the space in front of her. There was something black in her right hand.
"What are you carrying?" He waved his hand toward the black thing.
She glanced at her hand. "Oh, this? It's just pepper spray. I've never had to use it, but better safe than sorry, right?"
His teeth clenched. No one would argue against him if he decided that he was never bringing her back here again.
"Of course."
She bent over to stuff it into her purse while he started the car. By the time he was turning to look behind him and make sure it was safe to back out, she was watching him with wide blue doe eyes, chewing her lip. He waited until he was going straight, and could devote actual attention to her, before turning and raising an eyebrow. She didn't speak, just flashed all of her teeth.
"Yes, darling?" he asked. When had he gotten so comfortable calling her that? It didn't matter. It wasn't like he could stop now.
"It occurs to me that I haven't had a cake today."
He glanced at her. She looked shifty, like she expected him to deny this fact, and subsequently to deny her a cake. Of course he wouldn't do that. First thing in the morning, he'd call every bakery in town.
"They put a candle in an éclair at the restaurant."
She didn't look pleased by this observation, lips flattening and nose wrinkling. "But I can't share an éclair with anyone."
"From where I was sitting—which was right next to you—it seemed like everyone was sharing."
"Yeah, and I only got one bite of my birthday dessert. How is that fair?" She stuck her lower lip out, and he chuckled.
"I'll get a cake tomorrow morning. You can bring it to the office."
"No need!"
This worried him. It worried him even more when Belle dived into her bag, but he tried to keep his eyes on the empty road, and his hands on the wheel. She popped up seconds later with a red box.
"And why's that?" he asked, unable to shake the feeling that he should be scared of the box that he could only see out of his periphery.
"We can bake a cake!" She tilted the box so that he could see it better. It had a piece of chocolate cake on the front, and Devil's Food across the top in loopy script.
"Belle, do you know what time it is?"
"Of course. It's the perfect time to bake a cake. This is when I get all of my baking done."
He rubbed his forehead. He knew he wouldn't say no, and Belle seemed to know, too, because she hopped in her seat when he sighed out his resignation.
"What else have you got in that bag?" He glanced at her.
"Oh, the same thing every woman has in her bag." She flashed him a grin while she leaned down to put the mix away.
"Tissues and chocolate?"
"Please. It's not my PMS purse," she said, shaking her head at him.
"So what's in there, then?"
She looked at him, eyes narrowed enough to make him think this might be something serious, that she was ending their banter because she had some horrible truth to reveal. He tried to focus on the road instead of looking at her with increasing alarm, waiting for her to speak.
"Well?"
"Secrets," she said. "And bricks."
Was he supposed to laugh or scoff? He settled for rolling his eyes, and pressing his lips together. He couldn't do much more than that when she was smiling like she was.
"All right, fine. You're lucky I've still got cake pans."
"Perfect," Belle said, settling back in her seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pick up the Tiffany box, lifting the lid to trace the pendant. "Oh, and I didn't have any icing, so we'll have to make some."
What had he gotten himself into? "Fine."
"You've got butter, right?"
"I think so."
"And powdered sugar?"
"Of course not." He glanced at her. "Why would I have powdered sugar?"
She closed the box, and looked at him sideways. "Why wouldn't you? It's a baking staple."
"Belle, I've been a single man for twelve years, and lived alone for six. Do you really think that I keep my kitchen stocked with 'baking staples?'"
"Well, then we'll just have to go to the store. You have vegetable oil, right?"
Gold sighed through his nostrils, teeth clenched. When had the night become a quest for cake ingredients? He just wanted to bring her back to his place, and have his wicked way with her—though, that was unlikely to happen no matter what.
Oh, well. As long as he got to spend time with her, he supposed it didn't matter what they did.
"That I do. Eggs, even."
"Vanilla?"
"Think about that one."
She huffed. "Fine, we'll get that, too." She pulled out her phone and poked some things on the screen before she started to type. "Anything else? You said yes to the butter, right?"
"Mm."
"All right, I've got the list ready." She waved her phone at him, looking more excited than he was sure anyone other than Belle had ever looked while in an enclosed space with him
This was how he found himself pulling into the Dark Star Pharmacy, the only store he could think of that was open at this time. It wasn't a grocery store, but it had the basics, and he hoped that this covered whatever it was that Belle had decided they needed.
He soon found himself being tugged by the forearm toward the small baking section. There wasn't any vanilla, but Belle found a box of powdered sugar the size of a small child, and lugged it off the shelf. He wished he could help her, but as soon as he tried to lift an awkwardly shaped heavy thing, he knew his leg would embarrass him, so he settled for keeping a bracing hand on her back while they walked to the register. On his way, he plucked a package of birthday candles off a shelf.
"Wait, hang on." She veered left, nearly knocking both of them over. "As long as we're here, I need some ibuprofen."
He allowed her to lead him to the pharmacy section of the drugstore, preparing himself for the fight they would have when she tried to pay for everything, and he forced his credit card on her. Then, all of these thoughts flew out the window, because on the opposite side of the painkiller aisle was a head of shiny brown hair that he recognized.
Not only did he recognize the head, but he recognized the section as the only one without a name, the one that was frequented by the frat boys and high schoolers. It was the section in which Gold, over a decade ago, had purchased a box of condoms, and now it was where Regina Mills was wandering with her head bent.
"All right, I've got it." Belle wagged a box in his face, and instead of responding, he placed two fingers over her lips. When she frowned in confusion, he placed his other index finger over his own, and tilted his head toward the top of Regina's.
Belle probably didn't recognize her, since she had far less practice than Gold did, but she at least realized that he didn't want to be heard, and so allowed him to shush her. He removed his hand when Regina started for the register, and motioned for Belle to follow him. With practiced silence, he limped up behind the mayor in line.
"Lovely evening, isn't it?" he asked.
In front of him, Regina tensed. He tried to keep the impish grin from his face, but it was so hard, especially when Regina made an obvious effort to keep her movements slow as she spun to face him.
"Indeed." She forced a smile, but he could see that her teeth were clenched behind it. He could also see the boxes on the counter, even though she had slid to hide them behind her before she could finish talking. One was, in fact, a box of Trojans—ribbed—and the other was something strawberry scented, that boasted to "heat and tingle on contact." He suspected oil.
"Plans?" he asked, flicking a glance toward the counter.
Regina's throat convulsed, and then she swung around to pay for her items. If she had been buying anything else, he knew that it would have been him in the hot seat—coming into a drugstore to buy sugar with an attractive woman half his age was just asking for trouble—but, in her embarrassment, she didn't even seem to see Belle.
When Regina started to stalk away, Belle hefted the box onto the counter. He saw her start to pull her wallet out, muting her movements like she knew he would stop her and so was trying to hide them, but he had his card on the counter much faster.
"Have fun!" he called after Regina as she skittered out, satisfied that he had both kept Belle from spending money and humiliated the mayor, all in one fell swoop.
Belle watched with her arms folded as he signed the receipt, accepting his card from Mr. Clark. He was able to carry the bag, since it had handles, and he all but snatched it out of her grasp when she reached for it, and then hurried to his car before she could attempt to take it out of his hands.
"What was that all about?"
"You didn't really expect me to let you buy me sugar?" he asked, having to half bend inside the car to get the bag in the backseat without upsetting his knee.
"No, not that—with the mayor."
"Oh, that." He closed the door, unable to keep the glee from spreading across his face. He was glad that Belle looked amused, because he was afraid that this would be one of those things she felt the need to fix about him. "It was just the perfect way to get back at her for inviting my ex-wife to Storybrooke."
Belle frowned, and he was afraid that she was going to scold him—not that he ever really minded when she did. "How? You hardly said two words to each other."
His grin grew. "You didn't see what she was buying, then?" She shook her head, and he turned so that he could chuckle to himself while he walked to his door. "Let's just say that she was buying two things—one ribbed for her pleasure, and one strawberry-flavored."
He glanced at her, and she had her lips pressed together, eyes creased in amusement.
"Oh my," she said, and then pressed her hand over her mouth to cover her escaping snickers.
"This might be the best day of my life." This, mixed with Belle's laughter, had him dancing backwards into the driver's seat before he could realize it, and stop himself. This only seemed to delight Belle more, though, and she lingered by his side for a few seconds, watching him with a smile that mirrored his own.
When they pulled up to his house, Gold was glad that it was the middle of the night. She'd be able to see that his house was light, with blue trim, but not that it was pink, and then she wouldn't be able to make fun of him. Not that he was ashamed of the color of his house—he rather liked that it stood out, and looked like gingerbread—but he just didn't want to have to explain himself right then.
In fact, he wasn't sure that he could explain himself even if he'd wanted to. He had thought that he would be okay bringing Belle here, that it would make him happy and ease his mind to be near her, but all it had done was make him sweat. He wanted to run outside and shed his overcoat, and then his jacket, and then maybe his waistcoat and shirt because he didn't think either of those things would help the sweating, but then Belle would think she had gone home with a crazy man, and either call the police or demand that he take her home.
So, instead, he attempted to string some words together, thanking god that he was so good with them. "Well, here we are."
He chanced a look at her, and she was staring at the house, mouth open. Could she see the pink?
"Your house is huge."
He squeezed his thigh hard to keep his chuckles from erupting into relieved giggles. "Aye, that it is."
He realized, after about half a minute of silence, that he probably should have gotten out of the car. Now, however, the silence had stretched on for so long, he wasn't sure what to do. He and Belle both had their attention directed to the house, and neither of them moved. Should he break the silence? Would it be weird if he did?
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Belle asked, and instead of sounding teasing, her voice cracked. It eased his mind—she was nervous, too.
"No." He shook his head, drawing on all of the sarcasm inside of him. "I thought I'd leave you out here to freeze."
He got out of the car, surprised that Belle hadn't volleyed back, but when he turned to get his cane, found that she had instead just stolen it. He lifted an eyebrow.
"This is your way of retaliating? Stealing my cane?"
"It seems effective." She was looking up at him in a way that made both of his knees weak. Even with the cane, he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk.
"If your goal was to strand me at my car, then I suppose it is." He knew that he had already put more strain on his knee than he had put on it in years, but it was fine for the moment—tomorrow, or even just an hour or two from now, would be another story.
"I'll give you your cane back if you promise to help bake the cake."
He pressed a hand to his heart. "If that's all, then you have my word."
"Then, here. Grab the sugar, too?" She set his cane in his seat before lugging her purse up, and getting out.
He did as he was told, and was less surprised than he'd have liked to be that his hands were shaking. By the time he and Belle were walking side-by-side to the door, he couldn't put his hand on her back, because then she would feel his nerves. Instead, he gripped his cane in one hand, and the bag in the other, taking the lead to the door.
Gold had a lifetime of terrible ideas to look back on, but he was almost certain that this idea was his worst of all. It took him four tries to get his key into the lock, and he could tell that Belle wasn't looking because she knew, and wanted to be polite, not because she just happened to be looking elsewhere. He almost tripped inside when he finally got the door open, and when Belle reached out a hand to steady him, he kind of wished that he had tripped, and died.
"You have stained glass windows." Belle followed him in, sounding breathless and awestruck. This did much to soothe him.
"I do." He closed and locked the door behind her, then tried to settle his hands by being meticulous about taking off his coat and scarf. It was only when he'd finished, and moved to take Belle's coat from her, that he realized that she stood frozen in the entryway, mouth agape in what looked like horror. Gold's sweating came back.
"Belle?"
"Oh my god." She tilted her head left, looking like a robot moving on a screw.
He had too much saliva in his mouth. He was going to drown in a pool of saliva and sweat. "What's wrong?"
"Oh my god."
He couldn't speak, so he waited for her to make another visual circuit of the room, and then spin around to face him. She still looked horrified, but there was now a bit of the Belle he knew in there—she was getting ready to scold him.
"Oh my god, you are a hoarder."
The relief he felt at this pronouncement was short-lived, because he soon found himself indignant. "I am not a hoarder."
She waved her arms at the room, looking like a flapping, wine-colored flamingo. "What do you call all this, then?"
He looked around. Sure, his house was a bit cluttered, but it wasn't like it was cluttered with garbage. Belle was being unreasonable. "I'm not a hoarder," he repeated. "I'm a collector."
She took a few steps forward, peering through the doorway to the next room, which was also filled with delicate trinkets—also two antique pianos, but he hoped she didn't see those. With every step she took, she paused to look around, getting slowly closer to the room.
"The difference between 'collecting' and 'hoarding' is that one is a safe hobby, and the other is a compulsion. Your house looks like your shop."
"Well, they are both mine."
"Houses aren't supposed to look like pawn shops, Raphael."
"Says who?" He watched her, unable to decide whether he was amused or discouraged by her scolding. He went with amused—and a little bit turned on, but that wasn't an idea he wanted to explore at the moment.
He knew the moment that she saw the pianos, because she whirled around, arms folded. "Two pianos? Do you play?"
"I could."
"But do you?"
"I thought you wanted to bake a cake?"
She pursed her lips at him, but he could tell that she was hiding a smile, and this brought one twitching to the corners of his mouth. He limped over, setting the sugar down next to her before offering his hands.
"I'll take your coat."
"Thanks."
Gold was sure that she was taking longer than usual to remove her winter wear, but she was doing it in a way that looked so natural, he could find no way to mention it. She started with her gloves, plucking at each finger twice until she had them far enough down her hands that she could ease them off. Next went her scarf, which she unwound with careful precision before folding it into eighths. She placed both things in her purse, exchanging them for the cake mix, and then went to work undoing all eight buttons on her double-breasted coat. She was only taking off her outer layers, but Gold couldn't look away.
When she got her coat open, and dropped it down her shoulders, he almost collapsed on his useless, weak knees right there, in the foyer. Underneath it, she was wearing a sheer, burgundy sweater. There were people who he knew would have felt no shame wearing it with nothing underneath, baring skin and undergarments alike, but he would not have pegged Belle as one of those people. He knew, without a doubt, that had she worn this sweater in public, he would not have been able to see the clear outline of her dark bra, because she would have worn another shirt over it, or whatever women did to cover up under sheer shirts.
This could only mean two things—one, that she had dressed so quickly that she had forgotten, or two, that she had done it on purpose. Judging by the way she didn't react to seeing herself all but bared before him, he was inclined to suspect the latter.
"Kitchen is this way." His voice was hoarse, and the only thing keeping him from fleeing the scene was his knee and cane.
"I thought you were going to take my coat?" She held it out to him, and he swallowed.
"Right. Of course." He forced his lips to spread into a waxy smile as he accepted it. He turned away from her more than necessary to limp his way over to the coat rack, and then took too much time to hang it on the peg next to his. It helped settle his nerves. Kind of.
"You said the kitchen was this way?" she called, voice already sounding far off. Of course she had wandered away. She was Belle.
"Just keep walking, you'll find it."
When he turned around, he forced himself to be reasonable about seeing her again. It wasn't like the shirt had gaping holes, or was obviously meant to be worn over something else—it just happened to be thin enough that he could see through it at this moment. It was possible that, with a flesh-toned bra, he would never have noticed. She wasn't trying to seduce him. She had just been dressing with speed.
"Where do you keep your mixing bowls?"
"You didn't say anything about mixing bowls," he said, starting for the kitchen. His lips twitched at the yelp of distress that he'd expected her to make.
"You have to have one somewhere in your hoarder's nest!" she called, and he wondered that she hadn't just begun opening cabinets. Maybe she felt it was rude?
He limped silently up behind her. "Try the cabinet next to the bottom oven."
She let out an 'oh!' of surprise, whipping around to face him so abruptly, she almost fell over. He reached out to steady her, but she grabbed an oven handle instead. "Right. That's logical." She was watching him warily, eyes raking over his face, and it took her a few seconds to get back to normal, and bend to check the cabinets.
"Your kitchen is amazing, by the way. You don't deserve it."
"Oh? And how did you come to that conclusion?" He leaned against the kitchen island, above which hung all of his cast iron and stainless steel pots and pans. There were two ovens, one on top of the other, and all of the counter tops were marble.
"Because you live alone and I know you don't cook enough to warrant all of this." She waved her hands at the industrial sized fridge, the wall of fancy appliances like the waffle iron and panini press, and then the double ovens.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she ought to just move in with him and use his kitchen, but he swallowed the notion. "I haven't always lived alone," he said instead.
"I doubt you did much cooking before, either." She shook her head at him, and then turned to preheat the oven.
That was pretty accurate, so he shrugged before going about gathering his electric mixer and the ingredients on the back of the cake box. After settling everything in front of her, he set about looking for cake pans.
"You know, it'll take less time to bake and cool if we make cupcakes instead," she said, cracking the eggs.
"You're asking a lot of me, to just produce a cupcake pan out of nowhere," he said, but he thought he might have one anyway. He had been married once, after all, and though Milah was not the best cook, she had been an enthusiastic one at one point—and it wasn't like he threw anything away.
"You're telling me that you make ice cream more than you make cupcakes?" She pointed to his ice cream maker, situated between the expensive blender and popcorn popper.
He moved toward another cabinet, where he kept all of the things that he didn't use. "Perhaps." His intention had been to retrieve the pan for her after that, but the cabinet was a low one, and when he tried to bend to get it, his knee throbbed in agony. He gritted his teeth against the pain.
Belle was at his side in seconds, hands hovering over him and touching nothing. "Raphael? Are you all right?"
"It's in here." He poked the cabinet door with his cane, unwilling to discuss his knee in front of the young woman in his kitchen, who may or may not have been trying to seduce him with a see-through sweater.
Belle knelt to get it, and he was just as drawn in to the skin he could see on her back as he had been to what he could see from the front. Having her here was torture.
"I don't suppose you have cupcake liners?" she asked as she stood up with the pan.
"If I do, they're about fifteen years old."
She clucked her tongue before thrusting the pan at him. "Spray this, then."
"Spray? With oil?" He cast a dubious look at the pan.
"Yes. It'll be fine."
Trusting Belle, because he was not a baker, he did as he was told. By the time he finished, she had made the batter, and was poking around in his drawers to look for something.
"Can I help you?"
"Ice scream scoop? Or a ladle."
He found and brought her both, but after one look at the scoop, she wrinkled her nose and selected the ladle. It didn't take long for her to fill the cups, and then she was sliding the pan into the oven and setting the timer, and then all of her attention was on him. He wasn't expecting to find her looking at him, with her too-blue eyes and too-visible bra, and he didn't know what to do. They watched each other. He gripped his cane to keep his hands from flapping.
"We need to take the butter out," she said, jerking one hand toward the fridge, and then clasping both in front of her chest.
"Right, I'll do—" He started toward the fridge, and then she turned toward it as well, both of them talking and stumbling over each other.
"Is it in the—"
"It's in the—"
"Oh, did you want—"
She stopped and turned around, but he didn't stop in time, and they would have collided had he not thrown his hand around her hip and thrust his cane forward to brace himself.
"Oh." She was so close to him, he thought he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Maybe it was his own heart. His hand flexed on her hip, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was glad that his fingers weren't sweaty enough to stick to her.
Her lips parted like she meant to start talking, but no words came out. They were close enough that it would have taken no effort at all to lower his mouth to hers, and she didn't look like she'd mind at all. Her hands moved from clasped against her chest to resting against his, and they fit against his sternum like their bodies had grown knowing about this moment. His mind started to get foggy and distant, in a way that he would never have associated with closeness—and he soon realized it was because he had stopped breathing.
He pulled away from her with a haggard gasp for air, because he knew that, if he had managed to forget to do something like breathe, he had definitely managed to blow an innocent situation out of proportion. It didn't explain the way Belle's eyes widened, and her hands clutched after him for a second—but then she tripped backwards in her haste to get away from him, and he was convinced that he'd done the right thing.
"The butter," he said, swallowing to get the extra saliva out of his mouth and into his dry throat. "It's in the fridge. On the door."
"Right." She whirled away from him. "The butter. Right."
He needed something to do, or he was just going to stand there and stare at her like madman. "I'll make tea." He lurched toward the stove where he kept his kettle, a ceramic one that wouldn't rust with repeated use, and which was probably the only expensive appliance in his kitchen that he used on a regular basis. His knee screamed, and he ignored it.
"Great." She turned from the fridge, holding the stick of butter. For a second, he was afraid that she was going to throw it at him, but then she set it on the counter. "I'll be at the table."
She took the long way there—to avoid coming near him, he imagined—and he took his time filling the kettle with water, and then getting down mugs and tea.
"Earl grey, chamomile, or—ah—" He looked at the label on the canister of tea that he'd bought after telling Belle that he had some good herbal teas that night in the cemetery. "Sweet fruit garden?"
"Fruit," she said, with no traces of her usual good humor. He wished, for the umpteenth time that night, that he would die immediately.
"Right-o," he said, and then wished again for death, because what the hell?
Belle didn't speak again, so he busied himself measuring out the leaves, and digging out the second tea strainer that he had bought the same night as the tea blend. The kettle was whistling by the time he had everything measured and settled, so he poured the water, wishing this could somehow take longer so that he wouldn't have to face the woman at his table, who he had almost molested with his mouth, and whose bra he could see.
"How do you take your tea?"
"Honey."
He dug around in his cabinets for the honey, then moved to the fridge to grab a lemon wedge from his dish of them, and then there was nothing left for him to do, so he started bringing everything to the table. He had to bring the teacups one at a time, because his leg wouldn't allow him not to use his cane. Belle looked half ready to get out of the chair and help him, but was leaning away like she was afraid, face tinged pink.
"Are you keeping your jacket on because you're planning on driving me home soon?"
He stopped walking. He had forgotten that he'd promised to do that—she must want him to, after the whole almost-kiss fiasco. He needed to find a way to keep her there, to explain that he never would have kissed her without her consent, without actually admitting that he had thought about kissing her. He looked around for some excuse, and his eyes fell upon the oven timer.
"You haven't had cake yet," he said, baring his teeth in a forced smile. "Surely, you can't leave before that?"
She watched him set her tea down, and when he turned to make the painful journey back to the counter, she stood. "Sit. I'll get it. Where are the spoons?"
He couldn't be bothered to feel like she'd stabbed his pride, because he was too grateful to sit and get the weight off his leg. He sighed, stretching it out away from her chair. "Second drawer from the fridge."
He knew that she heard him, because she nodded her acknowledgement, but this didn't stop her from opening three drawers on her way there, exploring their messily organized contents. She threw him a sheepish look over her shoulder when she came to the correct drawer, and he let go a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She was getting over whatever mood he'd put her in, and now he could go about making it up to her and convincing her to stay with him forever. She could probably even make a list of reasons for him—she knew how dangerous her apartment complex was.
As she walked over, he shrugged out of his jacket, laying it on the empty chair next to him. He should have taken his tie off, but he was afraid of being too casual, and making her feel uncomfortable. He murmured his thanks for the spoon.
Belle didn't sit down. "Is your knee all right?"
He looked up at her. "It's fine." This was a lie, and Belle turned a blank look toward him. He recognized it as disapproval, but it was not her usual disapproving look. It didn't have her usual pursed lips, or flaring nostrils—she just looked blank and mad, and still pinker than usual.
"It's not fine. You shouldn't have done so much dancing."
He knew what he should have said, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. He had never seen Belle looking like this before.
"Do you have an ice pack?"
He looked at her, eyebrows drawn. "What?"
"An ice pack. For your knee?" She pointed to it, watching him like she was afraid he might attack her. Again.
"That's not—" He swallowed 'necessary' at the look she gave him. "I have a pack for my knee in the freezer, in the top drawer. It's blue."
She flashed him a tiny smile before hurrying off to get it. He considered the merits of keeping his leg where it was so that she would have to touch it and move it, but then reasoned that he shouldn't punish her like that, and also that she would have to touch him to put the ice pack on anyway.
"God, even your ice packs are fancy," she said, sliding the freezer closed.
"You found it, then?"
"I'm lucky if I have frozen peas to use."
He chuckled, and then set about the task of lifting his leg to the chair. His knee did not want to make the trip, but he knew it would feel better elevated and stretched out. He didn't register that Belle was there, and had set the ice down, until her hands were on his leg.
"Here, let me."
He bit his tongue to keep from hissing with alarm as she moved her hands along his calf to position his leg. Then, her hands left for a second, but they were back again with the ice pack, strapping it around his knee and then smoothing it out.
When she moved, he grabbed for her as a reflex, feeling the loss of her touch more than he should have. His hand closed around her forearm, and she looked at him.
"It was worth it," he said, watching her carefully. She relaxed toward him, and licked her lips, but her forehead was creased.
"What was?"
"Dancing with you. I would have done it all night. I still would. Even like this." He gestured to his knee, loosening his grip on her arm.
She looked like gravity was pulling her forward against her will, and somehow, she ended up close enough to him that he could reach her face, if he wanted to.
"But look at you. You can hardly walk ten feet."
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It was your birthday. I wanted you to have a good time."
He realized, then, as her face went a deeper shade of red, that her pink cheeks had been blushes. What did she have to blush about? He should have been the one embarrassed.
"I had a really good time. I'm glad you were there."
She bit her lip, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching forward and threading his fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ear as he cradled the side of her head. Maybe he hadn't misinterpreted earlier—because he was breathing now, and Belle had braced a hand on his outstretched thigh to keep them close. She must have thought he was rejecting her before, and he wasn't going to make that mistake again, even if it would take far more effort to bridge this distance than it would have when they were standing.
"Belle," he whispered, starting to pull her forward.
Then, the timer beeped, and they both jumped away from each other like they'd been caught doing something illegal.
"Oh, the cupcakes!" Her voice came out in a squeak, and she almost fell in her haste to get to the oven.
"Right." He had never hated anything as much as he hated cupcakes right then.
He had hoped that, once she got them out, she would come back and reposition herself next to him, but instead, she went about setting up paper towels to cool the cakes on. Then, he was sure that she would take them out of the tin, and then she would fill it with the remaining batter, and whatever moment they'd had would be lost forever. He glared at his knee for making him so immobile.
"About ten more minutes on your knee, okay?" Belle said, wiping her finger along the edge of the mixing bowl to scrape up some batter, and then popping it in her mouth. He wished he were that finger—or even the bowl.
"Yes, fine."
"Do you have a heat pad?"
Why was this happening? Why did she have to do everything but stand next to him so that he could kiss her? Did she not want him to?
"It's upstairs." He hoped this would dissuade her, but instead, her face lit up.
"I'll get it! Where is it?"
He sighed. Of course Belle wanted to poke around upstairs. It would have been more polite of him to give her a tour, but she was happy enough to give one to herself.
"Linen closet. Up the stairs, to the left, all the way at the end of the hallway, next to the bathroom."
She hardly waited for him to finish speaking before bolting out of the room. He sat and waited, trying not to think that every thump and muffled squeak was something breaking, or falling on Belle. While she was gone, he took his tie off, laying it by his jacket, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt—this way, she'd know that he intended to stay here.
She returned five entire minutes later, heat pad in hand and lips pressed together like a child who'd snuck a live frog into the house.
He narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"I got a little lost." She set the pad on the table, then moved to the bowls.
"No, you didn't. You're a smart woman—it's not hard to find a linen closet next to a clearly marked bathroom."
"Your directions were complicated," she insisted. "I didn't know you could sew."
He was about to retort, when what she said sunk in, and he frowned. "What?"
"I found a sewing machine box in your closet. It wasn't your wife's, was it? I mean, you wouldn't have kept your wife's sewing machine for twelve years?"
He snorted at the thought of Milah ever picking up a sewing machine. Even when he'd been convinced that he loved her, he hadn't had any delusions about her domesticity.
"No, it's mine. I sew."
"Really?" She was talking with her back to him, and he considered getting up so that he could stand where he could see her face. He loved the way she looked when she got curious about something, but he knew she would kill him if he moved when he only had a few more minutes left of icing.
"Really. I like sewing. I like doing things with my hands."
She swiveled the upper half of her body around to face him. "Are you any good at doing things with your hands?"
For a second, he thought she was flirting with him, and he felt his entire body warm up—until she continued on with, "I only ever see you with little bits and pieces of things on your desk, so I can't tell."
"I'm surprised you never asked what they were."
She gave him a knowing smile, then turned back to the counter. "Well, you know how men are about things with screws."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I do, darling. Care to shed some light?"
"They always like to think they can fix everything, and it never looked like you were getting anything done, so I didn't want to hurt your feelings by asking."
She didn't want to hurt his feelings, and even if she was being a bit facetious, it was one of the reasons that he loved her. He chuckled, shaking his head, and she turned to look at him.
"What?"
"I have something to show you."
"Does it involve getting up?" She turned back to the bowl, tilting it to scrape out the last of the batter. He was so tired of the stupid cupcakes.
"It does."
"It'll have to wait, then. I'll take your ice pack off in a minute. Where can I plug the heat pad in?"
He couldn't decide which he hated more—his knee, or the cake. "There's an outlet behind me."
She slid the tray into the oven, and then it was his turn to have her undivided attention, thank God. She plugged the heat pad in before coming over, setting it on the table to warm up. Her hands were gentle on his now-numb knee, running her fingers over the joint once she'd removed the ice.
"Ready?" she asked, and he wanted to say no so that she would keep her hands there, but he just nodded. The heat pad, too, was knee-shaped, and she didn't have to do much work to contour it to his leg. "All right. Keep this on until the cupcakes are done, and then you can show me whatever you want, okay?"
It was the longest twenty minutes of his life. Belle sat across from him at the table, drinking her lukewarm tea, and they chatted about something, but he couldn't remember what because it was the first time that she had been sitting still with her bra just right there, and he couldn't focus on anything coming out of her mouth for longer than it took to respond to it.
When the cupcakes finished, he watched her get up, sad that he had to tear his eyes away from her front, but still glad for the view that her back provided him.
"Do you mind if I make the icing really quick?"
He minded so much if she made the icing—but it wasn't like he could say that. He would sound petulant and ornery. "Whatever strikes your fancy."
They couldn't even talk while she did it, because the mixer was loud and she couldn't hear him, so he sat in his chair feeling like he was in time-out. He did, at one point, realize that he'd been sitting like this for long enough, and went to work setting his knee to rights. His cane wasn't far, so he could even stand without much trouble, and under the cover of the mixer, he managed to sneak up behind Belle without any issues at all.
When she turned to find him there, she screamed. His amusement almost made up for not being able to kiss her. Twice.
"Ready?" He offered his arm, and she swatted at it.
"How can you possibly be so quiet? You have a cane."
"Practice."
He grinned down at her, and she grinned back at him, and they were close enough now, but this wasn't the right moment, so he didn't kiss her. Instead, he slid his arm around her back, turning her away from the countertop and toward him.
"Come on. I think you'll appreciate this."
He had planned to lead her up the stairs, but it ended up being more of her job to lead him. His knee may have felt a little better under her care, but it was still angry with him for doing so many things with his legs that evening. Though he wished he could put on a brave face for her and pretend that he was fine, he also knew that she was the only person he would allow to see him without that brave face, and that intimacy was worth more to him than his pride.
"This way." He nudged her to the right when they reached the second floor, and she kept her arm around his waist.
He kept the door to his workroom closed, but he did not keep the door to his study closed, and it was this doorway that she spotted first. She flung herself away from him and toward the room with a gasp, flicking the light switch on.
"Oh, your bookshelf!"
He would have given anything for her to sound that way when she said his name. Instead, he had to settle for shivering at the proximity of her voice, even if all of her affection was directed at his furniture.
"That's not what I wanted to show you."
The look she gave him when she turned around almost broke his heart. "It's not?"
"Come on." He beckoned her toward the closed door of his workroom. She sighed, casting one last wistful look at his study before turning the light off and joining him.
He swung the door open like he was presenting her into a filled ballroom, and Belle reached in to get the light. She didn't gasp this time, but she did pause, one foot forward and one near him, which almost caused her to topple sideways until she threw her arms out to balance. He put his hand on her back, and she leaned into it.
It was his workroom, but it might have been more aptly called a "craft room." It was where he kept his sewing machine, all of his tools, and all of the projects on which he embarked. The only thing he did not do in this room was repair antiques, unless they needed something more than what he kept for repairs in the backroom of his shop.
This room was also the home of two tiny, model towns with tiny, model railroads, and it was these that he wanted to show Belle. They were the trains that he'd been building in his office, and the larger of the two towns was missing some railcars and buildings because he hadn't finished yet.
Belle took a few seconds to look around, wide-eyed and curious, and then whirled on him. "Do they move?"
Gold let out air in a pfft. "Of course they move. Come on." He guided her toward the smaller town—inspired by what he remembered of Glasgow—and positioned her at the front, where she would have the best vantage point. She stood there obediently, clasping her hands in front of her and pressing her lips together, while he went around to the side where the switch was.
"Wait." He hurried as quickly as his knee would allow him to turn the big light off, and Belle let out a yelp at the sudden darkness.
"Can you make it back?" she asked, but he was already limping his way over.
"All right. Are you ready?"
He could see the outline of her nod, and he grinned, pressing the switch. The whole town lit up—streetlights, windows, lights on the train—and a whistle sounded before everything started moving.
"Did you build all of this? Do the wiring yourself?"
From where he was standing, he had a perfect view of Belle's awestruck face, and it filled him with pride. A lot of people would have thought it strange that the terrifying Dr. Gold liked to build model trains, but Belle was fascinated, as he'd hoped she would be. She walked around the town, trailing the tips of her fingers along the edge of the table, where she wouldn't upset any of the scene. She stopped a few inches away from him, reaching forward to run a finger along the rooftop of a miniature library.
"The Archibald Hopper Memorial Library?" She turned to him, lips pressed to contain laughter. "Is that a tribute or a death wish?"
"A bit of both." His hand slid onto her back without him telling it to, and he curled his fingers around her hip.
"I didn't know you two were so close."
He shrugged, looking over his town. Most of the things that he'd named had been named after people he knew, whether to be insulting, complimentary, or neutral. The jail, for instance, was the Milah Mills Correctional Facility, and there was a little sewage plant wedged into a corner with the name 'Jones' scrawled across its door in Gold's neat, loopy script. He had put his own pawn shop in a corner.
"Do I have a building?" she asked, leaning forward to squint at the dimly lit signs.
"Nope. Made this when I thought you were awful."
She looked at him sideways, still bent over the little town. "You thought I was awful?"
"I thought you were the worst. Still do, in fact."
Belle looked up at him and bit her lip, a gesture that made him hot and cold at the same time, as well as unreasonably sweaty again. He now had no doubt that she knew its affect on him.
"So cruel to a poor, defenseless woman," she said, shaking her head slowly.
"Poor and defenseless, hmm? I seem to recall you surviving a kidnapping by a rather fearsome gentleman."
She twisted in his arms enough that all he had to do was press against her back to pull her closer, and then she was mere inches from his chest, looking up at him with a secretive sort of smile and biting her damn lip.
"He wasn't as fearsome as he made himself out to be."
When he felt her hand rest atop his on the cane, he almost jumped. He managed not to, and tilted his head forward. She leaned to meet him, touching her forehead against his, and for a second, they just looked at each other.
"Did I tell you that you looked beautiful tonight?" His voice was a hoarse growl, but he was pleasantly surprised that his words had managed to have any sound at all.
"You did not."
They were so close, he could almost feel her smile. He reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear, trailing his fingers along her jaw until the smile melted from her face.
"You did. You do. You always look beautiful."
"Raphael," she said, her voice coming out in a soft sigh.
Every time she said his name, it sent tingles along his spine. No one called him Raphael, and it was like it was Belle's own, special name for him—not just his actual first name.
"Belle, my darling," he whispered, and he felt like there was piano music rising up inside of him—which, he realized seconds later, was an oddly specific thing to feel when gazing into the lips and face of the woman with whom he was in love.
Belle seemed to realize that there was actual piano music at about the same time he did, and she leapt backward, reaching into her pocket for her phone. His hands and arms and chest burned where they no longer touched her.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry," she said, fumbling with it. He wanted to grab the stupid phone and hurl it against the wall.
"It's fine." It wasn't. He wanted to beat something with his cane.
"I wouldn't answer, but it could be an emergency this late." She flashed him an apologetic smile before hurrying out of the room. He took a second to compose himself and switch off all the lights, then followed her. After the darkness of the workroom, the hallway was blinding, and he had to squint against the light before he could focus on Belle's face.
She did not look worried. Rather, she had her lips pressed together and nostrils flared in what he could only imagine was annoyance. Good. At least she wasn't happy about being interrupted.
"Hook—" She sounded like she was working hard to get a word in, and Gold clenched his jaw to keep from roaring. Not only was it not an emergency, but it was Jones, and he was going to find him and beat him to death.
His rage dissipated a fraction when Belle looked up and beckoned him over.
"Hook, that's a terrible—" She groaned, and as he got closer, he could hear the constant tinny babbling coming from the other end of the line.
Belle pulled the phone away from her face. "Listen to this," she mouthed, and then pushed a button, filling his house with a voice he had hoped never to hear inside of it.
"—never motorboated a kindergarten teacher before, and I think I'm in love with her, and Belle, you have to help me, love, I think I'm dying—"
"Are you drunk?" Gold asked, before he could consider the fact that this was a phone call, and that Jones would not be expecting his voice.
His rambling halted.
"Hook?" Belle asked, looking like she was putting forth a valiant effort not to laugh. Gold might have felt similarly, were he not still irked about having his moment interrupted. Now, he would have to wait for a new moment, and it was unlikely that it would happen a fourth time in one night.
"Oh god, Belle, are you at Gold's? Sorry, I didn't realize. Do you need me to bring you a condom? Because I will. I can bring you a box of condoms and I don't mind doing it, because I love you and you're the best friend I've ever had. I'm going to go get some right now. I think I have some flavored—"
"Killian!" Belle's voice was almost a screech, and her face was redder than he'd ever seen it. It did much to soothe his ire. "I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"Belle, this is serious, I need to know. I will be there in ten minutes unless you give me the signal. Do you remember the signal, Belle?"
Perhaps Belle was too embarrassed to remember to take her phone off speaker, but Gold couldn't say that he minded. Red-faced, mortified Belle was adorable, and he couldn't stop his shark's grin from taking over.
"What about Aurora? Didn't you want to tell me about Aurora?"
"Oh god." Jones groaned. "I think I'm in love with her and if I don't see her tomorrow, I'll die."
"Okay, well, I'll call you in the morning, and then we can talk about it, all right?"
"But Belle, the con—"
"Goodnight, Killian." She hung up, muffling whatever it was he was saying, and then refused to look at Gold.
"You didn't want flavored condoms?" he asked, keeping his voice mild. If it weren't for Belle's shame, he never would have brought it up, but he couldn't find himself to be embarrassed if it meant watching her blush.
"Shut up." She glared at him, and then started down the stairs.
"Going somewhere?" He limped after her, still too amused to be alarmed by her behavior.
"I'm going to ice us some cupcakes, and then you're going to sing 'Happy Birthday' to me."
"Oh, I am, am I?" Of course he was. All she had to do was mention that she wanted him to, and he would sing it for her a hundred times.
When they got to the kitchen, she ignored him in favor of her baking, so he set about locating matches and selecting a candle. Soon, they found themselves sitting close together at the table in the darkened room, the three flickering candles in Belle's cupcake being the only source of light.
"You have to sing," she whispered, like she was afraid to talk any louder than that.
He rolled his eyes, and began the song. He didn't have a bad voice, per se, but he wasn't particularly good at carrying a tune, and he was just lucky that it was the sort of song people expected to be botched. When he growled out the last note, Belle closed her eyes. A few seconds later, she opened them and blew the candles out, bathing them in darkness. He clapped.
"Happy birthday, Belle."
He thought she smiled at him, but it was hard to tell in the dark, so he got up to turn the lights on. When he got back, Belle had her face tilted underneath the cupcake, and was biting off the bottom corner.
"What are you doing?" he asked, taking his seat again.
"The top is the best part of the cupcake, so I'm saving it for last."
"I see."
He was not the sort of person who ate cupcakes, preferring to just have a slice of cake, and he looked at his for a bit, wondering how to go about it. He considered getting a fork, but since Belle was attacking her own with the precision and violence of a falcon, he had the feeling she wouldn't stand for that.
Ignoring his sense of delicateness and propriety, he took a bite from the frosted side, managing not to get anything on the corners of his mouth.
"You look like you're in pain," Belle said, watching him like she was trying not to laugh—or perhaps she was just unable to laugh with her mouth so full.
"I'll endure it for your birthday."
Belle finished her cupcake a full minute before he did, and then sat and stared while he ate. "So, am I supposed to wear your gift every day, or only on special occasions?"
The thought of Belle wearing his gift every day was appealing. He shrugged, though, not wanting to give voice to the pride that surged up. "Do you want to wear it every day?"
She nodded, and he bit his tongue to keep his face neutral. "But it had to be expensive, so wearing it every day might be a bad idea, right?"
"It's only a bad idea in your neighborhood."
She pressed her lips together. "So you're saying I should wear it to school, then? It won't distract Dr. Hopper during his lecture?"
"I'm surprised you don't already distract Dr. Hopper."
"Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "I've got the perfect dress to match it."
He was glad of this, and of her enthusiasm—he really was—but he couldn't help thinking that he would rather see her in it naked. Since he hadn't even managed to kiss her yet, and there didn't look to be much hope for that tonight, he resolved not to think about her naked anymore. It would only lead to disappointment.
"I'm glad you're planning outfits already," he said, because it seemed like a safe thing to say.
Belle yawned, then. It was a deliberate yawn, and even Gold could tell that she had started out forcing it, and his mouth filled with saliva. He tried to swallow it before the inevitable—when he would catch her yawn, and it would turn his mouth into a dark cavern of hanging spit stalactites.
"Tired?" He knew this was a stupid question. It was past one, and he was a little surprised that he hadn't been the one to drop first.
"Yeah, a bit."
She looked at him across the table, and his shoulders got heavier. She was going to ask him to take her home, and there would never be a night more perfect than tonight, which meant that he would never kiss her, because he would never find any of these moments again. He would have to wait until her next birthday—or maybe his.
"It's late, though—I don't want you to have to drive me all the way there and back. Could I just sleep on your couch or something?"
For a second, he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. Were they on the same page with this? Did she understand all of his subtle hints about the fact that he wasn't planning on letting her go anywhere? Did she want to stay the night at his house?
Or did she really just want to be polite, and not make him drive across to the poor side of town?
"Of course." His voice came out huskier than he'd intended, but there was nothing he could do other than pretend to have cake in his throat if she asked. "I have plenty of guest rooms."
At this, she raised an eyebrow. "Really? Do you ever have guests?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Don't sass me, Miss Blue." He stood up to clear away their napkins and the candles.
"Ooh, did I hit a nerve?" She stood after him, trailing him around the kitchen until he started for the stairs.
"Nothing groveling can't fix."
He paused at the foot of the stairs, looking up at them. He never went up and down this much when he was alone, and what with the dancing and the walking and the whole Belle-destroying-his-body-by-biting-her-lip business, the stairs were starting to seem like Mt. Fuji.
"What if I help you up the stairs?" Belle asked, slipping her arm around his waist.
He wrapped his own arm around her shoulders without even thinking, and considered kissing her then, but the timing was wrong and their current positioning would have made it awkward.
"I'll accept it."
There were two empty bedrooms on the second floor. One was next to Gold's, and the other was on the opposite side of the floor. He wished he could lead her to the one next to his, because she was the only guest he wouldn't mind being just a wall away from, but that room was not fit for guests. It had been Baden's room, and the only thing Gold had done there in six years was dust. There was also a guest room downstairs, which was bigger, but he wanted Belle as close to him as possible.
"There are clean towels in the linen closet. You know where that is," he said as they trekked up the stairs. "And the bathroom's next to it. Did you need pajamas?"
She shook her head, letting her arm slip away from him once they reached the top and made a left. "I'll be fine. You'll wake me up for work, yeah?"
His first reaction to that was to wonder whether she would sleep naked, and then the second was to lose complete control of his brain at the thought that, if she did, he would be waking her up while she wasn't wearing any clothes.
Since he couldn't manage anything intelligent, he let out an affirmative grunt. She smiled.
"Great. I'm going to run down and get my purse, okay?"
He nodded, and she whirled and ran off, giving him time to collect himself. He hated that he had to do that so often around Belle—no one ever undid him enough that he had to put forth an effort to stay composed.
Checking the sheets on the bed, and making sure that everything in the guest room was in order helped to calm him. By the time Belle had bounded back up, he was feeling ready to face her.
"Here you are," he said, sweeping his hand out toward the bed.
Belle paused in the doorway, gaze raking over the room. The only room smaller than this one was his study, so Gold didn't have much affection for it, but he supposed he could understand Belle's sudden speechlessness. It was decorated in antiques, just like the rest of his house, with sandy gold silk sheets and a mint green comforter. The bed was queen-sized, and she ran a finger along the edge. He couldn't help but think that this bed was too big for her to be alone in, that it would be better to tuck her safely into his own king-size, with him, but that was a dangerous thought. Besides, he couldn't have decorated this room to suit her more than it did if he tried.
She turned to him and pressed her lips together. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't not a smile, and it twisted something under Gold's ribcage that he couldn't quite pinpoint.
"Thank you," she said.
"It's no matter." He took a step backwards, toward the door.
"Are you going to bed?" she asked.
"Ah, I don't know." There was no way he could sleep knowing that she was just across the hall. He'd probably end up tinkering with his trains all night.
They were silent for a few seconds, watching each other. Belle flapped a hand toward the doorway.
"Well, I'm going to wash my face." Her hand flapped toward her dramatic eye shadow.
"Right." He nodded, fumbling backward. "Okay. Well. Have a good night."
She stared at him. Then she ducked her head, and scurried past him toward the bathroom. What did this mean? She didn't say goodnight, but she didn't deny him saying it either. Should he wait? Did she expect him to be standing there when she returned?
He decided that he should get ready for bed, too, and leave his door open so that she could see he wasn't ignoring her. He skipped most of his routine, not wanting to miss the chance to say goodnight to Belle if she wanted him to. The only step he didn't skip, aside from changing into his grey silk pajamas, was washing his face.
When he finished, Belle's bathroom door was still closed. He paced the hallway, knowing that, if he stopped moving, the adrenaline would wear off and he would feel the crushing disappointment of his failure to kiss Belle on her birthday. After about half a minute, it occurred to him that he was dressed as he usually was for bed—topless—so he limped back to his room to acquire an undershirt. She wouldn't want his ancient torso to be the last thing she saw before sleeping. He didn't even want to see it.
Belle emerged as he was done getting dressed. She didn't even look at him, and he was overcome with anxiety over how to call to her and wish her a good night, which was stupid, because, other than "hello," it was probably the most commonplace phrase.
He went with no preamble, calling out, "Goodnight, Belle," from the doorway of his bedroom.
She froze, hunching away from him like he'd thrown something at her, and his insides felt like they'd been mummified. Somehow, he had done something wrong, and now Belle was afraid of him.
When she turned around, though, she didn't look upset. She was chewing her cheek, and wouldn't meet his eyes, but if anything, that looked like guilt to him.
It was then that he looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed that she was no longer wearing the see-through sweater. She was wearing pajamas, and they were her pajamas. He was sure of this fact, because the shirt was pink, and the pants were a deep violet with owls on them, and he knew nothing in his house looked like that.
"Well, goodnight!" Her voice was a high-pitched squeak, and her cheeks were starting to flush as she whirled back around.
"Belle."
He was glad that intimidation came easily to him, and even Belle was not entirely immune. She froze again, pivoting slow enough to allow the shark grin to spread all the way across his face before she saw him.
"I see that you changed."
She straightened up, and her swift change from embarrassed Belle to brave, defiant Belle sent his heart rocketing against his chest.
"Well, I couldn't very well sleep in jeans, could I?"
"Of course not." He leaned against his cane, watching her. It must have been why she'd brought such a large purse, and then been secretive about its contents. She was so prepared and resourceful—so much smarter than everyone he knew.
"Right. Well, I'll just—bed, then?" She jerked her thumb behind her.
"Of course." He nodded. "Sleep well, Belle."
"Goodnight, Raphael." She smiled before turning back to the room. He wanted to watch her go, but was afraid to let her catch him doing so, so he turned around as well.
He wondered if she'd brought a toothbrush as well. She probably had, if she'd brought pajamas, and maybe the purse itself was an overnight bag. He had seen her carry textbooks in it before, as well as leftovers from restaurants, so it would make sense that she would bring it to pack things.
Then, he stopped so short, he almost tripped over his cane. Maybe she hadn't packed it just in case. Maybe she'd planned to stay the night all along. Maybe they really were on the same page, and she had wanted him to kiss her, and now she was walking into her room and feeling the same amount of disappointment and regret that he was, and what the hell was he doing just standing here?
"Belle!" He whirled around, only just managing not to abandon his cane in his haste.
She turned again. "Yes?"
Fuck the right moment. Whatever moment he kissed her was the right moment, and it was going to have to be this one—besides, it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, right? It didn't matter. Momentum was propelling him forward and adrenaline was subduing his knee pain, and Belle was biting her lip up at him, and he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his free arm around her waist and yanking her against him, crushing his lips to hers.
He felt like he'd just set himself on fire, and the heat flooding his face and arms and feet and hands and chest only subsided when Belle's cool fingers found the back of his neck, and pressed against it. It wasn't a particularly romantic kiss, and it was possible that his teeth would hurt when this was over, but it was the most perfect kiss he could imagine, and if he had a heart attack and died at that moment, he wouldn't have been upset in the slightest.
Their mouths were open, but there was no tongue, and he couldn't have coordinated using his even if he'd tried. He dropped his cane, bringing that hand up to tangle in her hair at the back of her head, keeping her there when he pulled his lips away.
They were both breathing like they'd just climbed a mountain, and Gold couldn't tear his eyes away from hers. He never wanted to stop, but there were words he vaguely remembered that he wanted to say, so he settled for pressing one more kiss to her lips.
"You know, I've just remembered something." He was almost proud of how gravelly he sounded. It made him feel a touch more manly.
"Oh?" The hand that wasn't on his neck crept up his chest, and her fingers hooked on the collar of his undershirt. He hoped she'd rip it off. "What's that?"
"All of my guest rooms burned down last week."
Laughter bubbled up out of her lips, and he couldn't go this long without kissing her when she did that, so he kissed her full on the mouth before pressing smaller, lighter kisses along the corner, and up her jaw.
"Guess you'll have to sleep on the couch, then," she said, jerking sideways when he kissed her earlobe.
"Unfortunately, that was victim as well. In fact, my bed is the only one here." He started up the other side, making a detour at her lips again.
"Well," she said, when he let her speak. "If you insist."
He did.