Part 2
The man in front of her has his back towards her and lowers his head, almost as if to make himself invisible to her. It's difficult to believe that this hurt, broken human being is the same one who terrified her several times in the past few days. This way, he looks like he isn't capable of hurting anybody even if he wanted to.
But there are at least a few memories which don't betray her and she knows only too well how afraid she has been of him. Still, now that she has seen him like this and briefly talked to him, she's beginning to understand that he's not what he seemed at first. If anything, it seems like he is afraid of her and her reactions to him.
Something deep inside of her aches at seeing him like this. She doesn't really understand that sentiment, but she can't deny that the longer she remains standing there, the less she can endure his sorrow.
Taking a proper look at him for the first time, Belle sees that his eyes are less dark than she thought. They had seemed black at first, almost just as dark as his pupils, but it turns out that his irises are a pleasant shade of brown, almost gold in the harsh light of the hospital hallway.
She is still holding the remains of the cup which she broke earlier that day. She deposits the shards carefully on a small table at her side before turning herself towards him. His back is still facing her, which is why she makes sure to rest her hand on his shoulder as carefully as she possibly can.
He tenses immediately, and so does she, not really knowing what she is doing, let alone how he might react.
"What... what are you doing?"
She hushes him, if only because she doesn't know the answer to his question. At the same time, she moves her hand slightly downwards, caressing him in which she hopes is a soothing way. He relaxes, but only slightly.
It occurs to her that it isn't just the unexpectedness of her gesture which is catching him off guard; it's as if he truly doesn't expect her to touch him, especially not as carefully as this. It strengthens her belief that she is doing the right thing, despite not really understanding either her tendency to help him or the mysterious man himself.
"Try to relax," she mutters, very much aware of the tension in his shoulders, spreading through most of his body from there by the looks of it.
He calms a little more at her words, leaning back slightly to be closer to her. She doesn't mind the increased nearness, his presence not bothering her at all now. Quite the opposite. There's something familiar about having him so close to her, something almost... soothing.
She places her other hand on his shoulder as well, stroking the unyielding surface. She has never touched anyone like this before - for as far as she can tell, she never touched anyone to begin with. Still, her hands know exactly what to do, finding a way to touch him on their own accord.
Some of the tension leaves him, but the sniffling noises only intensify. Presuming that he doesn't want her to touch him, or at least not like this, she abruptly withdraws.
"Am I doing it wrong?"
She hates herself for having to ask, for being so ignorant, but she wants to make this man feel better and it seems that she can't do so without his help.
His head is not entirely turned away from her as he shakes it in response, tears dripping down his cheeks as he does so. It's all the confirmation she needs. She pulls him towards her again, until his head is leaning on her shoulder and her hand is on his arms. A tangible shudder goes throughout him and after a long second he goes limp against her.
She gasps in shock when he slouches against her; not because of his suddenly overwhelming closeness, but because it seems as if all strength has deserted him.
Not wanting him to slide down to the floor, she wraps her arms around him and holds on to him, supporting his weight as well as she can.
He only shakes harder when she embraces him, his arms remaining at his side, just as unused as the rest of him. He is too quiet for a few seconds, as if he has ceased to breath as well, but then something inside of him appears to break.
The earlier sniffling becomes outright crying and although she knows nothing but her own, soundless tears in the night, she can tell that this man's despair and sadness equals her own.
She has no idea what is going on, why he hurts so very much. His anxiety scares her in its intensity, but not like the way he himself did before. He isn't threatening now, couldn't differ more from the intimidating man he appeared to be just a few hours ago.
Although the reason is unknown to her, he turns to her for comfort and she is not going to let him down. It's not just that this is for her the first time to do something, to be useful and needed, but much more because she want to help this stranger. He might be frightening, earlier at least, but he fascinates her, and never more so than he does now, breaking down in her arms.
His face pressed awkwardly against her shoulder, she intuitively guides his head to the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, finding the fit to be perfect. His chest partly moves against her as a result and she gasps at the sensation of being this close to someone else.
For as long as she can remember, the only touches she has known are unpleasant, inflicted upon her, when the people who held her in the small room forcefully stopped her whenever she tried to get away. There were other people when she woke up on the road in the forest, but they too touched her only to bring her to a place where she didn't want to go, and keep her there.
This man was one of them, but as she considers him once more, she realizes that he had no part in bringing her here. He healed her, somehow, and wouldn't leave her alone until the others put her in a moving vehicle, but he didn't make her do things she didn't want to do.
Indeed, now that she thinks of it, he has thoroughly scared her several times in the past few days, but not a single time he did anything to hurt her or forced her to go to places where she didn't want to go. More than that, he helped her, making an end to the pain that hurt her arm so very much.
That knowledge makes it only more natural for her to hold the man as he cries, attempting to decrease the sadness that is consuming him. She isn't the woman who he thinks she is, nor the woman who he wants her to be, but that won't prevent her from trying to make him feel a little better.
His tears are sliding hotly down her skin, beneath the gown that she was given. The sensation isn't an unfamiliar one, but to feel another human being's tears is not something she ever expected. She wished that she had, if only because it might have somewhat prepared her for this situation, for finding herself with someone who might be just as lonely and lost as she is herself.
She pats him awkwardly on the back, hoping that the gesture can provide some of the comfort he so obviously needs. As a result, he only cries harder. Belle doesn't know much, but she is certain that this is not supposed to happen. She can't be that bad at supporting someone else, even with her lack of experience, or can she?
Time passes, probably, but none of his earlier strength returns to him and even the iron will with which he approached her again and again seems to have vanished. Even just lying against her shoulder appears to be too much of an effort. He slides lower even as he clings to her, boneless, and he ends up with his face in her lap, all but burying himself in the fabric of the unpleasant gown.
Making sure that he remains lying there and isn't about to fall on the floor, she brings her hands to his head and continues to stroke his unexpectedly soft hair.
She is certain that she has never touched anyone like this either, but these motions feel familiar to her as well, as if she knows exactly how to comfort this very man. If only she wouldn't know for a fact that she has spend all her years in a small cell and that she has never seen him until a few days ago, she'd be tempted to think that he actually means something to her... that they truly know each other.
She only becomes aware that she is crying herself when salty liquid drops from her face to the back of his head, slightly wetting his long hair.
The obvious explanation is that her very first confrontation with such utter sadness of someone else has triggered a similar reaction from her. But as she experimentally strokes his scalp, in the way she imagines a mother soothing her child, it almost feels like their sorrow is connected, like they share the same grief.
It's ridiculous, of course, for she doesn't know him. She hasn't even seen him until a few days ago, when she woke up on the road in the forest.
She hastily wipes her tears away, not wanting the man to see them. It's not that she is ashamed of this display of unexplained grief, but she senses that it will only add to his own sadness, something she whole-heartedly wants to avoid.
He is all but curled up against her now, his head resting on her thigh and his arms locked securely around her waist, one of his leg pulled upwards towards his chest. He looks decisively uncomfortable in a way that goes beyond his emotional breakdown, especially with the awkward angle of his other leg, which looks as if he can't quite move it like he wants to. She supposes this is the reason that he uses a cane.
She shifts slightly, hoping to accommodate their embrace better, and guides his right leg onto the row of adjoined plastic chairs which he is basically using as a bed now, with her lap as his pillow.
He becomes somewhat quiet and less uncontrolled after only a long while, in which she doesn't cease to touch him gently. He never loosens his grip on her though, as if he is afraid - convinced, even - that she'll be gone the second he lets go off her waist just a little.
Minutes after he has gone completely silent at last, he presses his face more tightly against her for a moment, then withdraws. Despite his unusual pose, he manages to sit up without much difficulty, immediately distancing himself from her.
When he meets her gaze again, there is no trace of the tears which slid down the skin of both of them just a while ago, but the redness and puffiness of his eyes is undeniable. She has seen such a display far too often, in the small mirror in the cold room where she had to take a shower every once in a while.
"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have..."
He shakes his head, as if dismissing whatever words he intended to say even as he speaks them.
"It's alright," she tries, wanting to convince him that it's no trouble for her at all to have held him like this, to have seen the man who appears to hide behind an otherwise completely composed facade.
"It's not. Really, it's not. I..."
There's another shake of his head, more frustrated this time, pained almost, as he searches for the words which he needs to tell her what he wants to.
He doesn't continue though, just stares at her as if he can't believe that she's here, with him... as if he's surprised that she's alive.
It's completely unnerving, but in a way that couldn't differ more from the way he upset her before.
"Sir?"
She has no idea how else to break the ever increasing silence between them, just like she isn't certain how else to address him. She has vague memories of the others calling him 'Gold', but it feels wrong to call him that, the name not suiting him the way it should.
He flinches as she addresses him as such. The ache at both being unable to understand why this upsets him so much and the fact that he is for some reason hurt because of something she subconsciously said, borders on being physically painful.
"What's your name?
Something which might be hope flickers in his gaze at her question. She isn't certain whether it's a good idea to be talking like this to the man who scared her, to directly ask him questions, but he is currently still meeker than anyone she has known in the short time of being outside the horrible room in the basement.
"People call me Mr. Gold," he replies, keeping his gaze solely focused on her. She doesn't find it as unsettling as before at all. "But you can call me Rumple, if you'd like."
He doesn't offer her any more information, although there clearly is so much more, his name alone reminding her of untold mysteries and secrets. She recalls the fire which appeared in his hand, the magic he kept talking about. She has far from forgotten at all about the stealthy, unwanted kiss and the way he ranted about the cup and his castle.
Obviously, there is much more to him than he is willing to share with her now, but this time she is actually glad because of that. After all the bizarre things he has said and done around her, she is relieved that he is giving relatively normal, understandable answers now.
"Rumple," she repeats, trying the name. It's a sort of name she didn't suppose existed, not once during all the time she has had with nothing but the content of her mind for entertainment. The two syllables suit him though, somehow more so than the name by which others apparently know him.
If his small smile is anything to go by, her reaction pleases him. It's the first time she has seen him smile and she finds herself thinking that she wouldn't have been so afraid of him if he would have looked at her like this before. The mere tug of his lips changes his entire expression, displaying a gentleness she couldn't have imagined until now.