A/N: This update comes with LOADS and LOADS of fun! I adored writing this section. I hope you all like it too! I'm starting to love Hongrois, and since I know, I figured I'd fill in everyone! Hongrois is French for "From Hungary" but also is one of the believed origins of the word Ogre. He's basically Gold's bodyguard from "Skin Deep." With that, on with the show!
When the Cadillac pulled up, Belle felt ashamed, she supposed was the best word for it, or rather embarrassed, maybe that was better – especially when Hongrois got out of the driver's seat to open the door for her. Belle whisked through the glass doors and smiled appreciatively at him, "Thank you, Hongrois," she spoke delicately, and climbed straight into the back seat.
He shut the door behind her and Belle glanced out of the tinted window, upward toward the floors that housed the club. Belle French was playing with fire. Probation was a heavy word. Regina wasn't kidding around either. The woman practically looked for excuses, and climbing into Mr. Gold's Cadillac, if she saw it, was probably enough to send her off the deep end.
It was just another thing Belle had to worry about. She wished she could start looking at other options, but it just wasn't in the cards right now. She'd have to be especially careful. Licking her lips in the back seat, Belle shifted uncomfortably. She still hadn't done anything that would constitute thanking Mr. Gold and she took a deep breath. "Hongrois?"
"Yes, Miss?" the hulking man looked back through the rear view mirror.
Belle let out a deep breath, watching the street pass by, people going about their lives as they did, "Can we stop to get groceries, please?" A thousand ideas crossed her mind and Belle was suddenly at least venturing into something she knew she could do and do well. It wasn't enough to thank him, of course, but it was a start.
Hongrois nodded and pulled off of the main road. Belle assumed there was a grocery somewhere near by, and the idea that she could make something fresh and delicious for dinner was a pleasant one to her. She hadn't really eaten since that morning and it would be nice to eat at the actual time dinner occurred, rather than at four in the afternoon to avoid eating at the club. Drawing her eyebrows in, Belle smiled as they pulled up in front of a local store, "Do you happen to know Mr. Gold's favorite meal?" she asked, leaning over the front seat, smiling as wide as she could.
Maybe Hongrois didn't exactly smile back, but he did tell Belle what she needed to know and parked the car on the street to accompany her in the store. She reminded him that she did not need it, but he reminded her of Mr. Gold's orders, and she sighed. She was an adult. That would need to be talked about.
Maybe she'd bring it up over dinner, which she did make sure to invite Hongrois to stay for – apparently his first name was Sherman and Mrs. Hongrois was expecting him to come home. Belle never would have expected that she would be walking around a grocery store with a man dressed in a black suit, so tall that the top of her head didn't even come up to his shoulder, collecting items to make a dinner fit for Mr. Gold.
Though the chatting was stunted, Belle was pleased when they finally made the entire way around the store, and she was armed with everything she could possibly need to make a dinner worthy of a thank you. It was a bit of a splurge, but good steak was necessary, if he liked it so much, and Belle really wanted fresh produce with potatoes. They didn't eat much of that kind of thing at home.
But, Belle was at least proficient in the kitchen, and Hongrois was exceptionally helpful with the entire process, keeping her in check and directing her toward shortbread cookies that not only Mr. Gold liked, but were delicious in their own right. Upon first inspection, Hongrois might have seemed like a stoic, mean sort of ogre, but in reality, Belle learned, he was actually quite good company.
After she paid, he drove her back to he apartment building, insisting that he carry her bags upstairs for her – as well as clear her at the door. It appeared to work; though the new doorman, apparently the second shift, gave her the same skeptical look that the first had. Belle just smiled at him and walked through, straight to the elevator Mr. Gold had taken her to, and braced herself as she stepped in and the thing shot up. Hongrois also appeared completely unfazed by the sudden jolt upwards, whereas Belle still felt as though she might look pale from it.
Realizing she had no key, Belle looked to Hongrois, the hulking man handing her one of the weighty grocery bags before digging in his pocket to pull out a key. It would be much easier, Belle thought, if she had a key to get into the apartment. She wondered if she could bring that up at dinner too.
Walking in, Belle waited for Hongrois to lead her to the kitchen, only a few feet out of the entryway, and Belle gasped. It was the newest kitchen she had ever seen. The appliances were gleaming; the counters pristine, Belle had never seen anything quite so modern… or clean. Compared to the rest of what she had seen, particularly the living room, this room looked like he had never stepped foot inside of it. Belle frowned as Hongrois put bags on the counter, "Does he ever cook?" she asked, disbelief at this cleanliness of this portion of the house.
All she received as an answer was a brief shrug. Apparently it was a mystery to solve, and Belle sighed. "Well, thank you, Hongrois, for everything," she smiled. "I'll save you leftovers for your lunch tomorrow," she promised and he waved his hand, assuring she did not have to – to which Belle repeated the hand waving gesture: she wouldn't be told no, clearly, and as soon as the door clicked behind him – the sound of the lock turning as he went, Belle got to work.
Even being almost entirely brand new, even being set up entirely different from her own kitchen at home, Belle felt like she belonged here. She liked the comfort of the kitchen, the familiarity of locating pots, pans, spices, and items. After removing the dinner items from the bags, Belle set out to make the best dinner possible.
She bounced around the kitchen after kicking her shoes off and hummed as she started to prepare. The oven went on, she was peeling potatoes, cutting vegetables, grating cheese – it was going to be the best dinner Mr. Gold had ever had. When she opened the fridge to put the cheese away she was sure of it: it was empty, outside of one stick of butter.
Belle wondered where he ate – who made things for him – if he even ever stayed here. It was hard to imagine, the way that the center of a home could be so… empty. Maybe it was why he spent so much time with his clients and at the club, this wasn't really a home. If you only sustained yourself on a stick of butter, you couldn't be taking much care of yourself, Belle reasoned, letting the anxieties and stresses of the day slide off her shoulders and dissipate with every stroke of a peeler or sizzle in a pan.
She could understand Tia's preoccupation with food and cooking – she always talked about how it was the way to share with people, to bring them together. Belle doubted anyone had cooked a meal for Mr. Gold since he was a child. She wondered when the last time anyone called him anything but Mr. Gold was. It was strange, him having her first name, and her only knowing his initial: R.
It wasn't a suitable thing to call someone, a letter. And if she was sharing a space with him – it was just another thing to bring up over dinner. This was going to be the most productive dinner Belle had ever had, perhaps rivaling her morning deception with her father.
There was just something about food that made everything a lot more palatable (literally and figuratively). In the absence of anything to busy her hands, Belle moved to the cabinets, looking for place settings and figured she'd get the table ready too. Belle gathered the plates for two, cutlery, napkins, all the trappings of a completely normal dinner with absolutely nothing normal about it.
Belle walked out of the kitchen and frowned. There was the dining room table, covered in books and papers and every manner of senseless thing. She couldn't imagine eating on it – all ostentatious with dark wood, a chair (more like throne) with maroon velvet upholstery at the end of it, and crowded like it was his work desk – she briefly wondered if she looked around this place would she find another room full of work? Would she find several? All in good time, she reminded herself, and turned her sites on a less formal arrangement – a smaller, glass table with only four chairs around it, and suitably black and plain – and even more importantly: clear.
It was infinitely easier to set this table. She placed everything down, like she had been taught when her mother was still alive. The thought immediately pulled her into an entirely different place, wondering what her mother would have thought now – and what her father was doing. She had to call him, at some point, she reminded herself, if he would even be in his room. Something told her he was more likely to be at the Mother Hub's with the guys playing cards until the early hours of the morning. The thought was simultaneously depressing and infuriating.
She worked so hard to put things back together, but he was just trapped. Teaching old dogs new tricks was supposed to be impossible, but Belle tried every day, when she could. She just wanted him to be happy, accept what happened, and pull himself out of the gutter. Unfortunately, she couldn't force him until he decided to force himself. Being the dutiful daughter was just about all she could do.
So lost in thought, Belle didn't hear the door open until Mr. Gold walked in faster than she had ever seen him walk before. "What is going on?" he asked, without proper greeting and bristling like a porcupine.
Belle looked up, placing the last knife on the table. "Hello to you too," she greeted with a smile. "Dinner, I believe, is going on."
Mr. Gold huffed and moved quickly through the entry way to a cabinet Belle hadn't even noticed in the corner. He unlatched it and pulled out a glass and a square bottle – two things she was far too familiar with, and he poured himself a glass of the amber liquid. "You aren't at the club," he stated simply, forcefully, before taking a sip.
"Regina gave me the night off," truth, and she brushed her hands together, taking a moment from setting the table to walk over and close the cabinet. "You haven't eaten anything yet," she pointed out, closing the clasp, "you'll get sick."
Mr. Gold regarded her for a moment before he lifted the glass to his lips, eyes never leaving hers as he tipped it back and drank the whole thing without even a flinch. He placed it down on the flat edge in front of the cabinet doors and looked at her. "She doesn't give anyone the night off. What happened?" Completely ignored her decree about no on the alcohol, she should have known. Men.
Taking a deep breath in, Belle shook her head. "I guess she was having a good day," she smiled, despite herself, and leaned her hand on the very counter the glass was on, her other on her hip. "Sit at the table," she soothed, "Dinner will be out in a couple of minutes."
He pulled his brows in, already thin lips getting thinner as he stared at her in the face. Belle, strangely, felt nothing like the fear she had felt earlier, when he burst in, it wasn't because of anger, she could tell. She didn't know what it was, but he wasn't mad – at least not at her. "You don't have to do these things," he motioned toward the kitchen, "You aren't here in the capacity of maid."
Belle snorted an indecorous sound at best and shook her head, placing her hand on the side of his arm, the flinch of his muscles apparent under her touch. "I know," she smiled, wrinkling her nose, "I'm here for witness protection," she teased, "but if I didn't make something, we'd have probably starved tonight."
He didn't seem amused, but he didn't lash out either – and Belle took that as a victory. "Whatever you need, inform Hongrois. He will retrieve it and pay for it. You shouldn't be wasting your money."
"After you taste my garlic mashed potatoes, I don't think you'll consider it a waste," she smiled, brushing past him with the lightest of touches between her arm and his. She glanced over her shoulder, "Table, please?" she smiled and then dashed into the kitchen, the confused look on his face propelling her into the kitchen even faster.
Making up plates, Belle wanted everything to be just so. She hadn't really planned on being so… meticulous, but as she pulled the steaks out of the oven, she felt like she needed to make sure everything was just right. As much as she needed to trust him, he needed to trust her, so it was with diligence that she plated potatoes, steak, and green beans onto each of the beautiful dishes she had picked from the cabinet.
Carrying the two plates out, Belle grinned at Mr. Gold who had taken a seat at the table. She could only imagine how much trouble he had picking since there was no head of the table. She imagined that was a dilemma in and of itself. Placing his down first, Belle smiled, "I might have cheated a little – Hongrois helped me."
Mr. Gold shifted in his seat, appearing to be decisively uncomfortable. "He would," he stated simply, looking up at her. It took a moment for Belle to realize that he was looking at her to sit as well, and she quickly arranged herself in the seat next to him with a bright smile. "Again, you didn't have to do this."
"I know," she agreed, "but I wanted to." He shrugged and finally started to cut into his food. Belle did the same, and was quite pleased with herself as she tasted what she put together.
Of course, as soon as eating started, conversation halted – and the awkward finally settled in. Belle's eyes fluttered around, from her plate to her host, and then around the room, before settling on her plate or the things in her hands – it was an entirely strange experience. She had to talk – it was going to drive her crazy. "Regina did give me the night off, you know," she took in another mouthful of potatoes.
Mr. Gold looked at her, a slow suspicious kind of glance as he slowly mulled whatever variation of his food was actually in his mouth (all Belle's careful plating went to hell when he swirled it all together in one big mess). "What did you do?" he asked, and color immediately rose to Belle's cheeks.
She cleared her throat, averting her gaze and poked the last few green beans around on the plate. "Figures you'd know," she laughed a little bit, more of embarrassment than anything else and looked up, curls from her previously done up hair having fallen out of the pins over the course of the day. "I threw the cover," she bit her lip, staring at her plate again.
Mr. Gold's fingers twitched. The knife and fork stilled on the plate and he looked at her, a searing sort of stare that made Belle's cheeks burn even brighter. "Elaborate, dearie."
And as she was commanded, Belle did, putting down her utensils in favor of having her hands free. "They were asking these questions," Belle licked her lips, shaking her head, "and it just… I didn't feel right," she looked at him, "lying like that. I just… I told the truth. Regina was so angry." She shook her head and pushed her plate away. Somehow, the rest of the food wasn't as appetizing.
"She's always angry," he mused, leaning back in his seat. Somewhere between when they had started and now he had finished everything, much to Belle's surprise – a man with so slight a frame didn't appear as though he could eat so much or so quickly. "What did you say?"
Belle started to stand from the table as she spoke, "Just that I didn't want it like the others did – I didn't deserve it." She shrugged, and Mr. Gold made a scoffing sound that surprised her. "What?" she went to grab his plate and utensils, leaning across the table.
"It's easy to accept you didn't want it, but deserve it?" he shook his head. "Words are important, dearie. You shouldn't use them without consideration."
Belle put the dishes down, silverware stacked on top and frowned. "I know about words, Mr. Gold," she felt suddenly defensive, and this required her full attention, just to make sure he was very aware. "Before I had to drop out of Northeastern, my whole life was made up of words."
"And now it's corset jumpsuits and bunny ears?" he leaned back in his chair, raising his eyebrows at her. She couldn't tell what his expression was, but Belle was not enjoying it.
Licking her lips, she picked up the plates again and stepped back from the table. "A temporary position," she informed him with a huff and a quick pivot on her bare heel. "I want to go back," she breathed, "finish what I started – be a journalist."
She didn't look at him as she walked away from the table and into the kitchen depositing the dishes with a clatter into the sink. She turned on the faucet and braced herself against the counter, dropping her head against her chest for a moment. "A journalist?" his brogue rolled from the room. Belle spared a glance over her shoulder and saw him leaning against the door frame. He'd shed his suit jacket and just stood there in a crisp white shirt and red tie. "Ambitious."
"I've heard that before," she laughed softly, dipping her hands into the warm water, grabbing the sponge and dish soap. "I want to travel," she explained, "see the world." She heard his cane tapping getting closer and she continued to scrub when he took a place next to her, lifting the dish towel from the counter. "Though, I guess this is a wonder of the world I'd never thought I'd see." Mr. Gold raised his eyebrows as she handed him a plate, "a man willing to dry the dishes? I'll have to call President Johnson, declare a national holiday."
She laughed, and his shoulders jumped silently when she handed over the plate. "It's not quite as… impressive as all that. President Johnson is a touch busier than that, I expect," the second plate passed between them, and they exchanged muted smiles.
"I don't know," she shrugged, abandoning the sponge to wash the forks by hand. "My dad never helps with the dishes, George never did either," she shrugged, handing him the forks. She was about to explain when she stuck her hands in the water again, yelping as a sharp twinge stung at her hand and the soapy water obscured her view, but tinged pink as her hand came closer to the surface.
Mr. Gold immediately grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand under the cool stream of water. He held her steady, despite her flinching. She did her best to bite her lip and abstain from whimpering. He withdrew her hand from the stream and examined her hand with sharp eyes. "Good news, you'll get to keep your hand," he said with such a straight face that Belle gasped, and he looked up at her, a devious sort of smirk on his face.
Belle scoffed and he grabbed the towel to wrap it around her hand. "Go, out of the kitchen – you don't need to hurt yourself again."
She flexed her hand around the bandage and frowned deeply. "I'm not a child, you don't need to treat me like one," she informed him, following him as he walked out of the kitchen. She wasn't going to keep going with the stinging sensation in her hand. "I take care of myself, and my father. I work very hard – I don't need someone babying me."
Mr. Gold stopped as the entered e living room and looked at her, truly looked at her, and Belle felt that same feeling she had right before he kissed her: intimidation, but also intimacy. There was something strange about sharing a space with someone, you got to know them quite quickly, and though Mr. Gold had shared almost nothing of himself, Belle was free with her own story, and felt rather exposed at the moment. "You're here, my dear, because you can't protect yourself. But you are right, you are not a baby," his gaze told her all she needed to know about what he thought about being a baby.
Even when she felt her stomach clench and blush rise up on her cheeks, his words still rubbed her the wrong way. Belle shook her head. "Don't patronize me," she ordered her good hand flying up and into her chestnut curls. "It's been a rough couple of days, alright?" she looked at him, tired eyes and drooping shoulders. "Ever since I took those damned pictures – everything's gone to hell," he tensed again, and Belle rolled her eyes, obviously frustrated. "What do you have against the pictures anyway?" she asked agitation in her voice.
He licked his bottom lip and tightened his hand over his cane, cracking his neck. "Perhaps, dearie," he almost hissed through a clenched jaw, "you'd be better off resting. I am going to my office." And with that, he turned on his heel, snatching up his jacket from the back of the chair, and stomped just a little harder than he had before down the hallway, past her guest room's door and slammed whatever door he entered behind him.
Belle huffed, not impressed with his little display, and took deep breaths. He was her host. She was supposed to be grateful, but she couldn't help but feel just a little frustrated beyond reason at the moment. One cut wasn't the end of the world, and she didn't need to be reminded that she couldn't protect herself or her father.
She had heard rumors that he was a bastard. That was most assuredly true; but he also had that moment where he dried dishes like a decent human being, and joked about President Johnson, and Belle rubbed her temples, attempting to avoid screaming in frustration.
Dropping the blood cloth on the counter, she looked at her cut hand, satisfied that it would be fine – it was superficial, barely broke the skin, and she sighed, each contraction and release of her fingers making it burn. She'd just have to deal with it by distraction.
Belle walked into her room and flipped open the latches on her suitcases, sighing as she withdrew her nightgown and held it up, shaking the wrinkles out. It was knee length and made of soft, blue fabric. Slipping off her day dress and tugging it on, Belle felt an instant relief, grabbing her bathrobe as well, and tugging on the soft fabric. She rummaged for a pair of socks and pulled them on, letting out a deep sigh. The layers of her day were gone and Belle finally felt a semblance of comfort, wrapped in her night clothes.
It was also time to hit up that fabulous bathroom. Belle inched out of her room, finding the hallway as bare as it had been before and then quickly tip-toed two doors over to the bathroom, flicking on the light. It was even better on the inside, she realized. The bathtub was huge – and separate from the shower – the shower with glass doors. Everything seemed to be made of glass now, and there were two sinks – two! Belle ran her hand over the beautiful marble, looking in the mirror. The room was pristine.
There was a little side closet and Belle opened it, fresh, fluffy towels waiting right behind it. There were other things, cleaning supplies on the bottom, some extra soap – nothing out of the ordinary, a few pill bottles, some creams – nothing she would have found odd. But, she didn't want to snoop too much, so she grabbed a washcloth and walked back to the sink. She turned on the water, finding it blessedly hot without having to wait ten minutes. How nice it must have been to live in a place like this.
Belle was fairly certain in her building, even when they were on time with the bills, nothing worked – and their landlord was a veritable ogre. Their neighbors weren't much better. Who wasn't fighting? What children weren't screaming? Belle tried her best to smile at all those that passed and offered to help some of them, but it was never enough. Here, she couldn't imagine anything bad touching the penthouse, living on top of the world.
Wiping the layers of make-up from her face, Belle let out a deep breath, the bright red of her lips dimmed to a rosy sort of pink, her cheeks their natural flush, and eyes shining on their own accord, without the aid of mascara and eyeliner. She glanced down at the washcloth, a mess with products, and Belle blushed, throwing it into the hamper by the door – the only thing that seemed slightly unseemly, filled with things for washing.
It wasn't hard to linger in the bathroom though, running her hands over the porcelain tub – the biggest tub she had ever seen, and then moving to the shower, pushing the door open to see inside. It was dark tiling, a sort of midnight blue up to her chest height, and then white walls going up – the showerhead gleamed and there was only one bottle of shampoo and one bar of soap. Belle was thankful she shoved everything she possibly could into her suitcases: this would do nothing for her morning routine. Thankfully, it was only a temporary solution.
Carefully shutting the doors, Belle took one more look at the expanse of the bathroom, trying to decide what she would prefer in the morning – a bath in the biggest tub she'd ever seen, or a shower in the nicest one she'd ever laid eyes on – both were potentially the best decisions ever, but she wasn't going to do that now.
She was finally cooled off, finally able to process that she had been somewhat dreadful to Mr. Gold (though he was also dreadful – mitigated only slightly by the fact that it was his home and he was doing her a favor). Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door of the study; a grumbling from within – something she couldn't understand – met her knock.
Belle, as much as she thought she could steal her nerves, had to take another moment before she pushed the door open and poked her head in. "I was going to make some tea," she pressed her lips together, "would you like any?"
He lifted his head from whatever he was working on, peering at her over his glasses. She hadn't realized he wore them, and he seemed to notice her looking because he ripped them from his face as soon as it registered. "Tea?" he repeated, "Yes, I suppose that would be fine. One sugar, no cream," still pretending to have a stiff upper lip and being hard, and Belle nodded, quietly shutting the door as she backed out.
She wondered, briefly to herself, if he put the glasses back on after she left. Surely a man like Gold wasn't so worried about what a nobody like Belle thought – she wasn't going to tell anyone about it. But, whatever the case, she made her way into the kitchen and actually knew where the tea and cups were now – after her afternoon of exploration.
She put on a kettle, took out some cups, and grabbed the only tea he had in the cabinet. She made short work of the whole process, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other as the water heated and she readied the cups. Breathing in deep through her nose, she poured the hot water into the cups and smiled as the steam curled up around her face and tickled the inside of her nose, preparing each cup to their preferences. Belle liked hers a little sweeter and a little milkier, and she made quick work of the whole thing.
Gripping the cups by the handles, Belle padded softly back toward the office and frowned at the closed door, trying to jumble the mugs in her hands. Tea sloshed against the edges of the cups and she yelped as the hot water splashed on her hand – uncomfortable, at best.
When she finally managed to grasp both handles in one hand, Belle opened the door and pushed it open with a small smile. He wasn't wearing the glasses this time, Belle noted, and she looked for an empty space to put his cup down. His hands busied themselves making space, and Belle smiled as she put the mug down. "Wouldn't want to ruin any of your papers," she shrugged softly, clasping her now free hand around her own mug.
"You won't," he answered softly, eyes only lifting from whatever book he was searching through for a moment before turning back downward. Belle gulped and took a small sip of her tea, waiting to see if he was pleased. Her eyes flitted from him to the teacup, and he lifted it, taking a sip with the most impassive face she had ever witnessed. "Thank you."
Belle smiled, slow but genuine, and lowered her eyes, then brought them back up again. He quirked his lips at her before picking up one of the papers and holding it up, creating a wall between them. Belle stood there, in her pajamas, cradling her teacup and breathed. "Thank you," she finally said, and his hand lowered, eyes focused on her, instead of the words he probably couldn't even see on the page and eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "For taking care of my hand, I didn't thank you for it."
He shrugged a wordless answer to her and Belle sighed with another sip of tea. She hated feeling like she was on bad terms with someone – at least when those bad terms revolved around something that she could fix. "And sorry for ruining the dish rag," she blushed, "I can bleach it tomorrow…"
This seemed to catch his attention, and Belle smiled embarrassed. "It's just a towel," he shrugged and Belle smiled at him, again, biting her bottom lip. Her nose wrinkled and she giggled, just a little bit. "Goodnight, Belle," he said, a soft dismissal and Belle took a few careful steps back toward the door.
"Are you going to bed as well?" she asked, tracing her finger around the rim of the mug, concern clearly written in every syllable.
His busy hand stilled, and he shook his head. "Soon," he informed her. "Goodnight."
"Don't stay up too late," she smiled, pushing the door and slipping through the crack with her head left in the room. "Goodnight," she added a brief flicker of a smile on his face before she withdrew entirely and shut the door with a light click behind her.